Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku has always had a strange relationship with fear.

When he was younger, it felt like he was afraid all of the time. Monsters under the bed, branches scrabbling outside his window, villains lurking in every shadowed alleyway… his mother blamed the All Might videos he watched incessantly, but in truth All Might was the only thing that could drive them all away. If All Might was around, he was safe.

Then came the foolish bravery. The standing up to childhood bullies, the raising a fist against cartoon villains, the bold proclamations of I’m going to be a hero!

The stepping between his mother and the spitting rage of his father. Not that it did much of anything.

Later he would realize that, realistically, there’s not much an eight-year-old can do in such a situation, but in the days, months, years after? Well… Izuku was afraid again. Afraid of the pain. Of the dark. Of being alone for so long that time stretched to something unknowable… afraid of how much he hated himself for what he could never be.

Quirkless. Useless. Not even strong enough to save his mother.

So when Sensei asked him—and he always asked, he was different from the doctors in that regard—when Sensei asked him if he wanted a quirk? If he wanted to be strong? He said yes. Of course he said yes.

Izuku has always had a strange relationship with fear. He realized, after his quirks began to manifest in their entirety, that what he’d known before wasn’t bravery, but an ignorance that masked itself as certainty.

He was afraid. All the time. But so was everyone, and that was where things really started to get interesting, wasn’t it?

Blink.

Nothing.

Blink.

Nothing.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The strain behind his eyes was accompanied by, yet again, a fat load of nothing.

Frowning, Izuku leaned forward to cross a few more names off the list, his scowl deepening when he noticed that this page was starting to become more red ink than paper. Only a few names left, and then he’d have to go hunting again. Exhausting.

Izuku was tired, but that was only because he hadn’t slept in—he checked his phone—three days. Yeah. That sounded about right. He only had a week to complete this assignment, and he really didn’t want to mess it up again because…

The aching burn of his last “training session” with Shigaraki shuddered down his back. Yeah. If Sensei thought he was defective, then he’d just be put through more stress tests. Izuku had enough stress for a lifetime, thank you very much.

A groan escaped him as he leaned back against the wall, settling with a wince on the creaking mattress. He needed to find something. Literally anything could tide him over, even the most basic of information, because at least then he would be useful.

Izuku needed to be useful.

Sensei was watching him, always, and he let that fear carry him into yet another session of Beholding.

Blink. Izuku opened his eyes to look through those of another, but his nose wrinkled when that predictable darkness stared back at him. He closed his eyes again with a sigh. Unfortunately, it seemed that almost everyone on his list was asleep at this hour. Made it difficult to see anything useful.

He crossed off another name, tapping his pen against the next and leaving thin drops of red ink across the paper. Maybe he should just call it quits and get some sleep… try again in a couple hours when people might actually be awake.

Useless.

Izuku winced, reaching up to hug his arms across his chest. God, he really just wanted to disappear right now, to tug the Lonely over himself and bask in the knowledge that no one would be able to hurt him anymore. Even if he was alone in this tiny broom closet of a room, that didn’t mean he was truly by himself. The aching relief of that aspect of his quirk crooned sweetly in his ear, dull pangs of loneliness in his chest that begged to be utter and complete. Like a drug, he thought. One he couldn’t hope to kick because it was always somewhere in his system.

He shook his head fiercely, feeling his curls ruffle about his ears. He needed to focus, not get caught up in that promise of numb respite. Even if he slept now he doubted it would be restful. He’d just finish out the list, then start again from the beginning.

Blink.

Light. Bright light. Izuku almost shut his eyes again in shock, almost severed the connection before it had even begun—but he managed to keep his bearings and adjust to the sudden, artificial brightness of what must’ve been the inside of a police precinct.

Blindly scrabbling for his notebook, Izuku frantically began to write down everything that he was seeing. The harsh scrape of a pen across paper filled his ears while the eyes he stared through focused blearily on a computer screen, half-filled police report staring back at him.

Izuku groaned, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thunk. An overachiever filling out some last-minute forms. From what he could tell, it was just a late-night arrest of some low-level thug.

His task was to get information about All Might. Who the hell was this guy again?

Izuku blinked out of Beholding to glance back down at his notebook. Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa. Frowning, he flipped through until he found the right page, a shaky photo of a plain looking man in a trench coat ducking into a building paperclipped to the paper, along with some basic information. Policeman. Quirk: Lie Detector. Works closely with heroes. Possible ties with All Might.

Glancing through some of the other hastily snapped photos revealed why he’d made this particular connection. After stalking All Might for days, Izuku had finally managed to figure out who his main police liaison was. Useful information he was sure, but nothing good enough to make him useful.

Fuck. He needed to be useful.

Settling against the wall again, Izuku blinked.

It took less time for his eyes to adjust now that he was expecting it, though he could do without the sudden headache. As usual there was no sound, but he could imagine that he heard the sharp rattle of fingers against a keyboard, the soft hiss of a coffee machine when Tsukauchi turned to spot it out of the corner of his eye. The man squinted into a stretch, pushing back from his chair to wearily make his way over to the machine.

An all-nighter, then. Izuku could relate.

His headache was pressing insistently at his temples, threatening a full-on migraine that would make his vision spotty for hours, but… he could take it. He needed to.

Tsukauchi poured himself some coffee, nearly missing the cup for a reason Izuku couldn’t hear but could quickly discern was an incoming call. The man pulled out his phone, and Yagi Toshinori flashed across the screen.

Izuku scribbled the name down more out of habit than anything else, long since having grown accustomed to writing without sight.

Tsukauchi pressed the phone to his ear and Izuku bit back a sigh, closing out of Beholding for a moment to rest his eyes and massage his temples. A phone call was probably the most useless thing to him. At least in a face-to-face conversation he could read the lips of the other person, but a phone call? Forget it.

He couldn’t actually hear anything when using Beholding. That was the main limiting factor, actually, besides the necessary activation point of making eye contact with his target. Over the years he’d managed to come up with several strategies to get around those two facts, all of them neatly written down in his notebook on the Eye, but in this case there was nothing he could actually do.

Whatever. Izuku tapped the pen against his chin, nibbling at the end when his thoughts began to wander. He had a new name, at least. Might be good to look into this Yagi guy if he was close enough to Tsukauchi to call him at four in the morning.

Izuku sighed, staring down at the list again. All people with possible ties to All Might, only some of which he’d actually managed to catch in person. Mostly UA staff, honestly, which was a little troubling because almost all of those heroes wore eye coverings when out in public. He’d managed to catch Midnight, Blood King, and Cementoss. Theoretically he should’ve been able to get All Might himself, but… something held him back from that. Fear, probably, or perhaps even a misplaced sense of reverence.

As if All Might would be able to sense his true intentions the second he got too close, know him, look past his skin and into the tattered soul beyond. Patchwork mess of fear and quirks and pain. Izuku shivered, curling in on himself once more. No. He’d be putting that off until it was the last possible option.

With a sigh, Izuku leaned back for one more attempt. Blink.

The same computer stared back at him, and Izuku could almost imagine the dull hum of a monitor as Tsukauchi tapped away. Grumbling to himself he nearly closed out of Beholding once more, but a key detail on the screen gave him some pause.

This was All Might’s arrest. A criminal the hero had apprehended.

And Tsukauchi… he was altering the report.

In his shock, Izuku almost forgot to write it down. Cursing softly he scrambled for his pen and notebook again, scribbling down every little detail until he’d filled out the page, then flipping to the next blank sheet of paper with a slow-boiling excitement that threatened to fill his chest until it burst.

“Time,” he began to mutter to himself. “He’s changing the times. These arrests all took barely any time at all, but he’s changing how long All Might talked with police officers, making it look longer. Why would he do that? To make All Might look better? Make it seem like he’s working more? But why? If All Might wanted to look more busy, he could just… be more busy. He can be anywhere he wants to be… unless…”

Izuku hummed, eyes still glued to the computer screen as he began to chew on the pen once more.

“Unless he can’t. Unless this happens a lot. Unless… All Might can’t work as hard, or for as much time as he used to. I’ve already looked through the police reports and found nothing to suggest this—if anything, it looks like All Might’s activity has increased in the last couple years. Just by a small amount, but… and there was a drop-off right before and after he started teaching, but no more than would be expected. However, if the reports have all been altered in this fashion… then that would suggest that there is actually a decrease in activity.”

Tsukauchi flipped to another report and began to repopulate fields in that one as well. Izuku almost bit his pen in half.

All Might wasn’t doing as much work as before, and he was actively working with his police buddy in order to hide it. This was… this was All Might, and while Izuku knew better than anyone how a hero could hide their true self behind a cape and a mask, he just couldn’t see All Might lying about something like this without a very good reason. And…

Well. He was the Symbol of Peace. His presence was almost as important to keeping crime down as his actual arrests. If it became public perception that he was slowing down, then crime might ramp up once more.

Crack. The vile taste of ink splattered across Izuku’s tongue, and he broke Beholding with a choked splutter. Hastily tossing the pen into the trash and heaving himself off the bed to find a sink, Izuku still couldn’t help a wild grin.

All Might was slowing down. All Might was growing weaker.

He’d need to reassess, of course, double check some facts, but…

Izuku found the bathroom and leaned against the sink, reaching for some water to clear the foul taste from his mouth. By chance, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

The red ink was spattered across his teeth. Over his lips. Smeared down his chin from where he’d pulled the pen away.

And suddenly that frenzied glee gave way to sickly nausea.

All Might was growing weaker.

Chapter Text

When Izuku finally entered the main room of the bar it was dusk again, and Shigaraki was already flipping through channels with a bored expression on his face. Or, at least, whatever sections of his face poked out from beneath that pale, corpse-like hand.

Wonderful. He’d really hoped to avoid Shigaraki, but it seemed like the other boy hadn’t slept much either and was already bored enough to leave his room.

“Deku.”

“Tomura.”

“Boys…” And just like that Kurogiri seemed to materialize out of thin air, fixing both of them with a pointed gaze as he pulled out a rag to wipe down the already pristine counter.

Shigaraki scowled, jabbing a button on the remote to change to the next channel. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

You were about to. Izuku knew that tone with frightful intimacy, knew how to judge the time and temper of Shigaraki’s moods. He was certainly deep in one of them, today.

Calling him Deku. What a bastard. How Sensei had even discovered that aspect of Izuku’s past he hoped to never know, but for Shigaraki to leverage it against him was most grating… he could make him pay for it, should rip out his fucking throat and—

Whoa. Whoa. It seemed that the Slaughter was acting up today, for some reason or another. Izuku glanced at the news and could immediately guess why.

“Some hero really fucked up.” Shigaraki didn’t even bother to hide his glee, reaching to turn up the volume as Kurogiri tutted.

“Language, Tomura.”

“What happened?” asked Izuku, mostly in the hopes of preventing Shigaraki from biting Kurogiri’s head off. Again. The barkeep deserved better, and though Izuku knew painfully well the extent of the man’s loyalty, he’d always been kind to Izuku when his position allowed it.

“See for yourself!” Shigaraki cackled, voice overshadowing the soft-spoken news anchor. “Look, that entire building collapsed! What a disaster. Are all heroes that incompetent?”

It seemed that the news station was inclined to disagree—from what Izuku could make out, most of the coverage was centered around praising the heroic response, and the success at containing whatever had started the incident to one building.

Apparently a huge, bloody fight had broken out. Hostages were taken. People died.

Senseless violence. No wonder the Slaughter was acting up—he’d have to be careful with the Desolation as well, most likely.

Izuku’s quirk was odd. He should know, seeing as how he had no less than fourteen notebooks dedicated to working out its separate aspects. As far as he could tell it was just toeing the wrong side of sentient, thoughts and fears occasionally worming themselves into his brain when he knew they had no business being there.

It made him nervous, sometimes. The idea that he couldn’t trust what he was, what he was feeling. Which of course only fed the Spiral, so…

Fourteen aspects. Fourteen fears. Categorizing things that way had always made him more comfortable, helped to ease his concerns, but in this case it only served to lay out how truly screwed he was, because short of erasing fear from his vocabulary there was no way to avoid all of that influence.

Which, well… he’d tried. But whether it was some aspect of this foreign quirk, or just something wrong with Izuku himself, he couldn’t just not be afraid.

Past the restless buzzing of his thoughts and Shigaraki’s harsh cackling, Izuku picked up a few of the announcer’s words that had his attention snapping back.

“Several heroes are still here, rescuing more survivors and making a few final arrests. It looks like we have… Endeavor on the scene, along with Best Jeanist and… oh! Dragon has just left the building with a few survivors. Definitely one to watch out for come ranking season! He’s been steadily climbing up the leaderboard, you have to admire his dedication to his career after everything he’s been through—”

“Turn it off.”

“What? Shut up, Deku, I’m trying to watch—”

Desolation flared, heat spiking through his skin and blazing red across his irises. “Turn. It. Off.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Shigaraki snapped, snatching up the remote and raising the volume further.

With a low growl, Izuku stalked towards Shigaraki and tore the remote from his hand, ignoring the vicious curse as he slammed the off-button. Even as the television stuttered into blackness he felt that squirming heat beneath his skin, allowed it to build further along his palms, warping the plastic until the remote was melting through his fingers in thick, foul-smelling globules that spattered onto the ground.

Shigaraki scowled, nails digging into the bar top. “Phobos. Don’t fuck with me.”

“Language.”

“Shut up Kurogiri.”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” snapped Izuku. Again, the strained notes of the Slaughter began to croon in his ears, slipping out to thicken the air with violent tension. “Don’t talk to me like that. I take orders from Sensei, not you.”

“I’m his successor.” Shigaraki pushed himself off the barstool and stretched to his full height in what was no doubt an attempt at intimidation. “That means you have to do what I say.”

Oh, so he was definitely in a mood today. That was fine. So was Izuku. “Make me,” he hissed. “Unless you’re too scared—”

What happened next was almost painfully predictable. Shigaraki leapt at him with a wordless snarl, all five fingers reaching for his face as Izuku moved to dodge around the strike and lash out with his own blistering heat.

Then, suddenly, both boys found themselves grasping at open air. Kurogiri sighed, and Izuku imagined he could feel that weary exhale through the shadowy warp gate he was half-stuck in.

“Phobos, maybe you should take a walk. Go complete your assignment. Shigaraki, you can either stay here and calm yourself, or you can return to your room.”

“You’re not my fucking mom,” hissed Shigaraki, but Izuku just rolled his eyes, grabbed the backpack at his feet, and pushed through the warp gate, thrilled at the opportunity to avoid the rest of that conversation.

He stepped out onto an empty rooftop, the faintest slivers of sunlight peeking up beyond the darkness before they dipped from sight.

Soft strains of the Slaughter still clung to his head, but up here, alone, Izuku found that he could finally think past it and towards what a mistake he’d almost committed. Attacking Shigaraki? Even if he managed to win, there was no way Sensei would let that slide. And… though it was true that he took orders from Sensei, it was also true that Sensei often considered Shigaraki an extension of his will. The man pretty much let Shigaraki do whatever the hell he wanted. Including beat the shit out of Izuku, if he so desired.

It seemed that Kurogiri had saved him. Again. He really owed that man a gift basket one of these days.

“Well,” muttered Izuku as he swung his backpack off his shoulder and rifled through for one of his notebooks. “Might as well get some work done.”

He knew that All Might was growing weaker. The proof was… in progress, but enough of the pieces were there that he could see it, could feel it with a dreadful sort of intuition that sank heavily in his gut, and usually that was enough for Sensei.

Still. Maybe if he found more, Sensei would be more lenient with the next mission.

“Could try to collect a few more eyes,” he muttered beneath his breath, circling a couple of names in the Eye notebook and flipping through the pages he filled up with possible targets. There were still several UA teachers who could be invaluable to his collection, although actually meeting them would be…

Izuku sighed, closing the notebook with a snap and tucking it into his bag. He pulled his hood over his hair and fastened a dark green facemask around his mouth and nose—typically enough to hide his identity, especially because he never intended to get that close to any heroes. His more complete, professional, and frankly suspicious mask that covered up the majority of his face was something he reserved for his more extracurricular activities. This was work, and work meant keeping a low profile.

Sensei knew what he was, and usually assigned him to tasks that he was well-suited for. Information gathering, analysis, the occasional bit of theft… Izuku wasn’t proud of it by any means, but it was certainly a step up from murder. Which. Well. If Sensei asked that of him…

No use thinking too hard about it. Thankfully, for the time being, Izuku could focus on staying alive through some harmless observation.

Harmless. Useless. Deku. That was him.

There was only one UA staff member who would be out this late, and that was Eraserhead. Not… optimal. From what Izuku could tell, Eraserhead was a stealth and ambush kind of hero. A hunter. He wouldn’t be made prey, not easily.

Unbidden, the Hunt simmered beneath his skin, sharpening his teeth and lending a keen edge to his senses. Izuku took a deep breath of the crisp night air and felt himself begin to pick apart the trails, the tracks, the trembling patter of prey.

Perhaps the Hunt did come upon him unawares, but he couldn’t deny its usefulness. If he wanted to find Eraserhead he’d need every advantage he could get. The Hunt was made for this.

Color and sound and scent whirled about him in a kaleidoscopic blur until he picked out one thread above the rest, the prey the meat on bone on blood the blood on teeth on tongue the flesh the fear the hunt.

Keep it together Izuku. Just because he felt the salt sweat sweet taste of blood in teeth of blood on tongue of salt of iron of metal tang of fear sweat on tongue sharp in throat harsh breaths through lungs through throat salt sweat sweet taste—

Izuku dug his sharpened nails into his arms with a hiss. “Focus.”

Just because he felt that lilting call of the Hunt burn through his veins didn’t mean he could lose himself to it. Izuku knew how easy it was, to make prey of a hunter.

“I just need to find Eraserhead,” he muttered beneath his breath. Bunching his muscles and leaping towards the next rooftop, he followed the blood fresh fear kill prey as it all but dragged him across the city. “Just find him. Not attack. Find. Stalk. Do not attack. Do not.”

The Hunt simmered, snapped like wild dogs baying against their leads but he managed to struggle it into submission, to trap it tight beneath his skin in white-hot bursts of teeth in flesh in prey feet pound silent hush of breath hush of leaves against feet pound silent—

Sometimes he really hated the Hunt. It had a way of worming itself into his brain, neatly dividing the world into hunter and hunted, playing his innate desire for order, rigid category, a sense of purpose to anything in this world he could not understand.

The Eye’s incessant compulsion towards neat classification, at least, could be explained away as a simple thirst for knowledge. The Hunt… it felt like complacence. Regression. A return to a time when the line between killing or being killed was as thin as a razor pressed against the neck, spilling thin trickles of salt sweet sweat salt sweet blood against the knife blood against the teeth in flesh on bone crack of bone—

The soft thud of fists against flesh dragged him from that howling reverie, plunging him towards the present as his ears pricked and his eyes narrowed and he dug his sharpened nails into the rooftop in a feeble attempt to keep him here.

Stalk. Stalk. That was the only way he could appease the Hunt, in the promise of a future ambush.

Izuku managed to wrestle down the more insistent aspects by the time he made it to the proper rooftop, nails shrinking back down to a manageable length and teeth dulling to something marginally more human, although both retained a ragged edge that bit into his lower lip and scraped pale furrows against the concrete. His eyes were still keen, blown wide in the darkness, and Izuku peered into the alleyway below to see the tail-end of a brutal fight.

Eraserhead, it seemed, had won. Not really a surprise there—the man was a pro after all, and the sweat scent fear of prey blood of prey on teeth on—whatever aspects of the Hunt still clung to him could detect the intoxicating weakness of the men scattered about the alley. They had clearly been outclassed.

Izuku watched, waited, ignored the seething growl of his quirk as Eraserhead efficiently tied up whoever it was he had incapacitated. The hero turned, enough that the light of a streetlamp glinted against his face, and Izuku bit back a swear.

Goggles. Covering his eyes. Izuku knew that he fought with them, but he’d hoped to be lucky enough that the hero would remove them after the battle was won. He should’ve known—it was never that easy.

Izuku needed his eyes. Just for a second. If the man would take off those obnoxious yellow goggles he could easily catch a glimpse of the eyes beneath and just as quickly be on his merry way.

With a sigh, Izuku pulled out his camera. It looked like he would be doing some good old-fashioned stalking tonight.

He snapped a couple pictures for his notebook—usually he wouldn’t bother with a scene like this, where all of the interesting things had already happened, but Eraserhead was elusive enough that Izuku would take anything he could get.

Eraserhead finished tying up the last thug. Stood. Rolled his shoulders. Looked straight up at the camera.

“Uh-oh.”

A grey loop of fabric snared around an exposed pipe a little ways below him.

“Uh-oh.”

Izuku ran, and the Hunt swelled between his bones with hush of leaves hush of breath hush hush hush of gnashing teeth on flesh on blood on sweat sickly scent of fear.

Distantly, he realized that his mounting terror was likely spurring it onwards, fueling it with that animalistic fear of swooping talons, of lurking claws, of distant, reedy howls that filled the night with suffocating dread.

Gone.

On one roof he was hush hush hush of ragged breaths of hammered heart of feet pound silent on dirt on leaves through snaring vines that twitch and tangle—

On the next he was… the fear spiked to a devastating intensity, his control over the Hunt snapped and he was… teeth in the throat, tearing, twisting, spattering blood across the leaf litter.

Izuku choked, stumbled, rolled gracelessly across the rooftop as the Hunt’s strength was sapped from his veins and the will to run, to flee, to stay one step ahead of the hunter’s jaws was ripped out of him.

“Who are you?”

Izuku couldn’t speak, fingers instead twitching towards his throat where he was sure he choked on blood, where he was sure he’d find a gaping hole of mangled viscera, of tooth-marked flesh.

He found nothing but smooth skin beneath his fingertips.

“Hey. Get up.”

Something was holding back his quirk. Eraserhead. Obviously. Izuku had managed to scrape enough information on the man that he knew the basics of his quirk. With the goggles as well, he could only assume that it was sight based.

It was… strange. When he’d first imagined something like that being used against him, Izuku had pictured it as a peaceful sort of silence. Finally, finally he would be able to breathe without the constant hum fear buzzing in his skull, but… it didn’t feel like that. Izuku was still afraid, he just couldn’t use it anymore.

And the backlash… it was as if, without his quirk, the object of his fear had come to pass. Like there was no need for that lurking threat when his quirk could not draw out its terror.

Teeth in the throat. Izuku shuddered, still clutching his neck as if it might split apart the instant he removed his hand.

“You good over there?” Something snared around his leg, and Izuku tensed. Right. His fear was not entirely baseless. “I’m going to give your quirk back. Don’t try to run.”

As if he had a choice in the matter. The instant his quirk returned in full force the Hunt was flaring beneath his skin in mad gasps of fear thick in throat choking bitter teeth gnash hot breath on neck—

Izuku hadn’t been aware of running, but he figured he must have because when his quirk snapped around his neck once more he was stumbling again, grey fabric taught against his ankle and beginning to drag him backwards.

Focus. Even past the sputtering, gasping, choking of imagined blood Izuku recognized that he had wasted his chance. He couldn’t let the Hunt seize control like that again—he needed to calm, to take a step back and figure out a better solution.

“That’s not going to work,” said Eraserhead wearily. “You keep using your quirk, and I keep cancelling it. That sounds kind of exhausting. Maybe give it a rest?”

“Sorry,” Izuku managed to wheeze. The force dragging him backwards stuttered for a moment, before resuming. “Guess I panicked. I won’t do it again.”

Eraserhead huffed at that. “Right. Sure. Want to start explaining yourself?”

“I, uh… I just like heroes?”

“Uh huh.” Izuku came to a stop, and Eraserhead peered down at him with what he imagined was a doubtful expression. “How old are you?”

Izuku nearly blue-screened. “Eighteen.”

“Eighteen.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re five feet tall.”

“Wha- no I’m not!”

“Your voice just cracked.”

“Look, I don’t—” Izuku’s voice cracked again, and he winced. “Am I under arrest or something? I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong.”

“Hm… it’s after curfew.”

“I’m eighteen!”

“You’re really not. Kid…” Eraserhead pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh, and Izuku felt his quirk return to him with a soft keen beneath his skin that he just barely managed to wrestle into submission. “Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s a school night.”

“Haha yeah. I should uh. Probably head back home then!”

“And… wait. Were you following me? Specifically?”

Izuku wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Behind those goggles it was near impossible to tell whether Eraserhead was staring at him, but the Eye assured him that he most definitely was.

“How did you even find me?”

“L… lucky guess?”

The fabric around his ankle tightened. “Try again.”

“Uh…” Okay. Okay, he could figure this out. He just needed to… to disappear.

That was usually the solution, if he was being honest with himself.

Izuku reached for the aching, familiar embrace of the Lonely, pulling it around himself with an eagerness that trembled in the hollow of this throat. I want to be alone.

What a strange fear, the Lonely. Creeping through the mind with soothing promises—a far cry from the restless chase of the Hunt or the burning, paralyzing intensity of the Eye.

You would be better off alone.

When he was first exploring the extent of his quirk, Izuku had imagined the Lonely as a sort of invisibility. Disappearing from view, from hungry eyes and pressing bodies, judgement and praise falling away to nothing.

“What the—” Eraserhead’s voice was swallowed by the mist, smothered in strands of thick fog until it cut out entirely like wisps of radio static.

But the Lonely was more than that. More than simple invisibility, it was… it was isolation incarnate. Slipping between the cracks of reality to a space where no he could truly be lost. It was a new world. An empty world, made up of mist and fog and a thick, heavy silence; but no people. Never people.

Izuku shakily stood, dusting off his pants as he looked around at the same-but-separate rooftop.

“Fuck.” And he hadn’t even gotten Eraserhead’s eyes. “Fuck.”

Well, at least his hood had never fallen, and his mask was still in place so it wasn’t… Izuku sighed, running a hand through his curls and wincing where his fingers brushed against a scrape or a bruise.

He’d have to lay low for a while, at least in regards to Eraserhead. No way in hell could he get caught by the pro again, especially on patrol.

Izuku scuffed his foot against the concrete, watching in grim satisfaction as a pebble rattled off into the empty fog. The sound echoed strangely, and for a moment he wondered how that looked like from the other side, outside of his quirk—if Eraserhead had watched a lone bit of gravel fly forward as if kicked by a ghost.

The thought of it did bring a smile to his face, however ridiculous it was. “Get fucked, Eraserhead.”

That, he was certain, the man couldn’t hear. Still it was just that little bit of thrilling, to know that he was so close and yet absolutely unreachable. Like standing on the other side of a fogged window. Like an invisible face in a crowd, passing by amongst the jostling sea of arms and sharp elbows. “Can’t even keep a kid arrested. Can’t tell that there was a villain right under your nose. Idiot.”

Yeah. That felt nice. No one to hear him, anyway.

Content in the knowledge that no one would be bothering him for quite a while, Izuku settled cross-legged on the uncomfortable ground and pulled out a notebook from his bag.

First, the Hunt analysis. He added a few scattered musings to that book, jotting down everything he’d felt when Erasure had severed his connection. When he’d exhausted that specific train of thought he paused, tapping the pen against his cheek.

“Should I keep my notes about Erasure in separate books, or should they all be in one place, maybe under Eraserhead’s page?” he wondered aloud, enjoying how his voice seemed muffled, echoing strangely in the Lonely’s grasp. No one here to listen in, and wasn’t that a relief? “If I keep the notes separate, keep things specific, then they’ll be better organized. But… what if I just want my notes on Erasure’s effects? Then I’d have to flip between books and…”

In the end, he decided on both. He’d add a new page to Eraserhead’s file and cross-reference anything about specific aspects of his quirk to the relevant notebook, copying information over when needed.

The Eye hummed, seeming to press against his temples, and Izuku scowled. “Oh, shut up. This isn’t for you.”

Save the Lonely, he’d always felt most comfortable with the Eye. Izuku liked watching, cataloguing, recording everything he saw in neat spiral notebooks to be revisited at a later date. He… didn’t like being watched, but he was used to it. When the Eye turned on him, it wasn’t a malicious sort of feeling, it was just… cold. Uncaring.

The Lonely he understood, inside and out. He knew what it was doing to him, knew the dangers and the pitfalls, and could accept that. The Eye…

Izuku sighed, staring down at the fresh page of notes. Sometimes the Eye could creep up on him. He didn’t like the feeling of it. He knew it, enjoyed it even, but it wasn’t… he couldn’t trust it.

Which. Well. It was a fear, so that made sense. He supposed that he shouldn’t be trusting any aspect of his quirk, though that sounded nothing less than exhausting.

“Okay.” The pen was between his teeth again, though he was careful not to break it this time. “If Erasure causes the fear to spike, to… culminate? I guess that’s the word… is it breaking control? Do… do I have control? Am I somehow subconsciously controlling the fear’s intensity? Or is it… if my quirk relies on my own fear, then it needs to be constant, right? Maybe when Erasure cuts everything off then the quirk isn’t… uh… harvesting it anymore… so it just all blows up at once.”

Groaning, Izuku closed the notebook with a snap. “Either way, it’s just theory unless I test it out again with a different aspect. Any of them should be fine… wait. No. The End. I’ll have to be careful about that—if it’s actually the fear coming to pass, my body might just… shut down? That would probably be bad. But the Hunt ends in death, and that didn’t… but I guess it isn’t a fear of death, it’s fear of the chase. And the chase ends in death? No. No it ends in being caught.”

Izuku shook his head fiercely, rubbing feeling back into his legs as he stood. “This is stupid. I’m not going to test it again, obviously. I need to avoid Eraserhead now, I don’t want to… it’s just theory. But I guess it doesn’t hurt to be prepared…”

With a final sigh, he settled his bag around his shoulders once more. “I just can’t use the End when Eraserhead is around.”

Not that it would be much of a problem. Izuku found the End unsettling. It wasn’t… he didn’t like the idea of people dying, of seeing their inevitable doom approach. He wasn’t afraid of it, he just didn’t want a part in it.

Even if it was, occasionally, useful. In small doses.

Again, again this was useless to think about. Sure he had some information about All Might, but he really needed more. Eraserhead was probably gone by now…

Rubbing away the chill in his arms, Izuku reluctantly freed himself from the Lonely’s grasp, wincing at the static that clung to his ears, the feeling of a crowd pressing up against him even though he knew that, technically, he was still alone on that rooftop.

It just wasn’t the same. It was suffocating. The sound of car horns in the distance, sirens screaming through the night, faint murmur of a thousand people he would never know.

Ah, there it was. The Lonely rested against his shoulders once more, content in the knowledge that there was no real threat to it’s presence.

Izuku adjusted the straps of his backpack, settled the ache in his chest and set off into the night.

Chapter Text

When he finally returned to the bar the sun had fully risen, golden rays stretching out to brush painfully against his tired eyes. Izuku yawned, stretched, gave Kurogiri a lazy wave and mustered just enough energy to be pleased that Shigaraki wasn’t up yet.

“Remember, your report is due soon.”

“I’m on it.”

“Good.”

Izuku repressed a shudder when he pushed into his tiny room, collapsing on his bed. He’d found nothing last night. All he could do was consolidate his evidence, present the best case he could for what little he had. All Might is weaker. That in and of itself was incredible, but Izuku wasn’t sure if anything could be done with it. Was it useful?

It needed to- he needed to be useful.

From everything he’d gathered, police reports and news clippings and the countless hero forums that recorded All Might’s every move, Izuku figured that All Might was only actually working maybe… five hours a day? Four? Less?

That was impossible. It was All Might. The man was a tireless force, an unstoppable pillar of justice that could always save the day. He was… he was the Symbol of Peace.

Izuku knew that heroes weren’t what they seemed. He knew that, it was just… this was All Might. It seemed that his childhood idol had somehow avoided much of that tarnished reputation that the others had suffered.

Still, it was a report. A meager one, but this assignment was always going to be difficult. Maybe he’d be able to convince Sensei for more time, or at the very least try to hint that he was on the cusp of a breakthrough.

He… he really didn’t want to go through quirk training again. The last time, he’d manifested a new aspect. The Flesh was… yeah. Uncomfortable was a word he could use. Terrifying would also be apt, but wasn’t that just his whole quirk?

The point was, Izuku didn’t want to know how far he’d be pushed this time. If there was even more to uncover, yet another fear lurking in his subconscious just waiting for the right trigger.

All Might was weaker. That had to be enough.

“Adequate.”

Adequate. Adequate was not great, but it was not unsatisfactory. Izuku would take it.

“I’m sure you will impress us next time, Izuku.”

Izuku calmed the patter of his heart, ignored the shuddering sensation of countless spiders crawling beneath his clothes as the Web teased tender hooks against his flesh.

Yes, Sensei was manipulating him. Fearing that wouldn’t do him much good.

“I’ll do my best, Sensei.” Izuku fought to keep his voice steady, to still the trembling in his limbs as he dipped his head respectfully. One more chance. That was what that meant. He had one more chance to be useful.

He wouldn’t waste it.

“Good.” Sensei sounded pleased, though as always it was difficult to tell beyond the hiss of the respirators and the whir of machinery. The room was dark, and though Sensei appeared to be blind the insistent press of the Eye kept Izuku from glancing around too curiously. It was dark, and Sensei was in it. Other than the metal tubes snaking across the floor and the soft flicker of artificial lights across a few consoles, nothing could tear Izuku’s attention away from his master.

“You will return, then. Shigaraki will provide you with your next assignment. Obey him as you would me.”

Izuku schooled his expression to something more neutral—anything to prevent the scowl that was threatening to spill across his face. “As you wish, Sensei.”

A shift of metal, cables twitching across the ground, and Izuku realized that he had not yet been dismissed. Had something slipped into his voice? Disobedience? Shit, he hadn’t meant to—

“I should hope, Izuku,” Sensei said, smooth voice jolting him from his panic, “that you continue to remember the gifts bestowed upon you.”

“Of course. S-. Uh. Sensei.” Izuku winced. Damn. And he’d been keeping it together so well.

Sensei gave a low chuckle, the kind of sound that curled around his ribs and squeezed. “And I hope that they are being put to good use?”

“Alwa- a-“ Fuck. Izuku dipped into a bow, hands curled into tight fists at his sides. “I won’t fail you, Sensei.”

“Good.” He sounded… amused. The Web skittered across Izuku’s neck, and he bit back a choked gasp. “Your loyalty will be rewarded, just as it has always been.”

Izuku could have laughed at that. Just as it has always been, what bullshit. As if the very process of “gifting” this quirk hadn’t been one of pain, and misery, and so much fear. “Thank you, Sensei.”

“You are dismissed.”

Izuku didn’t bother trying to speak as Kurogiri’s warp gate swelled around him, focusing instead on keeping his footing when he stepped through into the familiar bar.

“Oh. You’re back.” Shigaraki leaned against the counter, frown visible from beneath the hand that covered his face. “That was quick. Didn’t have a lot to say?”

“I like to be concise,” said Izuku stiffly. “I said what I needed to. Nothing more.”

“Hm.” Shigaraki reached up to scratch at his neck, flecks of skin peeling away beneath his nails and leaving ragged trails of crimson. “Whatever. You’re gonna be doing another infiltration thing, get some information.”

Internally, Izuku sighed. It was his own damn fault for not securing enough for this assignment, but he’d really hoped that he’d be able to take more of a break in the meantime. “What’s the target?”

A grin split across Shigaraki’s face. “UA.”

“What?”

“Oh, is that too much for the great Phobos? Scared of a little high school?”

Izuku bristled. “A school staffed entirely by pro heroes, yeah. Maybe I’m a little trepidatious about that. I don’t suppose you have a plan.”

“Watch it,” snapped Shigaraki. “This is my mission, and I’m not going to have you ruin it by being a little brat.”

Oh, I’m the brat? Izuku bit back a growl, simmering in silence at Shigaraki’s smug face.

“Good. I’m in charge here, Deku, don’t forget it. Unless you’d like me to go to Sensei about it?”

“It isn’t a problem,” Izuku finally managed past the grinding of his teeth. “I just… wanted to know if there was a plan I should stick to.”

“Right,” Shigaraki sneered. “Well, I’ll be providing you a distraction, then you slip into UA undetected and grab the information we need. Should be easy for something like you.”

“Easy.” UA had one of the best security systems in the world. “Some distraction.”

“Oh, it’ll be fun, don’t you worry.”

“I… is there a reason I shouldn’t just… look through one of the teacher’s eyes? Find information that way?”

Shigaraki waved a hand impatiently. “That would take too long. We need to put this thing into motion yesterday.”

Oh dear god, Sensei had really handed the reins to an impulsive child who handled criticism with all the grace of a drunken toddler. And if he failed, Izuku would no doubt suffer for it. “Of course. My mistake.”

“Yeah, well, hero society really needs to be taken down a peg, I mean have you seen all of this buzz around All Might teaching at UA? As if he’s some… god, here to grant his wisdom to us mere mortals.” Shigaraki slammed a hand against the bar with a growl. “Makes me sick. He’s such a sham. I want to burn him.”

Privately, Izuku wondered what Shigaraki actually planned to do when he came face to face with the number one hero, but honestly he was probably better off not knowing. “He definitely… smiles a lot.”

“Ugh. It’s disgusting. Like he cares about anyone, like he… it’s like he thinks he’s the main character, you know? He’s the raid leader, he’s the… ugh he’s just so OP and everyone adores him for it, but do you know how people get OP?”

Great. He was going on another of his rants, the kind so stuffed with references that Izuku could hardly follow. His notebook section on Shigaraki was filled with in-depth psychoanalysis, the intricacies of his world view and how he tended to only interact through mediums he actually understood. Like video games. Which often led to a nonsensical string of word association that almost inevitably ended in a frustrated sort of violence. Hopefully this would be a short one, and hopefully it wouldn’t result in another scar. “How?”

“Loot stealing,” Shigaraki grumbled. “That’s how. Only selfish people get that powerful, and the only way they stay that powerful is by hording it all to themselves.”

“Hm. Narcissistic.”

“Right. It’s- it’s narcissism, it’s so selfish, it’s like- he thinks he knows better than everyone else and what do all those little ‘civilians’ do?”

“…accept it?”

“Yes. He’s made them all into NPCs and they don’t even care. Just expendable little…”

Could he risk the Lonely to escape this conversation, Izuku wondered? No, probably not. At the very least it was a short little rampage, mercifully cut-off by a notification of Shigaraki’s phone that seemed to sweep up his attention.

“Go back to your room or whatever it is you do,” said Shigaraki dismissively, staring down at the screen. “I’ll fill you in on the details when it’s time.

Wonderful. Because I love adapting to plans on the fly. Izuku did as he was told.

“Hey kid! Are you in the hero course? Do you—”

“Hey! Hey! Do you have a statement about—”

“How’s All Might as a teacher? Is he—”

“You’re in the hero course! I can tell! Is All Might your—"

Izuku really wished that he could disappear into the Lonely right about now. Next to him, Shigaraki seemed to be of the same mind.

“Insects,” he hissed, nails twitching against his neck. “What a bunch of useless NPCs. Why do they care so much?”

“Part of the problem” said Izuku wearily, because they were. The way the media portrayed heroes led to some downright unhealthy pedestals, an attitude that they really could do no wrong as long as they kept their good sides towards the cameras.

The memory of searing flames ghosted across his back, and he shuddered.

“Hmph.” Shigaraki peered up at the immense UA building, as if he would somehow be able to spot All Might through one of the windows. “Seems like they’re having trouble getting in… maybe we should give them a closer look?”

UA’s signature security system had activated by then, thick steel doors blocking the press from rushing onto campus grounds. Izuku could tell by the glint in Shigaraki’s eye that that wouldn’t be the case for long.

Well. It was as good a distraction as any. With a sigh, Izuku began to pull the Stranger from beneath his skin, focusing on the image of a mask wrapped tight around his face before giving a curt nod.

Shigaraki glanced over, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Ugh. Really? You’re gonna be a hero?”

The fact that he was even able to recognize Izuku beneath the mask meant that it wasn’t tight enough. He’d fix it to something more complete whenever that distraction came about—no use in having Shigaraki try to melt his face off in panic.

“A hero will be able to access those files more easily,” said Izuku with a shrug. “Maybe some of the stuff has facial recognition too… this should be able to fool it.”

“Gross. Whatever you say. Just don’t get caught.”

“Obviously.” The other advantage of the Stranger—it was close enough to the Spiral that he’d be able to switch between them without too much trouble. The perfect combination for a quick entrance and escape.

Shigaraki pushed forward through the crowd, Izuku prepared to pull the mask taught, and suddenly it was chaos.

Oh. Right. He’d have to go through that crowd, wouldn’t he.

With a sigh, Izuku stepped forward and let himself be swept along by the rushing mob, pushing forward onto UA grounds and using the mass of bodies to conceal his escape around the corner of the building. It was a hot enough day that a couple of the ground floor windows were open, but… from the maps of the school he could find, the teacher’s lounge was on the third floor. He scanned the building to find a window hanging ajar three stories up, and hastily began to clamber over short ledges and… not much else, honestly. Damn minimalist design.

Still, it was enough that he was able to climb up to the third floor and slip through the window without much issue.

Straightening in the empty hallway, Izuku shut out the blaring sound of the alarm and focused on making his sure way to the teacher’s lounge. The panic wouldn’t last forever, so he’d have to be quick and efficient. And hopefully not run into anyone on the way there.

The Stranger was… well, strange, he supposed was an apt way to put it. Close enough to shapeshifting that it really shouldn’t matter, but with enough differences that it usually did. Izuku himself didn’t actually look any different. It was the perception that had changed, like when he pulled that mask taught across his face the image of whoever he was impersonating suddenly shifted to fit his own.

People would look at him, and they would see Present Mic. Short, teenage boy with green hair and a smattering of freckles across his cheek—yes, that’s Present Mic. He’d found that technology was also fooled by the change—although film wasn’t, for some reason he couldn’t quite understand, but luckily it was antiquated enough that it usually didn’t come up.

Usually.

He’d seen Present Mic posted outside so he really should be good on this one. And he’d listened to hours upon hours of that tacky radio show in order to properly familiarize himself, so he felt pretty confident in this mask.

Still. Still. He’d rather not risk an incident. There was a reason he favored the Lonely over the Stranger for things like this, and that was because the Stranger was unreliable as all hell. It liked to be finicky, enjoyed messing with him, and there was one caveat to its mask that he could never quite get a handle on: there was always one person who could see through it. Completely random. No way to tell until it was already too late.

It drove Izuku insane. And he was almost positive the Stranger was doing it on purpose, which was… well, he didn’t like the implications of that if he was being honest.

No matter. Izuku had found the teacher’s lounge, the alarm was still blaring, and he was Present Mic.

Or… was he?

Aw fuck. Okay. Focus. He couldn’t lose himself to the mask, but he also couldn’t lose the mask—a delicate tightrope act where tipping too far to one side meant porcelain shattering across his face, the other a loss of self entirely.

The teacher’s lounge was empty, thank god. The grating screech of that alarm was doing nothing for his sanity, but at least Shigaraki had done his job well enough. Izuku made his way over to the computer that was probably Present Mic’s given the stickers, the Put Your Hands Up mug and… was that a funko pop? Did they even make those anymore?

As expected, the computer did have facial recognition—easily bypassed. The Stranger tended to scramble those kinds of systems, rewiring anything and everything to convince the world of whatever mask he was wearing.

Izuku pulled out a thumb drive, plugged it into the computer, and began to download the relevant files. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck as the alarm died down, and he found himself glancing at the door far more often than he should’ve.

Fear of discovery. What did that fall under, he wondered? The Hunt? Or perhaps the Eye… maybe even the Desolation, since it would very likely destroy everything for him. Or was that too far of a stretch?

Complex, interwoven threads of terror, coming together to weave a merciless tapestry. That was his quirk, at its core.

Tapping his finger impatiently against the table as the last file downloaded, Izuku readied the Spiral. Almost immediately that constant creeping are my thoughts my own? reared its ugly head, the mindless terror of desperate madness, of lies and twisting pathways of deceit.

God, he really was feeding it. He still had the Stranger pressed tightly to his face, and though the two were close enough that he could easily switch between them, he’d barely even summoned the Spiral before it was buzzing between his ears.

No point in worrying himself over it now. Izuku hastily unplugged the thumb drive, shoving it in his pocket before closing out the computer and making his way towards the door.

As he reached for the handle, the Stranger just about to loosen from his face, the door flung open.

Izuku took a step back, scrambling to tighten the mask and staring up at…

Oh dear god. Eraserhead stared back down at him, blinking in confusion.

Just what he needed. Just what he fucking needed.

He barely recognized the man without the goggles, but it was most certainly him. Same outfit, same hair, same frustrating scarf settled about his shoulders…

Eraserhead was still staring at him, and Izuku twisted the mask into a pleasant grin before the next, unadulterated horror dawned upon him.

He could always tell, when he’d found the one. Could feel the nakedness of his face, a peering past his skin that laid bare whatever rotted beneath. Mannequin limbs all tangled up in tripwire and he felt it under those eyes, he felt…

You have got to be fucking kidding me right now. Of course, of course the one person who could see through this particular mask would be only one who even saw him.

This had to be the Web’s fault. As if to confirm those suspicions, he felt the skitter of spiders shiver down his back. Asshole.

“What are you doing in here?”

Right. Right, he was a child in the teacher’s lounge. An alarm had just sounded. Right.

“I- uh.” Izuku winced at the crack of his voice. “I kind of got lost? It was… really loud, and I wasn’t really sure where to—”

“I haven’t seen you before.”

Blunt. Straight to the point. Izuku forced himself to meet that critical gaze, forced himself not to flinch in the face of it. Sensei is worse.

Izuku took a breath and pulled the Spiral from his gut—if he could just make it to the door, then he’d be golden. Twisting his voice to something small, young, vulnerable, he stared back up at Eraserhead with wide eyes. “I’m- I’m just in General Studies, I really… don’t think you would’ve seen me before? But I- I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to be here, it was just really crowded and I got lost.”

Izuku moved to push past him, but Erasehead threw out an arm to block his path. “No. I think I’d recognize you.”

Curse him and his hair. He knew he should’ve started dyeing it, Kurogiri had been telling him that for months, but… his mom had had green hair too and… “Haha, I mean, it’s not. Uh. I’m not- I don’t stand out much? I’m kind of… you really probably wouldn’t notice me. Not to be… I’m just kind of quiet? Sorry.”

Eraserhead was silent for a few minutes, and Izuku tried not to let his gaze wander to the door as he puzzled out how, exactly, he was going to duck under this arm.

“You’re a first year?” he asked at last, and Izuku hoped the relief wasn’t too obvious in the slump of his shoulders.

“Yeah.”

Eraserhead hummed. Tilted his head. Reached up to scratch the stubble at his jaw. “No. You’re not.”

Mission abort, MISSION ABORT. “Whaaaat? Why would I lie about that?”

Jesus Christ he was actually the worst spy ever. He wished he could melt into the ground, or at least pull the Lonely around his shoulders and disappear from view, but he’d just used the Stranger and he couldn’t… it was a little too far away, and besides, he’d still have to actually open the door. And get around all of that security.

“I don’t know why you would lie,” said Eraserhead simply. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“I’m not lying,” Izuku lied. Like a liar.

Eraserhead snorted at that, fiddling with his scarf in a manner he must’ve considered subtle. “Try again.” He froze. Blinked. Stared down at him with a new, intense scrutiny that made the Eye flare up behind Izuku’s forehead.

“Wait. Wait.”

“Oh would you look at the time! I have an appointment! Somewhere else! That isn’t here!” Somehow, in a maneuver that even Izuku didn’t understand and must have been aided by the Spiral twisting in his veins, he dodged around Eraserhead’s arm and managed to press his hand against the door, pulling it open with that familiar lurch in his gut that indicated the Spiral at play.

“Kid, get back here—”

“Bye! See you never!” Izuku slammed the door shut behind him, blocking out a shout and an outstretched hand.

The trembling of his limbs didn’t abate until he was halfway through the twisting corridors. Despite everything, he trusted his quirk to lead him to the right door—though whether it was the door he wanted was a matter up for debate. It would take him back to the bar or it wouldn’t. For now, he could settle his mind in those endless halls, the buzzing maze that was the Spiral.

When he finally reached the other side, palm pressed against another doorknob, Izuku realized that, against all odds, he’d seen Eraserhead’s eyes.

Back at UA, Aizawa Shouta threw open a door to find an empty hallway staring back at him. He cursed.

The kid was gone.

Chapter Text

Izuku stumbled from the Spiral at about thirty minutes before midnight.

He knew this instantly upon opening the door, and yet he could have sworn that he’d only been wandering those twisting corridors for an hour at most.

“Ugh. Took you long enough.”

Fractals danced before Izuku’s eyes, ghosting across his skin before slowly dissipating like melted snowflakes. Shaking himself free of the Spiral was always a test of patience, and it seemed that this time would be no different. Still, Izuku managed to keep his footing as he turned to face a scowling Shigaraki.

“Sorry,” he said as pleasantly as he could muster. “My quirk isn’t—”

“Whatever, I don’t want to hear your lame excuses.” Shigaraki waved him off, turning back to stare at some handheld console he was playing. “Did you get it?”

“Uh… yeah.” The Eye shuddered at his temples, prickled at the back of his neck with the knowledge that he was seen, but Izuku shook it off as best he could to rifle through his pockets for the thumb drive. “Pretty easy, actually. Nothing—”

“Don’t care. Give.”

“…right.” Izuku handed over the drive, careful not to wince where his fingers brushed against Shigaraki’s. What remained of the Spiral burned hot at the contact, a bitter reminder of what those hands could do, had done, though Izuku knew that, logically, Shigaraki had no reason to hurt him right now.

When had logic ever been a factor in his life? Fear was often irrational.

“Should I… leave, then?”

“What?” Shigaraki glanced up with narrowed eyes, nose wrinkling in thought before he huffed and stared back down at his console. “Whatever. Do what you want. I don’t care.”

“Thank you.”

“Just be back tomorrow.”

Izuku wasn’t going to bother pointing out that it almost was tomorrow. Shigaraki wasn’t a fan of those kinds of semantics. “Of course. I’ll be back by sunrise.”

“Whatever.”

Well. That was as good of a dismissal as he could have hoped for, so… Izuku hooked his backpack around one shoulder, gave a short nod, and walked out the door.

The hushed clamor of city nightlife greeted him. Light and sound all muffled by the inky dark above, pale starlight struggling against bright neon signs or the flicker of streetlamps. Their own little corner of the city was more rundown, less well-lit, the kind of backstreet that the sensible avoid while stumbling home in the darkness.

Izuku would not consider himself sensible. Intelligent, maybe. Analytical without a doubt, or Sensei would have disposed of him long ago.

He needed to be useful. Izuku had learned the hard way that a quirk didn’t guarantee that.

No matter. Shigaraki had basically given him a few hours of free time, and Izuku wasn’t going to waste it on aimless self-pity. He hadn’t been able to patrol for quite a while now, what with the near constant assignments, and… he was getting restless. Especially considering how close he’d been to a breakthrough last time, the leads he’d been forced to drop in order to remain at Sensei’s beck and call.

Many of those leads had no doubt gone stale, but Izuku had at least been keeping up with a few key figures. If he was correct, there was going to be a weapons deal in a couple of hours, blessedly close to the bar. Support gear illegally smuggled from an agency was going to be changing hands, and though Izuku wasn’t sure which hero it was he’d still managed to narrow it down to a few suspects, and he was positive that it was someone in Best Jeanist’s agency.

Best Jeanist always seemed nice enough, and though Izuku knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving he strongly suspected that the man himself didn’t have any idea. Which was… was that worse? He thought that might be worse.

Pulling up his hood, Izuku hopped on a train, running through theories and scenarios as he drew closer to the drop site.

Heroes illegally sold support gear all the time. For people who couldn’t break the hundreds, it was often the easiest way to make money. Izuku had done the math, had broken up enough of these things to be familiar with the way it worked—sidekick feels stagnant, can’t seem to climb the ranks, begins to think they’re unappreciated by both their agency and the public at large. Typically, there’s a justification there: society owed them. A hero deserved more than this.

Throughout the years, Izuku had found that heroes could justify almost anything to themselves that way.

Maybe that was why Sensei let him do this. The Web skittered down his back at the thought, and Izuku forced himself not to shudder with practiced ease. Sensei knew. Of course he knew. Izuku was careful, but the Eye assured him that no amount of caution would free him from his master’s watchful gaze.

The only possible answer was that Sensei allowed this little rebellion because it wasn’t against him, not really—it was against society at large, specifically hero society. And yes Izuku believed that he was doing good, but really was Sensei any different? Was Shigaraki? The concept of good and evil was a vague and unhelpful boundary line that Izuku constantly found himself straddling, because though he knew that some things he’d been forced to do were unforgivable he also couldn’t quite shake the notion that, eventually, he would find them mundane. It was the Stranger snaking across his face again, that creeping fear that he could not know himself, could not know others, could not know how he was perceived because he was small and weak and limited.

There would come a day when this Izuku did something he knew to be necessary, and that his younger self would have called unforgivable.

What would that make him? Izuku tugged at his hood as he stepped off the train, played idly with the straps of his backpack while keeping a wary eye on the darkness around him. Would that make him evil? By whose standards? His own, no doubt, though it would be a different version of himself. If he killed a man in cold blood, neither Sensei nor Shigaraki would consider him to be evil for it.

That wasn’t comforting. Izuku had seen Shigaraki disintegrate a man for mocking his favorite video game, and Sensei himself was responsible for much of Izuku’s suffering.

Izuku didn’t trust their opinion, not yet. And it was the not yet that worried him, because he knew without a doubt that he would. There was a person, somewhere inside of him, that believed everything Sensei told him, that saw Shigaraki’s more violent outbursts as a perfectly reasonable expression of his anger. He felt that mask begin to wrap around him sometimes, during quirk training or a particularly grueling conversation with Sensei.

The Web again, crawling up his arms, and Izuku couldn’t quite repress a wince. The fear of manipulation was difficult to shake, especially since he knew it was occurring and yet there still wasn’t much he could do about it.

Save this. Izuku ducked into an alleyway a few blocks down from where he knew the deal would be taking place, knelt to open his backpack, and pulled out the aspects of his outfit. Mask, gloves, a fresh stack of blank cassette tapes, he was already wearing a dark hoodie so that should be fine… and his collapsible baton was still tucked in his pocket if things really got ugly.

It wouldn’t come to that, though. This would be stealth, surveillance, maybe a bit of theft. If things went south he might have to fall back on the more manipulative aspects of his quirk, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

Humming thoughtfully, Izuku rubbed a thumb over the dark green mask, tracing the open eye at its center before slipping it over his face with a huff and pulling up his hood around it to mask his curls. Though the Lonely was his most understood fear, he had to admit the Eye was more thematically appropriate. Watching with a cold intent, unmoved by whoever fell before its ceaseless gaze. He figured that criminals, especially the sort he tended to deal with, would fear it most of all.

With one last sigh, Izuku hooked his bag over his shoulders and darted towards a wall, scrambling up the exposed brickwork to throw himself upwards and snag the cold metal of a fire escape with one hand. He gritted his teeth at the burn in his shoulder as he pulled himself up, half-remembered broken bones and dislocated joints tugging at the aching muscle.

Izuku had suffered worse. He made it to the rooftop with a few leaps and well-placed handholds, rolling to his knees when he crested the top of the building and taking only a moment to catch his breath, to settle the aching swell of the Vast in his lungs. Izuku wasn’t afraid of heights. The Vast could suck it.

A particularly strong gust of wind burst across the rooftop, forcing Izuku back a step and leaving him teetering on the edge before he shakily found his balance, stumbling forward through ragged gasps of air and clutching at his chest with a wince. For a second he was falling, breath thin and wavering as the air rushed around him, sickly vertigo writhing up his chest and trapping the scream in his throat.

He shuddered, stepping hastily from the edge and ignoring how the Vast creaked against his ribcage almost… triumphantly. Okay. So maybe he was a little scared of heights.

With a shaky sigh, Izuku let his eyes fall closed and summoned the barest dregs of the Hunt to simmer in his blood, leashing it tight against the immediate influx of scent and sound, prey slinking through the city streets. He focused on his keen senses, on isolating the threads until at last he could pick out those he sought, the squeal of quarry ringing in his ears as he raced forward on bolstered legs.

He landed on the correct building, nails scraping against the concrete as he slid to a halt before a large skylight. Beneath him, if he squinted through his hunter’s eyes, Izuku could make out a few figures milling about the dusty, discarded boxes of the warehouse. Dragging the Hunt back and leashing it tight beneath his skin, he pressed himself against the edge of the window, tilted his head as he peered down, and waited.

It didn’t take long for the hero to show up. He arrived with all the swagger Izuku had come to expect from men like him, a familiar presence that swelled whenever they entered the room, pressing against any and every available space to ensure that they remained the center of attention. Leaving others without any room to breathe.

Izuku couldn’t hear whatever was going on down there, but he really didn’t need to; he pulled out his camera and began snapping a few pictures, humming in satisfaction as the Eye fluttered behind his forehead with every dull click of the shutter. There were too many people down there to get involved directly. With luck, Izuku might be able to intercept the contents of this deal somewhere later down the line, when it was less heavily scrutinized, but honestly that wasn’t his main concern right now. Deals like this were a dime a dozen, and busting them on the client side would just leave two more taking their place.

No. It was the hero who needed to be seen.

His fingers twitched for his notebook, but Izuku settled for tightly shutting his eyes and blinking into Beholding, opening them again to see the inside of the warehouse, how the hero lazily scanned the room before striding over towards the woman who looked in charge.

Heavy Step. Izuku had a page dedicated to him, but honestly there wasn’t much to say. His quirk was simple enough: a localized form of gravity manipulation that he typically used to strengthen his own attacks, his signature arcing stomps capable of crushing pavement and incapacitating villains.

The thing was, that was all he really used it for. Izuku felt a frown tug at his lips as Heavy Step glanced towards a window, then back at the lead woman. Such an interesting quirk, such potential, and yet he wasted it on brute strength. With just a little thought and creativity, Heavy Step probably could have honed his tactics to something incredible.

Unfortunately, he didn’t, and therefore remained middling at best in the rankings. A shame.

Heavy Step must have spoken because the woman shot him a wolfish grin, exposing the sharp canines beneath. She said something about… what was promised? It was difficult to keep track, Heavy Step’s eyes kept darting elsewhere, and Izuku cursed beneath his breath as he struggled to read the woman’s lips.

Definitely asking for the stolen goods. Oh, and there was a briefcase… the woman opened it up to show the yen inside, and Izuku hastily blinked out of Beholding to snap a couple of pictures before she slammed it shut once more.

He blinked back in, the barest hint of a headache pressing at his temples. Okay. Okay so Heavy Step had definitely said something obnoxious, because the woman snarled, lip raising as her pointed ears folded flat against her skull. She said something about respect. About burning bridges. Future partnerships, looking forward to working together, don’t ruin it before it’s even begun… Heavy Step must have replied with something snide but a little less confrontational, because wolf woman relaxed with a huff and a twitch of her ear.

The gear was revealed, and Izuku snapped a few more pictures, not even bothering to exit Beholding as he greedily took in the crate full of illicit support items. The Eye flared again, straining against his skull with the need to know, to catch and catalogue. His notebook felt heavy in his bag, but Izuku managed to choke down the urge. There was still work to be done.

Wolf woman appeared to be pleased. She looked over the gear before motioning to one of her lackeys—Heavy Step’s eyes darted over to the approaching man with a nervousness that made Izuku dizzy. The crate’s contents were appraised, and the man conferred briefly with his boss before retreating back to his position. Izuku saw as the woman smiled again, hefting up the briefcase and offering it to Heavy Step, who eagerly stepped forward to take it.

Idiot. Anyone with half a brain could see the malice in that woman’s eyes, the pure intent of a hunter about to close in on prey. The Hunt simmered, baying hounds distant in his ears as Izuku watched Heavy Step’s hand enter his view, watched him reach towards the briefcase, watched as the woman’s own clawed fingers shot forward to clasp his wrist and yank him towards her.

A familiar vertigo assailed his senses as Heavy Step’s vision was jolted, the hero blinking furiously before looking up to see the woman sneering down at him. Izuku assumed that her hand was at his throat, but couldn’t be sure.

From this distance it was easy to make out what she said, fangs gleaming beneath the deliberate twist of her lips.

“Disrespect me again, and they’ll never find your body.”

Even though he wasn’t the man being threatened, Izuku shivered. The Slaughter crooned a sweet melody as the wolf woman forcefully released Heavy Step, sending him stumbling back with the briefcase clutched to his chest. An obvious dismissal, and one he was wise to obey.

Izuku blinked out of the hero’s eyes, taking a moment to clear the swirling dizziness of such a jarring shift before packing up his camera, hefting his bag over his shoulder, and setting off after him.

The shadows settled comfortably about him as he slipped back onto street level, and Izuku briefly let the Eye fade behind his forehead and reached for the Hunt, the scent of dried blood filling his nose, wounded prey that limped and lurched through the undergrowth. He breathed deeply, senses tingling with the need to catch and cut and kill, the whisper of his footsteps as he followed from a distance.

Heavy Step hurried along the streets, briefcase tight in his white-knuckled grasp, constantly glancing over his shoulder without seeing much of anything through the gloom. Izuku felt a hitch of primal excitement in his chest, the thrill of lurking, unseen, as prey trembled and started at every whisper through the branches.

Down several side streets, stepping onto an empty train, exiting into a much nicer precinct than the last, though the streets still lay abandoned. A crescent moon traced Izuku’s steps as he quickened pace, eyes gleaming with the knowledge that the catch cut kill was close, eager fingers twitching at his sides when Heavy Step turned onto a dimly lit side street, no doubt choosing an ill-fated shortcut rather than suffer the imagined scrutiny of the barren streets for any longer.

Izuku grinned, feeling his tongue swipe across sharpened fangs. All the better for him.

In a deliberate shift of weight, Izuku let his foot scuff against a loose bit of gravel, sending it skittering across the asphalt with a clatter of cracks and scrapes. Heavy Step whirled around with a choked noise, squinting into the darkness while Izuku forced the Hunt to calm, just a little, and ran a quick hand over his mask to ensure that it was still covering his face.

“Who- oh. Are you lost or something, kid? And what’s with the getup? Halloween’s like a full year away.” His voice was more pleasant than Izuku expected, a poor match to the stocky, well-muscled build and the light scruff at his jaw. Still, it was not gentle by any means—strained by fear and a mounting paranoia that Izuku hoped to foster.

“Heavy Step.” Izuku moved closer, feeling the Dark fade from his temples as he entered the pale bloom of a flickering streetlamp, the Eye bursting forth in its place. “Real name, Iwamoto Katashi. Been a hero for seven years, working under the Best Jeanist agency for five… is that correct?”

Izuku didn’t need to ask, but it satisfied something within him to speak it, as if saying it aloud brought weight, brought power. Heavy Step blanched, hand tightening on the handle of the briefcase as he took a step back.

“What do you…” His eyes widened, and Izuku smiled beneath his mask, the Eye burning through his skull at that blistering recognition. “You. It’s… it’s you.”

“Never rose in the rankings, never stood out, never had anything more than a desk job for a hero you once admired but have now grown to despise,” Izuku continued with a manic edge, taking yet another step. “He represents it all, doesn’t he? Your failure. What you could never hope to be. A shame—you thought he would be such a valuable mentor, I’m sure.”

Heavy Step cursed, gaze darting to the side, and Izuku noted through narrowed eyes the faint shimmer of energy around one of his legs where his quirk was beginning to build. “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“It’s interesting, Katashi. Can I call you Katashi?”

“Fuck off.”

“Katashi, I’d like to let you in on a little secret.” Yes, yes, the Eye was searing into the space behind his forehead, lidless and constant, staring past the confines of flesh to tear apart the soul beneath with vicious scrutiny. “For all you’ve thought about him, the hours, days, years agonizing over your tenuous relationship, over the shadow he’s cast upon you… he’s never spared you a second thought. If you asked him, right now, who Iwatomo Katashi was, he wouldn’t even be able to conjure a face to the name.”

Heavy Step snarled, a sharp cry that cut through the night as he took one menacing step forward. “Fuck you. Fuck you.”

“What are you going to do, Katashi? What could you possibly accomplish after a life so absent of accomplishment? What was it your wife said before she left…”

Heavy Step didn’t even speak this time, the words strangled by a shuddering breath that rattled at his ribs and bloomed in Izuku’s own. Information dancing at his fingertips, all the knowledge unearthed through careful stalking and well-timed photographs and peering through the eyes of others, all of it laid bare before him as he picked this man apart and forced him to be seen.

“Hm. So you do remember,” Izuku said without a hint of warmth, of kindness. Cold as the gaze that pierced the hero to the darkened street. “She was right, you know. You’ve never changed her mind. And little Suki-chan doesn’t miss you.”

There it was. The thread that sent the rest unraveling to a tangled mess at his feet.

A broken sob wracked through the hero’s body, the power of his quirk dissipating in shimmering lines as he fell to his knees on the unforgiving sidewalk. Izuku watched, the Eye still electric over his skin, before he stepped forward and unslung his backpack.

Pulling out the battered tape recorder, Izuku pressed gently on the play button until he heard that satisfying click, the hiss of winding spools and the soothing static that buzzed behind his eyes.

“Statement of Iwatomo Katashi,” he said, and the static swelled to a painful crescendo, fuzzing the edges of his vision as the words settled in the air with frightful promise. “Regarding his illicit activities while involved with the Best Jeanist agency. Statement recorded direct from subject April 7^th, 2162. Statement begins.”

The man did not speak, one arm looped around himself as if that might contain his hitched, desperate breaths. As if that might save him from being witnessed, from the way Izuku knelt before him and peered into his paling face.

“Tell me…” Izuku murmured, and the tape recorder rattled in his hand, the Eye wide and unblinking as he trembled with the force of the fear he had reaped. “What were you doing at that meeting?”

A strangled noise answered him, the hero clutching himself tighter, and Izuku felt a wide smile at his face as he pushed with the Eye, felt as if the skin might split across his skull with the force of it, dragging truth from falsehood with barbed hooks and fishing wire.

Izuku grinned, and the Eye grew impossibly wide. When he spoke again his voice was low and rasping, tinged with roughhewn static.

 “I see you.”

Chapter Text

“Someone broke into UA.”

Shouta’s eyes fluttered shut at the inevitable cacophony, the clamor of his fellow teacher’s demanding to know what he meant, how he knew, when it had occurred. Sometimes he hated working with other heroes—whenever a problem arose, they all felt it was their responsibility and theirs alone to fix it.

“Everyone please settle down.” Principal Nedzu’s lilting voice cut through the rest, effectively slamming the lid on the sudden uproar. “Aizawa-san, please continue.”

“Thank you, principal.” Did he need a raise? He felt like he needed a raise, especially with how this year’s class was looking. Shouta wearily opened his eyes again and sighed. “A couple of days ago, when the press were swarming outside? I suspect someone used the alarm to sneak past the perimeter while we were all distracted.”

“I assume you have proof,” said Snipe gruffly, “unless you just called us here on a hunch?”

Shouta crossed his arms with a scowl. “There was a kid in the teacher’s lounge. I hadn’t ever seen him before, and I checked the records afterwards—no one who looks like that goes to this school. When I confronted him, he gave me some story about getting lost, then rushed past me through the door. He either has a teleportation quirk or an invisibility quirk, because he was gone by the time I got to the hallway.”

“Hm.” Nedzu had already pulled out his laptop, paws clacking away at the keyboard. His nose scrunched—never a good sign. “And you are sure about this, Aizawa-san?”

Shouta stared back at him and raised a brow. “I wouldn’t mention it if I wasn’t sure. The kid doesn’t go here, and he disappeared when I confronted him about it. He must have been rooting around in the teacher’s lounge or something.”

“Interesting.” Nedzu hummed, tapping thoughtfully at the keyboard before spinning around his laptop to show the security feed from yesterday, specifically the cameras located in the teacher’s lounge. He pressed play, and Shouta watched as that same child entered the room, strode towards Hizashi’s computer, fiddled with it for a good five minutes, then began to stride out.

Nedzu paused the video just as Shouta opened the door to the lounge, eyeing the rest of the teachers over the screen. “Aizawa-san? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Uh…” Hizashi cleared his throat, and Shouta glanced over to see him staring wide-eyed at the screen. “Yeah, uh, same here, actually?”

Shouta huffed. “What is there to be confused about? Some kid snuck into the teacher’s lounge.”

“Aizawa…” said Kan, brow furrowing. “That’s Yamada. What are you playing at?”

Shouta felt his eye twitch. “Excuse me?”

Nemuri frowned, looking over at him in concern. “He’s right, that’s just Yamada. Unless… is there a kid in there I’m missing? I mean you did say he might have an invisibility quirk…”

This was a joke. A practical joke. Any second now Emi was going to burst out of a potted plant or something. Before Shouta could even comprehend an answer to this ridiculous situation, Hizashi shuffled in his seat and spoke up.

“Actually, I’m kind of confused too? Because, uh, I was totally at the front gate, dealing with the vultures. I… one hundred percent wasn’t in the teacher’s lounge? Can someone tell me what’s going on?”

“That’s… that’s not you,” Shouta snapped, because really? Hizashi was pulling this shit too? “It’s obviously not you.”

“Everyone please settle down.” Nedzu spun his laptop back around and pressed his paws together in thought. “Clearly there is a discrepancy here. Perhaps we have someone with a shapeshifting quirk of some kind?”

“No, that isn’t—” Shouta cut himself off, pushing down his ire when he realized that Nedzu wouldn’t stoop to a joke like this. The gaslighting, Shouta could see, but not when it came at the risk of UA security. “You actually think that’s Hizashi.”

“Yes,” said Nedzu carefully. “And you do not?”

“Principal, just… describe who you see in the footage.”

“Hm… a short figure, curly green hair, freckles…”

“Now just… Hizashi’s right here, what does he look like now.”

Nedzu’s eyes rose, narrowing when they landed on Hizashi. “Ah. I see the problem. However, I’m afraid that thinking upon it for too long is negatively affecting my awareness.”

“Wait.” Nemuri rubbed the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses. “So you’re saying that that isn’t Present Mic?”

Nedzu leaned back in his chair with a frown. “Yes and no. This is a perplexing quirk. Clearly this cannot be Present Mic, and seeing as how even speaking that aloud has afflicted me with the early stages of a migraine, it appears that all of our perspectives have been compromised in this situation. Aizawa-san, you are certain of your version of events?”

“Yes.” How anyone could mistake that kid for Present fucking Mic was beyond him. He was half his size, he had green hair, he was literally a child, there was just- it had to be a quirk. But… if that was so, then…

Kan finished the thought aloud. “What about the teleportation thing? If that weird, shapeshifting thing is his quirk, then how did he disappear?”

“Perhaps it is a quirk that bends reality in some way?” Nedzu suggested, nose wrinkling again as he steeped his tea. “Such a thing would be… powerful. The other option, of course, is that he simply has more than one quirk.”

Across the table, Yagi spluttered, the faintest scent of copper in the air as he brought a handkerchief to his mouth. Though Shouta wasn’t sure if it was coincidence or a reaction to that statement, he couldn’t fault the man if it was the latter—the idea of one person with two quirks was ridiculous. Even Todoroki Shouto had an overarching quirk of temperature manipulation, with one side of his body controlling heat and the other cold. Still one quirk, though it might appear otherwise at first glance.

Unfortunately, that green hair was very familiar. And Shouta knew for a fact that the scrawny kid on that rooftop had displayed some kind of transformation quirk before pulling that vanishing act. Which already suggested two, very different abilities at play.

None of that really mattered, though. They were dodging the obvious question. Shouta sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I feel like the why is more important than the how. That kid was here for a reason.”

“Information?” suggested Snipe. “If he was rifling through the computers, that’s the only thing I can think of. Thing is, ‘m not sure what anyone would even want from those files.”

“Class roster, list of staff, student schedules…” muttered Nedzu, eyes closing for a moment before he briskly shook his head and took a sip of tea. “The possibilities are too vast for any solid conclusions. For now, I suggest that we stay on our guard. Activities taking place outside of the main building should have a minimum of two staff members, be sure to take attendance every class and report any unexcused absences, and most of all, stay alert.”

Setting his teacup down with a gentle clink, the principal sighed. “With the information contained on our servers we can’t rule out the possibility that this is targeted towards an individual. Student schedules are the most concerning to me. The safety of our students is the utmost priority, and we must ensure that everyone is where they are supposed to be, when they are meant to be there.”

“Easier said than done,” grumbled Kan. “Have you met the first years?”

“I’m sure you will do admirably!” Nedzu clapped his paws together, eyes squinting into a smile. “This is certainly troubling, but we should not let it hinder our teaching! We have a duty to these students. Let us make sure we see it through.”

Shouta nodded, as did everyone else at the table—though, if he was being honest with himself, it really just sounded like the principal wanted business as usual. They could keep their eyes peeled all they wanted, but that didn’t erase the fact that a child had somehow snuck past UA’s supposedly unmatched security. And that wasn’t even considering the incident with the gate, the undoubtedly powerful quirk that had torn through reinforced steel like paper.

Be vigilant. That was Nedzu’s solution. Shouta was already vigilant—anything more would be bordering on paranoia.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him out of those thoughts and having him pull it out to check almost instinctually. Hizashi gave him a friendly nudge in the shoulder.

“For shame, Shou,” he teased, only spurred on by Shouta’s unamused glare. “Phone out in a meeting? That’s gotta be a detention at least.”

“Probably expulsion,” said Nemuri dryly. “I’ve seen him expel a kid for looking out the window too long.”

“Not true.” He was too tired to even fake indignance at that, or at the quiet chuckles from around the room. Assholes. Instead he focused on his phone, groaning when he saw it was an all too familiar alert.

Nemuri grinned. “What, did your subscription to Jumpsuits Monthly run out?”

“No,” said Shouta simply, tucking his phone back into his pocket and barely resisting the urge to lay his head down on the table for an impromptu nap. “Confession was active last night.”

The room’s atmosphere shifted, good humor overtaken by a shifting discomfort, with the faintest undercurrent of dread. Nedzu put on another pot of tea, and Shouta swore he caught the edge of a flask disappear beneath that waistcoat.

“Er… do you know who…?” Snipe began, and Shouta cut him off with a sigh.

“Some hero named Heavy Step. They found the tape this morning, but they barely tracked the guy down. Apparently he was trying to make a run for it.”

Hizashi sucked a breath between his teeth. “Heavy Step? He works for Best Jeanist, doesn’t he?”

“Your insistence on remembering all of these names continues to baffle me,” said Shouta wearily, “but yes. Apparently, he works for Best Jeanist.”

“Worked.” Nemuri raised a brow when everyone’s gaze snapped towards her. “What? Everyone Confession has taken in turned out to be a Grade A asshole. Worked.”

“Not necessarily true,” Shouta muttered. “Stormwing is still active—”

“Oh yeah?” Nemuri rolled her eyes. “What’s the tape say this time?”

Hesitating, Shouta fished out his phone again and read through the text in more detail. He sighed. “Illegally selling support items.”

“Wow. Shocker, there.”

“There isn’t necessarily proof. Those tapes won’t hold up in a court of law.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, so there’s no other evidence then?”

Shouta scowled, crossing his arms and tucking his chin into his scarf, the fabric muffling his voice when he spoke. “There were also some pictures left with the tape. Very… incriminating pictures. Apparently.”

Nemuri huffed. “Who could have seen that one coming.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” muttered Shouta, “I’d say you’re defending the dangerous vigilante.”

“I’m just saying that they all turned out to be dicks. That’s it.”

“Right. That’s it.”

“You gonna go into the station tonight, then?” asked Hizashi.

“Probably,” Shouta admitted, trying and failing to ignore the way Hizashi frowned. This was one of the few nights a week when both of them were supposed to be free, damn it. “I’ll try to make it brief.”

Hizashi waved a hand, easy grin returning to his face. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Rain check?”

“Of course.”

“Boo,” called Nemuri, hands cupped around her mouth. “That’s gross. That’s PDA. Get it out of here.”

Ectoplasm sighed, rifling through a few of the ungraded math assignments he’d brought. “Aren’t we supposed to be having a meeting? Or are we finished here.”

Nedzu sipped at his tea and set it down with a smile. “Oh, the meeting ended ten minutes ago.”

It was going to be one of those days, was it? Shouta closed his eyes, summoning up whatever dregs of patience he had left, because he’d no doubt need it for his patrol. If history was any indication, Confession was already long gone.

Chapter Text

“Phobos. You’re late.”

Oh joy, so Shigaraki was still awake. Izuku didn’t point out that he couldn’t really be late if Shigaraki had never set a return time to begin with, but that would only make things worse. The Eye prickled, an insistent ache pressing against his temples as Izuku forced himself to still, to ignore the growing migraine and the smell of dried blood clogging his nose while he subjected himself to Shigaraki’s scrutiny.

Thankfully, the other boy just huffed before returning to his game, which… had he been playing that all night? Izuku’s headache spiked, like a nail through his skull, and he struggled to keep the pain from flashing across his face.

“I have another job for you,” said Shigaraki, and that was certainly enough to hold Izuku’s attention. “We need muscle. Go out and…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “Do whatever it is you do, I really don’t care, but get us some low-level meat shields for our raid tomorrow.”

Jesus Christ, seriously? “Sir,” said Izuku as gently as possible, “I’m a little worn out from the thing with UA—”

“You aren’t.” Shigaraki’s eyes snapped from his game, letting Izuku know he’d really fucked up now. “I know you can do jobs like that no problem. But you are out of mana… so what the hell were you doing all night?”

“I… nothing. I’ll get you your… meat shields.”

He didn’t look away. Izuku heard the sad tone of his character dying, but Shigaraki didn’t even react, instead setting the console face down on the bar and sliding from his chair. “What have you been up to, Deku?”

This was bad. Sensei almost certainly knew, but obviously he had no reason to tell Shigaraki and… shit. This was bad. “Just catching up on surveillance. Needed to refresh some pages in my notebook.”

They stood like that for a long while, Shigaraki unreadable as he tilted his head, fingers twitching minutely at his side. The Desolation itched in Izuku’s palms, a thick, choking fear of suffering that burned so hot he could swear there was a faint smell of cooking flesh in the air.

Finally, finally, Shigaraki scoffed, turned around, and delicately picked up his game once more. “I don’t care what you do, as long as you do your fucking job. I need, like, a hundred of them. At least.”

One hundred. One hundred. That meant Izuku wouldn’t be able to catch up on sleep through the day, that he’d have to start working on this immediately if he hoped to get this done. “I c-ca—” Fuck. “Right. I’ll get started on that.”

He couldn’t even ask why at this point, not if he wanted to keep his limbs intact. Who the hell was Shigaraki planning on attacking, that he needed all this muscle? It had to have something to do with the information they’d stolen from UA, but… was Shigaraki going after one of the teachers? Was that why he needed their schedules?

A raid. That’s what he’d called it, which implied they were going somewhere, invading another space to defeat the boss… oh no. Oh no, he could not be serious.

“Ugh, shut up,” Shigaraki snapped. “God, you’re so annoying.”

Muttering, muttering, muttering. At least he’d repressed the habit well enough that at this point he was pretty much incomprehensible, but still, any unnecessary noise could be enough to invoke Shigaraki’s wrath. Izuku slapped a hand to his mouth as if that might somehow remind him to keep it shut. “S-sorry, I—”

“Go away.”

Right. Okay. He needed to leave before whatever grace that stupid game was granting him wore out.

Izuku beat a hasty retreat, returning to the streets almost as quickly as he had left them. He squinted in the morning sun, rubbing at tired eyes and dutifully ignoring that telltale rumble of his stomach.

“My head hurts, I’m starving, and I need to recruit one hundred villains by tomorrow morning.” The empty street did not reply. Izuku very much felt that it was mocking him. “I’m so screwed.”

Izuku had been nervous about this new assignment. He wasn’t the most charismatic at the best of times—add to that a deficit of sleep, a piercing headache from quirk overuse, and the fact that he was recruiting villains to quite possibly attack UA itself… well, it wasn’t as if it was going to be as simple as rolling up to a seedy club and saying, “Hey, anyone here want to stick it to a bunch of heroes, ‘cause my boss has a job and he’s hiring”, right?

Right?

Wrong. Because apparently it was that easy, and by the time the sun was falling Izuku realized that he had yet again overestimated the intelligence and instinct for self-preservation of his peers.

He had a little help, of course. Izuku despised the Web, how it skittered and pricked at his skin, how whenever he had the slightest suspicion things were not under his control it swooped into confirm with spindled thread and wire that twisted at his limbs.

How it seemed to feast whenever he was forced to meet with Sensei. Fat and bulbous, weighing on his mind like a sated spider swaying at the center of her web.

Fear of manipulation. Of unwittingly working to the designs of another. The Web was one of the few aspects that hadn’t manifested with any specific trigger; it was shifting, subtle, until one day Izuku awoke with the dreadful certainty that his free will had been stripped from him and he was helpless to stop it, trapped on a stage with a script he could only read line by lumbering line. And he knew with equal certainty that that had always been the case. That he was just now seeing the wings to either side, the curtain looming overhead, the threads that tugged him just so.

So yeah, Izuku wasn’t really a fan of the Web. Sue him.

With a heavy sigh that only exacerbated his headache, Izuku slumped in his seat. The shadowed corner table was nice, a good way to keep an eye on everyone in the room and scope out his next target, but though the dim lighting was certainly good for his head it did him no favors in the exhaustion department, and fuck but he wished he could just go to sleep right now.

Or, better yet, get back to working on something he was actually interested in. His notebooks burned heavy in his bag, and Izuku imagined he could hear the mechanical whir of his tape recorder before he closed his eyes, took a breath, and forced his twitching fingers to still. The Eye snapped against his skull with renewed fury, spitting rage at its stifling after being so thoroughly fed.

Izuku sighed again, resting his head on crossed arms. He’d probably overdone it with Heavy Step. It just felt so good, which in itself was probably concerning, and—god fucking damn it there was the Web again, just- just crawling across the back of his neck and leaving shudders in its wake, that fucker.

“I’m so tired.” He couldn’t even distract himself with the news because Heavy Step’s face was plastered all over it, and even looking at that man made the Eye burn with remembered power, demanding more.

Izuku forced himself to look up  and rub the alertness back into his face, tugging the Web past the blistering pressure of the Eye. Countless crisscrossing threads wove themselves before him, the myriad tapestry of relationships between every person in this club stretching out to a near incomprehensible mess.

He ignored the pale, ghostly filaments of passing conversation, ties that would quickly fade as soon as the strangers turned away from each other. Instead he focused on the thicker threads, the kinship that wove between a trio loudly talking at the bar, the seething antipathy that simmered through a tense conversation in the other corner.

Sighing, Izuku closed his eyes and let the Web drop. He’d been giving his pitch practically nonstop, trying to find individuals who were isolated, lacking in personal connections and in desperate need of help that society would not grant them. It felt slimy, preying on people’s weaknesses like that. But Izuku himself wasn’t in the best of situations, so he supposed it couldn’t be helped.

It was fine. Izuku worried at his lower lip, letting his head fall to the table again. It was fine, because he was making up for it. His work as Confession, or whatever it was the police were calling him, would have to make up for the bad. Taking corrupt heroes out of the equation would help these people, in the long run.

As Izuku summoned the Web again and his eyes locked on a man leaning by the bar with only scorching threads of acrid loathing stretching out from within his chest, he didn’t feel like he was helping anyone. As he stood, walked forward, slid into the empty stool next to him and prepared to give his speech, he honestly felt like the worst kind of monster.

Another reason he hated the Web. Whenever he made use of it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was acting exactly as Sensei would.

The thing was, Izuku really didn’t want to die today. Despite it all there was a reason he could grasp that morbid dread that was the End.

“Hey, friend. Can I buy you a drink?” As expected, the man looked more ticked off than anything else, but he did at least spare a glance out of the corner of his eye. From this close Izuku could make out the particulars of his features—shaggy black hair, a wiry build beneath the coat, and a patchwork mess of burn scars that marred much of his skin. The Desolation stirred for some reason, an itching heat in his palms before Izuku squashed it down.

The man turned back to his glass with a scoff. “This place is really going downhill if they’re letting toddlers in now. Can you even buy alcohol?”

Ouch. Izuku was wearing his facemask, but apparently he was still short enough that he couldn’t quite pass for an adult. That, or the voice gave it away.

“I don’t think these guys are really checking ID,” he said easily, slipping a few hundred yen onto the bar. “Besides, I’m older than I look.”

“Still a toddler, though.” The man sighed, slamming back his own drink before moving to rise. “I’m not a babysitter. Go bother someone else.”

“I’m here to make you an offer,” said Izuku hastily. “My boss is willing to pay.”

“Not interested.” Fuck, he was leaving, Izuku still needed a few more if he was going to meet that stupid quota and this asshole was leaving—

“Someone give you those scars?” The words flew from Izuku’s mouth in a panicked rush. “They look pretty bad, must have been some fight. Are they dead, or are they still walking around? You don’t look like the kind of guy who would let something like that stand, but what do I know.”

The man stopped. His shoulders rose and fell with a slow, deliberate breath. Again, again the Desolation flared, and Izuku was too distracted with puzzling out its strange outburst to see the flash of movement before a hand slammed onto the bartop, smoke rising from beneath the palm. Izuku looked up to see the man’s impassive face looming over him.

“Don’t make me kill a kid,” he said simply, not a hint of emotion in his tone while he burned a hand-shaped mark into the wood.

Right, right, right. These people were all criminals. He should really be more careful, huh?

“I’m not making you do anything,” said Izuku with a defiant tilt of his chin, because honestly he’d rather get murdered by this random guy than by Shigaraki. “Just asking a simple question.”

The man stared, eyes cold and strangely blank, and for a moment Izuku thought that maybe he was going to kill him, right here, in the middle of this club. He was just starting to consider pulling the Lonely over his shoulders before the man sighed, picked up his hand, and sank back into his seat.

“You have balls, kid, I’ll give you that. Are you seriously not afraid of me?”

Oh, Izuku was definitely afraid of him. Fortunately, Izuku was afraid of a lot of things.

He shrugged, mostly to dispel the tension in his shoulders, and tried to avoid looking at the new scorch mark on the bar. “You get used to it. Are you interested?”

“In what, your ‘boss’s offer?” The man scoffed, reaching over for the money Izuku had placed on the bar and signaling for the bartender. “Not in the slightest. Let’s talk about you.”

What a massive waste of time. “We can pay. And forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but I have a feeling you aren’t too fond of heroes.”

“I’m not, but I have a feeling that I’m not interested in what you’re selling, either.” A grin played at the man’s lips, tugging at the scars as he ordered another drink. “How does a kid end up in a place like this?”

“Circumstance.”

“Wow. Could you give a vaguer answer?”

“Things,” said Izuku with a sigh. “And stuff.”

“Nice.” The bartender slid over his drink—whiskey, it looked like—and he took a sip. “You in trouble, kid?”

Izuku spluttered. “What? No, I- look, do you want the job or not?”

“Already told you no. Leave if you’re so pressed about it. But…” The man eyed him over the glass, unreadable, before he knocked back the rest of his drink and stood with a shrug. “Here’s some advice, free of charge. Stop hanging around places like this. Loudmouth like you is gonna get himself killed.”

“Oh, gee, thanks,” Izuku muttered, nose wrinkling as he watched the man straighten his jacket. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Don’t test me. You’re still on thin fucking ice.” The man made to turn but hesitated for a moment, giving Izuku another piercing stare that made the Eye itch and writhe. At last he sighed, shoulders slumping as he dug through his pockets and pulled out a few rumpled bills. “Here. Didn’t want your damn money in the first place.”

Izuku blinked, dazedly accepting the few hundred yen. “Oh, uh. Thanks?”

“Whatever. Stay safe, kid.”

With that the man turned around and left, Izuku watching him go in stunned silence. Almost reflexively he pulled forth the Web, focused on his retreating back as those angry red lines stretched out into space, disappearing from view in a mass of festering hate.

Except there was a new thread, this time. Thin and tenuous, but stronger than he would have expected from that brief conversation. Izuku’s gaze followed the length of it all the way to his own chest.

Well. That couldn’t be good.

Chapter Text

In the end, Izuku managed to stumble back to the bar with one hundred and nine prospective “meat shields”. He prayed that would be enough, and that Shigaraki had not taken it upon himself to change the quota while he was gone.

Less likely was that they would all show up, but Izuku couldn’t exactly control that. He’d done his best to convince them, to promise them glory, wealth, revenge, mindless destruction—anything to convince them this was worth their time. After that, all he could do was give them a time and an address. Shigaraki had at least enough forethought to text him the location of some abandoned warehouse they apparently owned. Presumably Kurogiri would take it from there, and he could wash his hands of the whole thing.

Izuku just wanted to sleep. Hopefully he was exhausted enough that the dreams wouldn’t be too bad, this time. When he entered the bar Shigaraki was nowhere to be found, which suited him just fine. Izuku sighed, making his way towards his broom closet of a room.

“Deku.” Izuku froze mid-step at the sound of Shigaraki’s voice, shoulders tensing against his will as he slowly, deliberately turned to face the other boy where he stood just outside his own room. When Izuku didn’t answer, Shigaraki gave a snort of derision. “Well?”

Right. Report. “I found what you asked for, and directed them to the warehouse. Mission successful.”

“Now that is a surprise,” Shigaraki sneered, before rolling his eyes and turning to reenter his room. “Whatever. The raid’s in eight hours, so be ready.”

Oh fucking hell, what? “I… I’m sorry?”

“The raid’s in eight hours,” said Shigaraki slowly, as if talking to an idiot. “So be. Ready.”

“I’m… coming with you?”

Another roll of his eyes. “Obviously.”

“And…” Izuku cleared his throat, desperately tamping down the rising panic that threatened to consume him. “What, exactly, are we doing?”

“Oh.” Shigaraki grinned over his shoulder. “We’re going to kill All Might.”

And with that he closed the door, leaving Izuku to stand, wide-eyed and motionless, in the empty hallway.

There was no way that this was Sensei’s plan.

As Izuku stood in the corner of the warehouse, the Lonely prickling at his shoulders amidst this massive crowd of chatting villains who paid him little to no mind, that theory solidified to fact.

This was too brash. Too blunt. Where Sensei would use a scalpel, Shigaraki had chosen a hundred, bloodthirsty chainsaws.

So no, storming UA grounds was certainly not Sensei’s plan. But Sensei had put Shigaraki in charge and placed Izuku under Shigaraki’s command, so Sensei’s plan or no if this failed then it would still be as if he’d failed his master.

I’m sure you will impress us next time. One more chance, or Izuku was screwed. Last time he’d barely made it out with his sanity intact—and oh but how the Spiral twisted at that hasty declaration—and honestly? He’d rather not know what further tests the good doctor wished to run on his precious experiment.

Izuku shuddered, felt the Flesh churn a sickly nausea in his gut, bile rising in his throat that he barely managed to bite down. He was nothing but a thing to that man, meat and bone and sinew to be bent into shape. Izuku had spent years in those labs. He was not eager to return.

Luckily, it seemed that he wouldn’t be doing the heavy lifting, this time around. Shigaraki had made it clear that he was to stay out of the way and do that creepy little thing with your notebook, as he put it. Fine by Izuku. Apparently the killing All Might part of the mission would be handled by Shigaraki and…

Yeah, okay. So, Izuku had no idea who that guy was. Which was a little concerning, because Izuku had recruited practically every person in this warehouse, and even those he didn’t recognize had been dragged along by someone that he did.

This Noumu guy. Izuku had never seen him before. And from the way Shigaraki referred to him, as his new toy, Izuku had a feeling that he wasn’t some random thug picked up off the streets. The hulking form and vacant expression obviously lent some credence to that.

Stranger and stranger, whenever Izuku passed too close he could feel the scuttle of spiders down his back, like the Web was… calling out to this- this thing. When Izuku finally indulged it, tugged forth the threads to reveal the tangled web that ran through this warehouse, what he saw was… nothing.

No, not nothing, but certainly nothing he had ever seen before. The creature just- it had no threads. Even the most isolated of individuals had something to tie them, even if that was just the blistering red of spite stretching out in every direction, threatening to consume them in its fire.

Even Izuku, as adept as he was with the Lonely, could see the threads connecting himself to others. Complex woven colors that stretched out into infinity.

Noumu’s threads were cut. Limp, dragging behind it on the dusty concrete. And when Izuku pressed with the Web, focused his attention, he could see the faintest gleam of wire crisscrossing its scarred body, wrapped so tight around its limbs that he was surprised the skin hadn’t split.

Izuku blinked, and it was just the Noumu staring back at him with those strange, dead eyes.

He gave the thing a wide berth after that.

(Sensei had called him a gift, when he’d been presented to Shigaraki.)

(Shigaraki had called him a toy. Before Izuku spoke out of turn one too many times, before toy became brat became Deku, because try as he might Shigaraki did not find Izuku so easy to manipulate, to tug and twist and tear as he saw fit.)

(Izuku wasn’t like that thing. He wasn’t.)

All too soon it was time. Shigaraki picked him out of the crowd as the villains grew restless, waiting for Kurogiri’s portals to ferry them onto UA grounds.

“Phobos,” he said, and he must have been in a good mood if he wasn’t calling him Deku again. “Make sure you don’t get in my way.”

Oh. So maybe not all of this was purely Shigaraki’s idea. The boy clearly didn’t want him here, acted like a put-upon sibling being forced to look after his kid brother. So… had Sensei suggested this? And if so, why?

Screw it. Trying to figure out why Sensei did the things he did was a hopeless endeavor that could only lead to pain. The best Izuku could do was fulfill his assigned task with as much efficiency and grace as he could muster.

He nodded, and that seemed to satisfy Shigaraki, who turned to trade a few words with Kurogiri.

Faint strains of the Slaughter played in his ears, the violent intent that surrounded him swelling to something he was no longer able to ignore.

It was starting. As the familiar press of Kurogiri’s warp gate swelled around him Izuku wondered, not for the first time, if this was his fault. If All Might was going to die today because of him.

A ridiculous thought, because All Might wasn’t going to die. He was the Symbol of Peace, and even if he was weaker than before he was still… he was All Might.

The End shifted at the back of his mind, like a monstrous serpent stirred from its slumber. No. All Might wasn’t going to die. His reign would not come to an end.

And even if it did… well, that wasn’t Izuku’s problem, was it? They were just heroes—heroes who’d never cared about someone like him. Even All Might, in the end, was just another hero.

They’d all have to burn, eventually. It was only a matter of when.

Everything ends. Foolish, to be so afraid of it.

Izuku stepped through the warp gate, surprised to find a smooth path beneath his feet and sunlight pressing against his eyes, forcing him to squint up into the vastness of… was this some sort of training facility?

Next to him, Shigaraki took a step forward, manic grin splitting across his face where the hand wasn’t covering it. Then, with a suddenness that Izuku had never quite grown accustomed to, his mood soured to a spitting rage.

“Where is All Might,” he hissed. Izuku felt his blood freeze in his veins, slowly dragging his gaze up to follow Shigaraki’s and finding…

Eraserhead. Fucking shit, seriously? There was- there was no way that it was fucking Eraserhead—

He felt Shigaraki shift before he saw it, but by then it didn’t matter—a hand slammed into Izuku’s throat, one finger painfully shy of tearing through his esophagus as furious red eyes glared down into his own.

“You said he would be here,” Shigaraki sneered, and Izuku scrambled to remember when the fuck he had ever said such a thing.

The… the files. The files he had recovered, that had to be where the information came from, that had to be- oh shit had this entire operation hinged on those files? The ones he had collected? Izuku swallowed, felt the fingers tighten around his neck as the Slaughter crooned its sweet music.

“The- I just gave you the schedule. I’m not—”

With a wordless snarl, Shigaraki tossed Izuku forward, and it took everything he had not to stumble to the ground.

“Whatever,” Shigaraki spat, a new grin hooking at his lips, the kind that made the Desolation itch in Izuku’s palms. “Guess we’ll have to have a little fun first.”

Izuku stood there for a breathless moment, shoulders tense, before Shigaraki whirled on him one last time. “Why are you just standing there? Go take notes or whatever. When we get back, you better have all the information we need to destroy the rest of hero society.”

It would be useless to point out that there were only two heroes here, which hardly constituted hero society as a whole. In fact, it would be useless to say much of anything. Instead Izuku turned, pulled up his hood, and ran like hell.

He risked a glance up the looming staircase, where the hero students were cowering behind their teachers, and nearly stumbled when he saw Eraserhead leaping down the stairs and into the fray, that grey scarf whipping out in all directions as he began to systematically dismantle his foes. Izuku watched in rapt fascination, steps slowing for a moment as the Eye widened behind his forehead, pressing against the skull.

His fingers twitched for his camera, and… well, that was his job. Observation. Picking apart their enemies before the first blow had even struck. Izuku raised the camera and began to snap a few photos, ignoring the awful tune of the Slaughter as their army of villains converged on the lone hero.

It was too easy, he thought, just standing back and watching. Letting the Eye overcome him with an almost voyeuristic glee. Izuku stuck to the outskirts of the fight, snapping pictures and pulling out his tape recorder to speak aloud the odd note, never finding himself burdened with more than a clinical interest in the proceedings.

“Eraserhead’s fighting style,” he muttered into the recorder, “is well-suited to ambush and quick takedowns. He operates best in one-on-one attacks and, if his quirk really does rely on prolonged line-of-sight, he probably doesn’t do well in long, drawn out battles.”

Scattered shouts drew his detached gaze to the top of the stairs, where it seemed that Kurogiri had materialized in front of the students and Thirteen. A few explosions drew his interest further, and Izuku skirted around a large body of water to get a closer look.

Ah, Thirteen was attempting to use their quirk, but the hero students had gotten in the way. He couldn’t see the specifics, but he raised his recorder anyway, the Eye thrumming in time with the spools.

“Thirteen’s quirk is powerful, but destructive. They could easily be rendered useless with the strategic placement of civilians, or even other teammates. Their stance is rooted and static, and though they must have worked hard to control their quirk, there’s still a hesitance that could be taken advantage of.”

Kurogiri began to consume many of the hero students in his warp gates, and the fight became uninteresting. Izuku’s attention snapped back to Eraserhead just as the man fended off three villains at once, using one’s momentum to slam him into the other two. Fascinating.

“Though admittedly ill-suited to drawn out fights, Eraserhead is still skilled enough to take a situation that does not favor him. He does not let a quirk disadvantage limit him—rather, he takes what advantages he can, and uses pure skill to overcome the rest. He is…” Izuku hesitated, humming in thought as Eraserhead barely managed to dodge another blow before whipping around to hurl his assailant into the ground. “He’s still tiring. Everyone has a limit, and he is reaching his. I wonder if—”

The rest of that thought was abruptly cut off by a loud splash behind him, shocking Izuku from the wide, unblinking gaze of the Eye and yanking his attention towards the large body of water. Rippling waves spread out across the artificial lake, but Izuku couldn’t see what had broken the surface—oh. There, one of the hero students was leaping from the water towards a boat near the center of the lake, dragging another behind her.

Frog traits. The Eye was burning again, and Izuku’s fingers twitched. What an interesting quirk.

The other kid’s quirk was not immediately identifiable, but he was certainly sopping wet and shivering, collapsing on the deck. It seemed like he’d been saved by the frog girl, so that ruled out any sort of water-related quirk… not that that narrowed it down much.

Wait. Saved from what?

Izuku had been dutifully ignoring the Slaughter’s song, the blare of pipes and the distant beat of war drums, but now he realized that it had swelled to a crescendo that trembled in his bones. The water, he realized, had never stopped rippling. Several figures breached the surface, all staring at the boat and hungrily eyeing the two, drenched hero students.

The Slaughter. Fear of violence. Of battle, and the cool hatred in your enemy’s eyes as they raise their rifle. Random bloodshed without true malice, because you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The wrong side of a gun. Of a trench. Of a war.

Izuku heard its song, and he knew that these people intended to kill.

He knew that these children were going to die.

And he knew with a dreadful, unwavering certainty, that it would be his fault.

The Eye snapped behind his skull, blistering with the need to watch, to wait and see exactly how this would play out with no interference, to greedily consume that fear in its passive, lidless stare, but Izuku… Izuku blinked. Forced it back. Listened instead to the Slaughter’s lilting call, felt it fill his ears with creaking pipes and pound against the inside of his chest.

Far across the water, Izuku could see the two hero students. Could see the frog girl staring at him, head tilted to the side. A strange sight, he was certain—lone figure watching on the far shore as their death approached. And again, again the Eye pressed eagerly behind his forehead, urged him to keep it that way, to let them see as he watched and did nothing to help…

Instead Izuku caught her curious gaze and slowly, slowly raised his hands to his ears. The distance made it hard, but he imagined that he could see her give him a single, hesitant nod.

Hopefully they understood, because once this started…

Izuku shuddered at that haunting melody. At the remembered terror of gnashing teeth, bloodied fists, bruises blooming along battered flesh. Remembered how it felt to cower before the violence of another with the cruel, bitter knowledge that none of this was personal. Remembered standing, victorious, over his assailant. How it was to win. How it felt like losing.

The music swelled between his bones, creaking in the space of his ribcage as Izuku took a deep, shuddering breath, and began to sing.

There were no words to the Slaughter—just an ebb and flow of rising melody that ached with ghostly sorrow. Izuku let it flow through him, let himself be the instrument of that wretched tune as it picked up in tempo, eyes screwed shut against the violent churning of the water that rose to play in desperate accompaniment.

War drums and pipes and flutes all pouring thick from his throat like blood, like the screams of the dying, like bulletfire and the splintering sound of artillery. Like a commander’s barked orders and the twisted gibberish rising up from the enemy line, a cruel, perverse mockery of humanity.

A hand fell on his shoulder. Izuku’s eyes startled open, his jaw snapping shut with a painful clack as he whirled around to see the frog girl staring, wide-eyed. It seemed that she’d somehow found bits of fabric to stuff in her ears, as had the tired, purple-haired boy behind her.

“Can we uncover our ears now, kero?” she asked far too loudly, and Izuku flinched away from the sudden noise. The Slaughter still thundered in his skull, but as long as he did not voice it then… they should be fine. He nodded, dutifully keeping his gaze from drifting over to the now still waters. Whatever lay there, he did not want to see it.

Both the frog girl and the boy pulled the fabric from their ears, the latter wincing as he looked out over the water. They eyed Izuku warily, which was more than understandable. He was a villain, after all.

Oh fuck. He was a villain. And he’d just saved a couple of hero students. Oh fuck.

“What did you do?” demanded the boy. Izuku just stared dumbly back at him, because… fuck, what did he do? He didn’t even know, he just- he had to do something, he couldn’t let them kill these kids, but- but he’d brought them here, hadn’t he? He… oh god, had he killed them? He was- he was so afraid.

“Hey, kero, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

Right. Breathe. When had he stopped? Izuku gasped for air, crouching down and letting his hands come up to press sharp fingers to his scalp. This went beyond a simple fuck-up—he’d directly interfered with Shigaraki’s plans. This was the worst possible scenario.

Frog girl knelt in front of him, concern written plainly across her face as she gently pulled his hands away from his head. “Are you a villain?”

The other boy snorted. “You can’t just ask that. Why would he answer--”

“Yes,” Izuku gasped, tugging at the half-mask before it suffocated him. “Yes, I am.”

“Okay,” said frog girl simply. “Then why did you help us?”

“I- I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Okay.” It really wasn’t. None of this was okay. “All of the villains out there just… started attacking each other. Was that you?”

“Attacking each other,” the purple-haired boy said dryly. “That’s what you call that? Attacking each other?”

Izuku winced. “I… it’s part of my quirk. I’m sorry, I just- I didn’t know what else to do. Are they…” dead. Maybe he didn’t want to know, actually. The Eye flared again, that restless search for knowledge that might destroy him.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Some of them look pretty hurt, but…”

“Okay.” Izuku’s breathing was starting to settle, the Slaughter ebbing from his ears as the Eye overtook it once more. “I’m sorry.”

“You saved our asses,” muttered the boy. “So, uh, guess we should be thanking you for that.”

But it was his fault that they were even in this situation. All of it was his fault. “I’m sorry.”

“This is the most apologetic villain I’ve ever met.” The purple-haired boy sighed, glancing further off into the USJ before stiffening. “Aizawa’s still fighting over there.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, kero.” Frog girl was still kneeling in front of Izuku, her hand a steady presence on his own. “Hey, what’s your name? I’m Asui Tsuyu, but you can just call me Tsu-chan.”

“Oh sure,” drawled the boy, dragging his gaze back. “Let’s just give him our Individual Numbers next.”

“Uh… I’m, uh, Phobos. I guess.”

“Wow, what a real name for a real person.”

“Shinsou-kun,” said Tsu, turning to blink up at the other boy. “I don’t think this is the time.”

“What are you- do you even see what’s happening right now?” the boy—Shinsou, presumably—snapped. “We almost just got murdered. And instead, this guy sang a fucking song that made them murder each other instead. And now! Now we’re stranded in the middle of the USJ with no idea where our classmates are, or what condition they’re in, and Aizawa-sensei is still…” He cut himself off with a strangled sound, running his hands through damp hair. “We need to prioritize.”

“Yes.” Tsu stood, eyeing him pointedly. “And he can help us.”

“Why would he even do that?”

“Because he already did, kero.” Tsu turned to Izuku, tilting her head. “Are you going to help us?”

Did Izuku have a death wish, would have been a more appropriate question. Fuck.

He was already screwed—at this point it was just a question of how screwed. It was possible that he could salvage this… maybe his quirk went haywire? It wouldn’t be the first time, and surrounded by so much violent intent it would make sense that the Slaughter would be acting up… which would land him in quirk training. With the doctor. Izuku shuddered, several of his fears vying for attention at that thought.

But quirk training was better than a punishment, than pain for pain’s sake. And this disobedience… punishment was the only possible outcome. He’d already disobeyed. A little more or less wasn’t going to make much of a difference, in Sensei’s eyes.

So, he could lie to Sensei, or he could just… go all the way.

Yeah. So. That wasn’t much of an option, was it?

Besides, despite everything he couldn’t let these kids die. He’d already proven that much with his little stunt with the Slaughter.

Izuku stared up at Tsu, gaze hardening as the Desolation burned hot and lightless in his veins. “Yes. I’m going to help you.”

“Great.” Tsu reached out a hand, and Izuku hesitated a moment before grabbing it and letting her pull him to his feet. She blinked, pulling the hand away. “You’re warm, kero.”

“Oh, uh… only sometimes.” Oh boy, the Desolation was having a field day with this, wasn’t it. Yes he was going to lose everything, yes he was going to suffer, and yes he was afraid of it. There was no need to gloat. Izuku forced it down to a low simmer, wearily summoning forth the Eye again because… honestly that was probably the safest option right now. “Where to?”

Tsu tapped at her chin thoughtfully before looking up at the grand set of stairs. “We should probably get back to the entrance, kero. We’ll have a height advantage, and there might be people up there who didn’t get caught in the warp gates.”

“No.” Shinsou rubbed at his face with a groan. “No, we need to go help Aizawa-sensei.”

“Shinsou-kun—”

“He needs help.”

“He’s a pro, and our teacher. He wants us to trust him.”

“Bullshit,” Shinsou hissed. “He’s an idiot who lied to us so we could feel better about running. He needs our help.”

“Uh…” Izuku winced again as both pairs of eyes snapped towards him. “I could, uh, maybe help with that? If you want to… I mean, I could know. If he needs help.”

“But…” Tsu’s nose wrinkled slightly, “your quirk is…”

Izuku felt a nervous laughter bubble in his chest. “Hah, uh, my quirk is kind of complicated. But, uh, basically the point is I can sort of… look in? On Erase- er, Aizawa, and see if he needs help? Would that… would that help you guys?”

“Yes,” said Tsu, glancing towards Shinsou, who just nodded begrudgingly. “That would help.”

“Oh, uh. Okay. Hold on a second I- um. I’ve been told this looks kind of… creepy? So… sorry about that.”

Izuku took a breath, allowed the Eye to surge forward with that calculating intent to know, and blinked.

And suddenly he was looking through Eraserhead’s eyes. Watched as the man’s gaze darted dizzily between his attackers, as he picked out their weaknesses with a deadly precision and capitalized with even deadlier skill.

Next to him, he heard Shinsou suck in a breath through his teeth. “Can he… do you think he can hear us?”

“I can,” Izuku murmured, straining against an encroaching wooziness as Eraserhead’s vision swirled, as he twisted around his opponents, maneuvered with that fascinating weapon. “He’s still fighting.”

“Still? There are more of those guys? Hasn’t he already taken out like—”

“There are over a hundred,” said Izuku. He felt his nose wrinkle when Eraserhead’s gaze snapped towards Shigaraki. “Oh no.”

“What?” Shinsou’s voice had taken on a desperate edge. “What’s oh no? What is he—”

“He’s running towards Shigaraki. That’s… that can’t be good, he shouldn’t be doing that—”

“Who’s Shigaraki?” Shinsou hissed, and Izuku blinked out as a hand shook his shoulder, finding himself looking up into Shinsou’s narrowed gaze. “Hey, Phobos, who’s Shigaraki?”

“My boss,” said Izuku simply, tugging at his hood The Eye was still… present, still pressing at his skull, and that familiar detachment tugged at his thoughts enough to make him dizzy. “That’s my boss. He… Eraserhead is already tired, and while Shigaraki’s not the best at hand-to-hand he’s still competent, not to mention his quirk is… and if I’m correct, it looks like Eraserhead is blinking more often, so he won’t be able to cancel it out as effectively—”

“We have to go help him,” declared Shinsou, raising his chin. “We have to.”

“We shouldn’t.” Tsu sounded uncertain. “We’re just students.”

“But we have to.”

“I agree with Tsu,” Izuku muttered, flinching away from Shinsou’s vicious glare. “Look, Shigaraki isn’t… you don’t want to mess with him. You should just get back to the entrance. Let me take care of Eraserhead.”

“You know how that sounds, right?” asked Shinsou dryly. “When a villain says he’s going to take care of a hero? You have to know how that sounds.”

Another wince. “Sorry, I—”

“Oh for the love of- stop apologizing.”

“Shinsou,” said Tsu, and though there was barely a hint of admonishment in her voice the boy still stiffened. “He said he’s going to help us. We should listen to him.”

“He’s a villain,” Shinsou hissed, though with less intensity than before. “We shouldn’t trust a single thing he says.”

“I—” The Noumu. Oh dear god, the Noumu. Eraserhead didn’t stand a chance against that thing, not in his current state. Izuku turned, starting off towards the center of the USJ. “I don’t care. You guys can work it out amongst yourselves but I- I have to go.”

“Kero?”

“Wait, you can’t just- seriously?”

Distantly, Izuku heard the patter of footsteps against the hardpacked earth. Following him. Mistake, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now.

The more they neared the center, the more Izuku felt his mounting fear churn within his gut, burn in his palms, twist through his ribcage to reach slender fingers up his throat. He was drowning in it, constantly pushing down his quirk as it clamored for attention. The Eye still burned bright above them all, only second to the ever-present comfort of the Lonely. And fuck, but how Izuku wanted to sink into that blissful isolation right now. How he feared it, that knowledge that he could never be one of these people, that he would always be separate. That he was a hindrance, a danger. That he was better off alone.

He couldn’t hurt anyone ever again, if he was alone.

Izuku shook his head, forcing the Eye to the forefront. No time for indulgent fantasies right now.

He reached Shigaraki just in time to hear the hideous crack of breaking bone, an all-too-familiar noise that had the Flesh trembling through his arm in frightful sympathy.

Izuku saw the childish glee in Shigaraki’s face—never a good sign. Then his gaze was drawn to the hulking figure of the Noumu, the joyless grin across its beak, the vacant stare of its eyes as they rolled down towards whatever lay in its grasp—

That nausea returned, more potent than ever, at the mangled state of Eraserhead’s limbs. The crooked bones, pale white peeking out from beneath tattered flesh.

“Shigaraki,” said Izuku, unsurprised to find his voice hoarse.

Shigaraki whirled around, eyes narrowing. “Phobos. What are you doing here? I told you to stay out of my way… can’t even follow that order?”

He’d done a lot worse than that, but Izuku didn’t cower. Instead he took a breath, let the Eye swell between his temples with that cool impartiality, and stepped forward. “Shigaraki, a couple of the hero students escaped their zone. All Might isn’t here… we should leave.”

“Brat,” Shigaraki snarled, attention successfully diverted from Eraserhead—though of course the Noumu did not release its grasp. “We’re staying here until All Might shows up, and then I’m going to kill him.”

“There’s no guarantee of that happening—" Izuku cut himself off with a choked gasp as Shigaraki’s fingers found his throat.

“And who’s fault is that?” he hissed. “Your intel was bad, and now this whole raid is falling apart.”

Of all the things to die for, faulty information really wasn’t one he’d ever considered. Izuku was many things, but he was anything but incompetent when it came to gathering little scraps of knowledge, pulling it altogether into something coherent and… well, useful. Izuku needed to be useful.

“There must have been a mistake.” He tried to keep his voice even, but it was difficult with four fingers slowly squeezing around his windpipe. “Everything is- was accurate, something must have happened last minute that—”

“This is literally your one job, and you can’t even do that right,” Shigaraki snarled. “All of these villains suck, they’re level one at best, this hero just tore right through them!”

“I- you said you wanted… meat shields. I figured it didn’t matter.”

“You figured…” Shigaraki’s voice turned low, dangerous. That was bad. That was the tremble before an avalanche, the calm waters that had the Desolation burn like bubbling wax in anticipation of a thunderous storm. “You’re not supposed to think, Phobos. You’re supposed to follow orders like a good little Noumu.”

Izuku couldn’t breathe, and he wasn’t sure if that had anything to do with the fingers wrapped around his throat. “…what?”

When Shigaraki dropped him, his legs were unprepared to support his weight, instead sending him crumpling to his knees in a painful heap. Kurogiri, it seemed, had returned to relay even more bad news, but Izuku… Izuku couldn’t think for the buzzing in his ears, the sickening twist of his intestines as he stared at that- that thing that still stood practically on top of Eraserhead.

He wasn’t… Shigaraki was just trying to get a rise out of him, as usual. That had to be it. He must have- fuck, he must have seen how Izuku stared at the monster, seen the way he avoided its lifeless gaze and…

Shigaraki was not that clever. Izuku knew this with a certainty that only the Eye could grant him—Shigaraki would not have thought to levy that discomfort against him, would not have read into it in the same way that Sensei might have. Shigaraki could be smart yes, and even perceptive at times, but…

No. He’d meant it. Whatever the truth, Shigaraki had meant that.

Still something was tightening around his throat because he couldn’t breathe, the Eye widening as he realized with dreadful certainty that he’d always known this. He was just a thing. The doctor had made him. He used to be Midoriya Izuku, quirkless little nothing, but now he was… something else. Something less than nothing, less than human, closer to that creature as it shifted its hulking weight and splintered a few more bones with its carelessness.

Izuku shuddered. He was alone. Burdened with the knowledge that he could never be more than what we was created for.

Then, at the corner of his eye, he spotted movement. Tsu and Shinsou peaked up from beneath the water, staring wide-eyed at their teacher.

No. No.

Shigaraki seemed to notice a heartbeat later, and his words barely registered in Izuku’s ears past the droning pipes of the Slaughter as he surged forward, hand outstretched, and Izuku—

“I’m alone,” he whispered fervently, eyes locked on the girl, imagining with frightful clarity the way she’d fade to dust beneath that hand. “I’m alone, I’m alone, I will always be alone, no one will ever care for me, I’m alone—”

He reached out, felt the Lonely… lift from his shoulders, stretch out in wisps of fog and radio static that fled past Shigaraki, swirling around the girl until—

Gone. Shigaraki’s hand fell through space, and he was blinking down at nothing.

“I’m alone,” muttered Izuku, even as Shigaraki turned that baleful eye on him. “I’m alone.”

“Phobos…” he growled. “What did you do?”

God he was so afraid. Afraid of being seen, afraid of- of the table, of the doctor, of how he could never go home, and- and Izuku stood on trembling legs, looked Shigaraki dead in the eye, and snarled.

“I’m alone. I will always be alone.”

Shigaraki sneered, then gave a little huff. “Whatever. I’ll deal with you later… for now, let’s just kill this hero and get out of here.”

No.

The Eye opened wide, searing into his skull as he looked, as he drank in the terror of those students where they stood, scattered, around the facility. And the Lonely simmered beneath, twining itself with that dreadful watcher, blooming bursts of agony at his temples as he pushed his terror onto them, consumed them in its grasp.

Past the spots that swam in his vision Izuku saw the Noumu fall forward, clawed hands landing with a dull clatter on the brick path where before Eraserhead had been lying.

His skull was full of static, the Lonely stretched thin and tattered from his shoulders as the Eye strained against the weight of it all and Izuku… it was all he could do to stand there. To hold them in sickly-sweet isolation. To watch, half-blind, as Shigaraki took a menacing step towards him.

“What. Did you. Do.”

He couldn’t even answer—the words were caught in his throat, snuffed by swirling wind and garbled echoes until all that escaped was a choked exhale, a hiss and a mechanical whir that sounded suspiciously similar to his tape recorder.

Shigaraki eyed him for a long while, but Izuku didn’t have the wherewithal to gauge his expression—every beat of his heart was agony against the inside of his skull, outstretched arms trembling with the effort of it all as he- he just stood there and felt that suffocating fear wash over him in shuddering waves, pulling him down, down, down until he was drowning in it.

At last, Shigaraki huffed. Snapped his fingers with a vicious sneer. “Noumu.”

Ah. So this would be how Izuku died. Quiet, just barely audible past the deafening static of the Lonely, Izuku could hear the End squeeze gently around his heart.

Well. At least it would be quick. Probably.

The lifeless creature moved with a blinding speed, Izuku’s eyes too sluggish to even track it before—

Pain. White-hot pain, crashing through him, his awareness snapping around his temples in a dizzying bid for consciousness that he would no doubt lose.

As Izuku felt the world spin, as he felt his control snap, he could have sworn he heard a deafening explosion from somewhere in the facility.

Darkness overtook him.

Chapter Text

Near delirious with pain, exhausted, barely able to breathe with the monster crushing his chest into the ground—Shouta’s eyes snapped up into agonizing awareness as Shigaraki rushed forward, hand outstretched, eager to hurt his student and Shouta… he snarled with the effort of keeping his eyes open, of pinning Shigaraki with his quirk to keep him fangless because no one hurt his students—

Gone.

Shigaraki stumbled as Asui vanished. A sickening relief buzzed through Shouta’s skull, quickly accompanied by dizzying fear because where did she go? But no time, no time as his vision swam with pain and blood-loss and what was no doubt a nasty concussion, as Shigaraki turned towards him and—

Gone.

The weight disappeared from his back with a suddenness that had him wheezing, air flooding painfully into his battered lungs, the arm that the creature had held in its grasp falling limply to the dusty ground. Shouta bit back a shout as bone ground against bone, as his mangled arm landed with a dull thud that sent jarring tremors of agony splintering up through his veins.

Gone.

Shouta blinked, blearily taking in his surroundings. He was… still in the USJ. A new, empty USJ, with strands of mist and thick, humming fog hanging low across the ground, leaving pins and needles wherever it brushed against his skin. Biting back a groan, Shouta shifted, maneuvering himself to his knees and noting how sound echoed strangely, here, warped by the mist and that odd, whirring static that now pressed against his ears.

He… there were only a few possibilities. He needed to think rationally about this, to find the logic in this madness because that was the only way he’d be able to swallow down the rising panic in his gut.

Shouta stood, ignoring the way his head swam, how his vision spotted, the sharp jolts of pain when his arm swung uselessly at his side. “Asui,” he called, quiet, hearing a garbled mockery of his own voice whispering from the fog.

No response. There was… there was no one here.

Something strange clutched at Shouta’s chest, a sickening dread that only intensified with every pained, stuttering step. “Asui? Shinsou?”

Nothing but his words, weak and twisted. Alone.

What if I’m stuck here forever?

The thought tightened around his throat like a noose, left him suffocated by viscous dread before he realized that it was not his own.

Or… was it? Shouta was not prone to paralyzing bursts of fear, of such intense horror that he could feel himself choke on it, but… the thought was not entirely foreign.

Shouta was often alone. He preferred it, found others to be loud, or irritating, or quite frankly idiotic. And… he never did well in conversation, so it was just easier that way. Couldn’t make a fool of himself if there was no one to see him be foolish, and…

What if I’m always alone?

Sharp, stabbing terror that tore at his ribs, threatened to pry them open to wrap around the heart beneath. Shouta stumbled, gasping as he jostled his battered arms and wincing when the noise echoed harshly around him, every warbled shadow of his voice pounding at his skull.

Shouta breathed. Stopped where he stood. This isn’t real.

Because yes, Shouta often preferred to be alone, but that didn’t make him lonely. He wasn’t afraid of isolation, of quiet peace in solitude. None of that frightened him—in fact, he enjoyed it, so why—

I will always be alone.

Bitter, final, creeping up along his shoulders and smothering him in its embrace, and Shouta fell with a strangled cry, dry tears pricking at his eyes when bone shards splintered in his arms. It was- where was he? There had been… someone. Someone here, someone he was supposed to—

No. Obviously not. Here he was alone, and he would always be here.

Shouta gritted his teeth, head swimming with a looming concussion and… someone had given him that injury, right? Someone had- he was doing something—

But what was there to do?

Gone.

Shouta blinked at his surroundings, face screwing up in a dizzy confusion. Was this… was this the USJ? He didn’t remember it looking like this, all… misty, full of static that hurt his head and fuzzed his vision. There was… a crater, beneath him, cracked brick and shattered stone, and someone should get that fixed, shouldn’t they?

Someone should… he should call someone to… no, he could do it alone. That was the way of things, that was always the way of things because the only person he could trust was himself. Anything less was disaster, was a mistake, was watching one of the only friends he’d ever known collapse beneath rubble and twisted concrete—

Fuck. Fuck. Shouta growled, curling to press his forehead to his knee. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t him, he needed to… to think.

Because he couldn’t be friends with anyone if they were just going to die. Being a hero was dangerous. That was logic, that was a sick rationality that settled heavy in his lungs, but at least he couldn’t be hurt again.

No, he couldn’t think like that, that was what- he couldn’t do that again, after all this time he’d changed, he’d grown, he wasn’t the freshly graduated UA student scraping by on odd jobs and off hours, too tired to roll out of bed most days and too ‘busy’ to answer his friends’ frantic calls.

He wasn’t that anymore. He- he liked to be alone but he didn’t have to drown in it, didn’t have to numb himself to those around him because at any moment it could all be torn away.

Shouta was alone now, though. He liked that. Maybe. It was getting hard to think.

The buzzing was… he thought it was getting louder, but—

Gone.

“Where…” Shouta winced as his voice echoed strangely in the shifting fog, as he stared dazedly up at the domed ceiling above him and…

Huh. That was odd. He could have sworn…

He rolled over with a groan, biting back curses at the trembling pain in his battered arms. “How did I… when…?”

It was difficult to think, with the concussion. He had a concussion. That was new, right? Presumably, because concussions weren’t a normal thing to have.

This place was big. Roomy. A bit of a draft, honestly, but that was probably unsurprising.

Shouta stood with a wince, swaying on his feet for a moment before taking a hesitant step forward. “Hello?”

His own voice, distorted and alien, echoed back from all sides. Don’t know what I expected. Obviously there wouldn’t be anyone to answer him.

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t right, he couldn’t- he needed to—

Gone.

Why did his head hurt so much, his arms, his chest like he’d been slammed into the ground. Was there… blood? On his face? It smelled like blood, felt like blood, and that was fine because Shouta had long since learned to tend to his own wounds.

He reached up with his less injured arm, ignoring the bone-deep ache of purpling bruises and what were probably several hairline fractures as he ghosted cautious fingers over his cheek, hissing in pain where he prodded the welts, the bruises, the shifting bone. He brought his hand down slowly, carefully, sweeping across his jaw and brushing down towards his neck, meeting cold metal—

Shouta’s breath hitched, thick and gasping and shuddering in his lungs because this wasn’t right, none of this was right, he wasn’t- he couldn’t be alone, he had friends, and- and a husband and he wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t—

Gone.

Shouta blinked up at the fog, squinting through his headache, and whoa, that was quite a headache. What was he—

No, and Shouta clutched at the ring around his neck because this was not real, this was a quirk, this wasn’t real.

The cool metal band pressed against his palm, and Shouta ignored the blistering agony of his injured arm as he squeezed it tight. He wasn’t alone anymore. Hizashi was there, he loved Hizashi, and Shouta would never leave him.

The mist swirled around his legs, static pressing at his skin as he clutched the wedding ring with a mounting desperation. He- he didn’t want to forget again. He couldn’t- it was so quiet, and normally Shouta enjoyed that blissful silence but now? Right now, all he wanted was to hear his husband’s voice.

And, all at once, the fog lifted.

The headache lingered, but the ceaseless buzzing fell away as Shouta realized he could think again, and he jerkily released his hold on the ring with a sigh. Whatever relief that brought was quickly dashed by a burst of noise, dirt flying up to his side as a black blur flew through the corner of his eye. Shouta whipped around, head swimming as he saw that- that thing again, the beaked villain shrouded by a plume of dust. He couldn’t- fuck, it was getting hard to focus even without all that damned mist, but he couldn’t tell what it was doing—

A deafening explosion, all movement stilling for a breathless moment as the doors to the USJ burst inward with the creak of metal and the rumbling clatter of stone. Shouta tore his gaze away to look up, a nauseous sort of relief churning in his gut. All Might was here.

Took him long enough, damn it.

Chapter Text

“Interview in regards to the USJ incident, Detective Tsukauchi recording. Could you please…” Naomasa sighed, dragging a hand across his face. “Right. Sorry. Could you please state your name?”

The boy sitting across from him huffed, crossing his arms as he slouched further in his chair. “Bakugou Katsuki. What’s the point of this?”

Ignoring with practiced efficiency the little pinprick at his temple that marked that as true, Naomasa tapped his pen against his notepad and dutifully recited the script. “We need official statements from everyone so we can put together a more comprehensive report on what happened.”

Bakugou snorted, chin jutting up as he looked askance. “Right. What happened. You dumbasses can’t figure it out on your own, then?”

Naomasa sighed again, staring wistfully at his empty coffee mug. “Please, from the top? What do you remember?”

--

“It was, um.” Uraraka Ochako fiddled with her clothes, careful to keep one finger in the air as she smoothed out the wrinkles, then scrunched them up again. “We were just supposed to be doing a training exercise, right? And then the villains showed up… honestly I don’t really know what happened! I was just… I didn’t go in the warp gate, so…”

“I’m told that you helped Iida Tenya escape from the facility, is that correct?”

The girl reddened, ducking her head with a weak smile. “Uh. Yeah! Yeah, I guess I did, huh?”

Truth. Naomasa made a note of it. “That was very admirable of you. You’ll make a fine hero.”

Uraraka ducked even further, smile widening to something almost blinding.

--

“So…” Naomasa took a sip from his newly filled mug, mouth twisting at the bitter taste of cheap coffee. “You’re saying that you took down many of the villains single-handedly?”

Todoroki Shouto’s gaze was blank as ever as he nodded. “Yes. They weren’t very well trained.”

“…right. And, I know you said this before, but can you repeat what it is that they told you? For the record?”

“They said that they were here to kill All Might.”

Naomasa’s temple throbbed in time with his quirk. Truth.

“Thank you for telling me.”

--

The invisible girl, Hagakure Toru, fidgeted in her seat, gloves wringing about themselves. “I don’t really… I don’t know if I can talk about this right now.”

“That’s fine,” said Naomasa as encouragingly as he could muster. “But it might feel better to share.”

“No, I…” she trailed off with a bitter laugh. “Aw man. I don’t know. It was just… bad, you know? Like…” To his absolute horror, she began to sniffle. “I- I didn’t like it. It felt like such a long time…”

--

“How long were you in this… place?”

Bakugou scoffed. “Why does it matter? Judging by what was going on, it must’ve been a few seconds at most.”

Naomasa tapped his pen restlessly against the notepad with a frown. “Bakugou. How long was it for you?”

The boy huffed again, but Naomasa’s trained eye caught the way his fingers tightened against his arm.

--

“Oh, moi? But a few moments, I would think!”

Naomasa blinked at the boy, but Aoyama Yuga just maintained that blinding smile. Truth.

“I…” he hesitated for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. You’re saying that you only experienced this for a few seconds?”

“Oui.”

“That’s… everyone else reported longer…”

“Ah.” Aoyama’s grin stretched impossibly wider, and was that… was that glitter…? “Impossible to dull my sparkle, non?”

--

“Days.”

Naomasa couldn’t help the way his pen stilled, the stiffness in his shoulders as that rang true. “I’m…”

“It was days.” Shinsou Hitoshi still held himself rigid, still wouldn’t quite meet his gaze across the table. “I’m not lying.”

“I never said you were lying.”

He just barked out a humorless laugh, jaw tightening. “Whatever.”

--

“And you’re… sure there were no animals?”

Kouda nodded, head ducking as he signed his affirmation. Alone.

“Okay. Thank you.”

--

“There was a great darkness in that place.”

Naomasa felt his headache intensify, and resolved to take some aspirin before the next interview. “What… kind of darkness?”

Tokoyami Fumikage tilted his head, feathers ruffling slightly. “An ill omen. It was quite insidious, like poison in the ears.”

“…right.”

Tokoyami sighed, eyes falling closed briefly before they flashed open once more. “It felt like home, but in cruel reflection. A shattered mirror that cannot help but seem familiar.”

Would it be unprofessional to take that aspirin now? “Right.”

--

“I’m afraid I wasn’t even there.” Iida Tenya frowned, stiff-backed in his chair. “I believe I had already made it back to the main building at that point.”

“Of course,” said Naomasa gently, noting the way his shoulders tensed further. “That probably saved a lot of lives.”

The tension bled from him in increments, though he was still stiff. “I… thank you.”

--

The girl across from him sighed, fingers tensing and untensing where they rested against the table. From where he sat, Naomasa could make out the faint outline of a circular scar on the back of her hand, thin lines pale against the dark skin.

“I could’ve done more.”

“That wasn’t your responsibility.” Naomasa knew it was the wrong thing to say before the words even left his mouth. Arakawa Renaru scowled, fingers curling into a tight fist.

“I could’ve, though. I just- I wasn’t ready. For any of it.” She let out a strangled laugh as she rubbed a thumb against the back of her scarred hand. “Is it always like that? I… it was so fast. I couldn’t think.”

“You’re still a student.” Still a child. None of this should have happened, not at UA.

Arakawa huffed, mouth twisting in thought. “The strangest thing… that place wasn’t real, right? It didn’t… feel real. Or at least, didn’t feel right. Like I was dreaming. Only I couldn’t wake up.”

--

“It was… weird.”

“Weird?” prompted Naomasa. Asui Tsuyu stared back at him, tilting her head slightly.

“Yeah, it was… I guess it was uncomfortable. It was hard to think about anything, but I think… kero.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “I guess I just thought of my siblings. And that helped.”

--

“I’m an only child.” Yaoyorozu Momo, recommended student, curled an arm around herself uncomfortably. “And I’ve never… I was tutored at home.”

Naomasa felt his brow wrinkle, unsure of what this had to do with the question. “That must have been… hard.”

“It was a wonderful opportunity for my education,” she replied evenly, “but I’m afraid I’ve never made many meaningful connections with people my own age. I believe that had something to do with it.”

That actually… made a lot of sense. Naomasa sipped at his mug, pulling a face when he found it lukewarm. “Smart thinking. I can see why you’re a recommended student.”

She blushed, and reached up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “Ah, well. It’s just… logic, I suppose.”

--

Kaminari Denki grinned back at him from across the table. “Oh, it was super crazy in there, but I kind of barely remember it? I was a little short-circuited.”

Naomasa felt his eye twitch. “Short… circuited?”

“Yeah, you know!” A crackle of electricity ran along the boy’s hand, as if in demonstration. “When I use my quirk too much I kind of just, fizz out? In the head? So I don’t think it affected me that much.”

--

“It was wild, there was all this mist everywhere, and my head was, like, buzzing?”

“Name for the record?” asked Naomasa wearily, and the girl beamed.

“Oh yeah, sorry! Ashido Mina. But anyway it was so weird, but I guess I only saw it for like a minute at most, then I heard, like, Ochako I think? Oh, um, that’s Uraraka. Do you need to know that…?”

“We have her statement as well.”

“Great! I hope she was okay, she looked a little queasy, but I don’t know if that was her quirk, or…”

--

“I thought about my parents, I guess?” Uraraka fidgeted, fingers tight around her phone. “It was weird like… like I’d almost forgotten about them. I guess it’s… I’ve kind of had to find my own place so I could even go to UA, and I guess I haven’t… seen them in a while.”

Naomasa nodded, desperate to avoid another situation like the one with Hagakure. With a sigh, Uraraka slouched in her chair.

“I… think I should visit them.”

--

“I’m not a weak-ass little extra like the rest of them. I can handle myself.”

“It’s a simple enough question, Bakugou.”

A small crackle burst from his clenched hand, and he scowled. “Whatever. Why does it even matter? It’s not like it was real.”

“It matters,” said Naomasa wearily, “because we’re trying to nail down the particulars of this quirk. So far we’ve had several… conflicting reports.”

Bakugou scoffed. “What, so no one can figure it out? It’s obvious.”

“If you have any ideas, I’m all ears.”

--

“It made them, just, fucking shit.” Shinsou winced, eyeing him cautiously as he tugged a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Naomasa tried for a reassuring grin, but it didn’t seem to help. “I’m just here to figure out what happened.”

“I didn’t do it. My quirk doesn’t work like that.”

“I know, Shinsou-san, I’ve read your file.”

Another wince, more obvious than the last. “Right. Uh. The kid he… I think he was singing. Asui told me we should cover our ears, because he’d… he’d motioned to her that we should. I don’t know what would have happened if we hadn’t because…”

“You did. That’s what matters.”

Shinsou looked unconvinced. “I guess. They…” his voice dropped to a low whisper, chin ducking slightly. “They just tore each other apart.”

--

“I don’t know. There were a lot of villains, but we managed to take them.” Jirou Kyouka fiddled with one of her earlobes, twirling it around a finger. “They must not have been very strong. I mean, we had Yaoyorozu but we also had Kaminari, you know?”

“Of course,” said Naomasa hesitantly, unsure how to navigate these classroom dynamics. High school. “So you overpowered them?”

“Kind of.” Jirou frowned. “We thought we did. Then this punk comes up from beneath the ground, grabs Kaminari… I…” she faltered, wincing after a particularly harsh tug at her earlobe. “Man. We didn’t know what to do. I guess it’s a good thing that… whatever that was, it’s a good thing that it happened when it did.”

--

“So…” Naomasa braced himself. Tokoyami seemed a mature enough kid, but he wasn’t sure if he could handle another crying fest and this question hadn’t landed well all day. “How long were you in there?”

He tilted his head, feathers ruffling slightly. “A minute, perhaps?”

Naomasa couldn’t help the widening of his eyes. “Oh. Okay. That’s good.”

“I thought of my family.” The boy rolled his eyes slightly. “They are… quite stifling, but mean well. They do not understand the darkness that lurks inside of me… however, my mother does make delectable pancakes in the morning. I suppose I smelled those, through that oppressive fog.”

Screw this. Naomasa fished through his bag for a bottle of aspirin, nodding all the while. “Right. Of course.”

--

“Did you catch him?”

Naomasa tried not to flinch under Todoroki’s piercing gaze, because this was a child. He had no right to look so… intense. “Which—”

“That large villain. The… Noumu?”

“He was taken into custody, yes,” said Naomasa slowly. “All Might managed to defeat him, and—”

“I know. I was there.”

“Right. And you… helped with that?”

“My assistance was needed,” he huffed, crossing his arms. “So yes, I helped.”

Naomasa cleared his throat, staring down at his notepad. “Noumu was arrested, as were all of the other villains. The only ones who escaped were the warp-gate villain, Kurogiri, and the ringleader, Shigaraki. This is… all public information.”

Todoroki’s gaze did not waver. “Of course.”

--

“The boy. Did you see him?”

Kirishima Eijirou’s nose wrinkled. “Uh, can you be more specific? There were a lot of people.”

“When you went to help All Might, did you see a boy? With green hair? He would have been lying on the ground.”

“Oh, yeah!” Kirishima smiled wide, teeth sharp and gleaming. “Yeah, I think I saw him! Someone dragged him back, I think it was Asui… and maybe Aizawa-sensei?” His expression faltered for a moment. “They both looked… pretty bad. Aizawa and that boy, I mean. Are they okay?”

“Aizawa is making a full recovery, and I’m afraid I can’t disclose much else.” Naomasa kept his expression steady as Kirishima’s face fell.

“Right, hah, I guess that’s fair.”

--

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bakugou grumbled. “It dropped us in a- maybe a pocket dimension, or just a parallel dimension, I don’t know the fucking sciencey explanation, but the time we spent there was specifically dependent on whether or not we felt attached to the real world. Through relationships or whatever.”

Naomasa blinked. “That’s… that’s actually the current running theory. How did you come up with it?”

“Talked to Shitty Hair, plus some of the other extras. Wasn’t hard.”

“Sh… could you please, just, for the record—”

“Kirishima,” he snapped. “Can I leave now?”

--

“It was a familiar experience,” murmured Shouji, voice slightly muffled behind the mask. “Not enjoyable. But familiar. Luckily I’ve… changed a lot, since then. Found people who care about me.”

“I’m glad.”

Shouji shrugged. “It was still unpleasant. I wouldn’t wish to go through it again.”

--

“Dude, All Might? When he came in? Man, I thought I was going to cry, it was like, like finally we were gonna be safe, you know?”

Naomasa smiled at Sero Hanta, ignoring the way that twisted uncomfortably in his gut, that deadly knowledge that All Might wasn’t quite as unshakeable as he appeared. “And you were safe?”

“Yeah! He punched that villain into the sky, it was so cool.”

--

“If All Might hadn’t come, we would have died,” said Todoroki. “Or, at the very least, several of us would be dead.”

“We can’t know that for sure.”

Todoroki leveled him with a dubious stare. “I may have been able to fend off that Noumu creature, but that in combination with the warp villain and the powerful quirk of their leader, plus the remaining thugs scattered throughout the facility, would have proven enough to overwhelm us. Aizawa-sensei, at the very least, would be dead. Judging by the sequence of events, All Might arrived just as we were released from that quirk.”

“And…” Naomasa hesitated. “How long were you in that quirk?”

Todoroki stiffened. “Difficult to say.”

“Todoroki-kun—”

“It is difficult. To say.”

--

“I don’t understand how someone could have two quirks,” muttered Shinsou, and Naomasa tried to ignore the way that made his blood curdle.

“We aren’t making any assumptions at this time.”

Shinsou scoffed. “I’m not even talking about that- that place. The kid, he- Phobos. That’s what he said his name was. Anyway, after he did… that, with the villains, we talked to him for a bit. And then he… we were arguing about whether or not to go help Aizawa-sensei.”

Naomasa bit back a sigh. Hero students. Why did it seem like they could never follow instructions.

“Phobos,” continued Shinsou hesitantly, “he said he could ‘look in’ on Aizawa-sensei. Said it was part of his quirk.”

Naomasa felt a headache splinter through his skull. “Can you tell me what, specifically, he—”

“I don’t know. He just… he closed his eyes, and when he opened them, it was…” Shinsou wrinkled his nose. “Just light. Faint light, like his eyes were glowing slightly, and it was… it was like his eyes rolled back.”

“And he… saw Eraserhead.”

“I guess? It seemed like he did. He said he was fighting, then going after… Shigaraki. And he said that was bad.”

Naomasa tapped thoughtfully at his notepad. “Did he explain why?”

“Not… really.” Shinsou huffed, looping an arm around himself. “Just, that Shigaraki was strong. I guess he… he sounded afraid of him.”

--

“I’m not weak.”

Naomasa sighed. “I never said you were. I’m just asking—”

“You don’t need to know that.” Bakugou leaned back further in his chair, threatening to tip it. “Not like it fucking matters anyway.”

“It would be useful to the investigation.”

“Tch.” The front two chair legs lifted from the ground before falling back with a loud clang. “Where is he.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“The- the guy, who was there. I saw him. Where is he.”

Naomasa closed his notebook with a frown. “That information is not available to the—”

“Bullshit,” he snarled, slamming his hand on the table. “Tell me where he is, and I’ll tell you your stupid thing.”

“Bakugou…” Naomasa pinched his nose. “This isn’t… we’re not making a deal, here. I’m gathering this information so we can help you.”

Bakugou bared his teeth. “You can help by telling my where—”

“Do you know him? Did you… recognize him, from somewhere?”

He bristled, spitting rage simmering to something more contained as he leaned back in his chair with a  scowl. “No.”

Naomasa’s temple throbbed. Lie.

Chapter Text

Izuku was dreaming.

He knew this, could feel the pull of his unconscious mind, but he couldn’t… he couldn’t do anything with that knowledge. The Web, familiar and constant, snared his limbs in wire and spider-thread, pulling him through a mockery of reality that blurred at the edges like a polaroid with poor exposure.

Fading beneath the darkness, drowning in murk and grit as he watched his limbs move against his will, but to a script he knew all too well.

And suddenly he was eight years old.

No, he thought, because thought was the only thing left to him, the only thing he could control as he was dragged through the steps of this dance. I don’t want to do this again.

Desire had no bearing, here. So Izuku was eight years old, and he had just lost his mother. Izuku was eight years old, and his childhood bedroom was up in flames. Izuku was eight years old. He was more scared than he’d ever been in his life.

Not for long, thought Izuku bitterly, and wasn’t that strange? How there existed a version of him that thought, this is it. This is the worst it can be. How he was no longer that scared little kid wandering down dingy alleyways, hiding behind dumpsters, clutching at a grumbling stomach because he hadn’t quite learned that beggars couldn’t be choosers. That kid was dead, now.

Would Izuku be dead, in time? Surpassed by someone wearing the same face, the same name—but not him. Always Not-Him.

Just like he was not this eight-year-old child, sniffling in the rain, huddled beneath a tattered shirt that still stunk of ash and singed hair. He’d been lucky, then. A few other homeless people took pity on him, gave him the clothes they could spare. It wasn’t much, but at least it didn’t remind him of his father’s blistering flames, of the burns that still stung harshly on his forearms wherever they brushed against the fabric.

That was the last time he’d be lucky. Izuku felt time pass him by in the dizzying manner of dreams, slowly and all at once like the snap of a rubber band. Older now, but not by much—and now Izuku was tired. Bitter. Angry, but not in a manner that spurred him towards any action. It was the slow, spiteful kind of anger, the kind that settled on the shoulders and nipped at the ankles, that dragged him down, down, down until he’d more than worn out his welcome, and the few adults whose patience hadn’t yet run dry had less and less to share with him.

Izuku was desperate. A familiar feeling, a sort of scrabbling against the inside of the chest that left him queasy. A few of the kinder adults gently suggested that he seek out an orphanage or some kind of child services, but every time Izuku caught his father’s face on the news he felt sick, he remembered the harsh, smoke-bitten breaths as he ran out into the night, the terror of hearing his mother scream.

Strange. He was not that person anymore, and yet he could still remember it. Feel it, tingling along his old scars.

Izuku knew he couldn’t tell anyone who he was, because then his father would find him. And no one would believe him because he was quirkless and always started fights and cried far too much. Because his father was a grownup with a nice quirk and a kind face, and everyone always listened to what he had to say.

No one would believe him, because Midoriya Izuku was a nothing, and Midoriya Hisashi was a hero.

In the dream, Izuku found himself in front an older woman, face worn with age beyond her years by a life on the streets, in and out of shelters. She was quirkless. Most of the people he knew were, back then.

She was talking, but her lips didn’t move—or perhaps they did, blurring together in a strange facsimile of motion that rippled across his vision. No sound rolled off her tongue, and still Izuku knew what it was that she had said.

An offering. A chance to earn what he needed, instead of picking it from pockets or relying on the unpredictable kindness of strangers.

Izuku felt the Web lift his limbs, felt it drag him forward through this limp charade until he was eight years old, going on nine, and huddled next to a few other faceless people he should have known, waiting in the rain for a meeting that Izuku didn’t want to happen. He imagined he could feel it, through the foresight of dreams, imagined he could sense the malice rolling off the man in shadowed waves as he stepped from his car, greeting them with a smile that held far too many teeth.

But Izuku was cold, and hungry, and desperate, and no one would ever believe a quirkless little thing like him.

So instead of shuddering, Izuku felt his mouth stretch wide into a smile of his own, felt his arm tugged jerkily forward as he struggled against the number’s inevitable conclusion.

A hand reached towards his. Wolf’s smile bearing down on him, and Izuku couldn’t help but feel like prey.

But when had he not? Midoriya Izuku was small, and weak, and useless. Midoriya Izuku could do nothing against his father, hadn’t had the decency to stand by his mother in death.

Midoriya Izuku was worthless. Same as the crowd of faceless bodies that pressed in around him, all quirkless and desperate and looking for something to drag them from this horrible despair. Work, money, anything. Izuku was so lonely, even then. He felt as if the world could swallow him whole and nobody would be bothered.

Don’t take the hand, but it was pointless. Izuku could scream and rage and curse behind this porcelain mask and his lips would not so much as twitch. It isn’t worth it. It isn’t worth this.

Maybe if he’d had a quirk his mother would still be alive.

Izuku took the hand, felt fingers grow impossibly tight around his wrist, joints popping and cracking and he couldn’t even scream, still trapped behind that doll’s face and Izuku- the man was dragging Izuku forward, forward into the darkness and he couldn’t see and he was scared, and suddenly it was cages, and needles, and low moans of pain that left him clawing at his ears because it just wouldn’t stop—

The Eye, peeling open overhead, and Izuku found himself lost in its uncaring gaze, found himself screaming for someone, anyone to find him, help him, because heroes existed in this world and not all of them could be as rotten as his father.

But he’d forgotten, hadn’t he? The Lonely crooning sweetly in his veins and he was worthless, remember? No one would come for him because no one cared. Izuku looked around at all these people and knew that no one would come for them, either. That they had been cast aside. That they had lost everything.

Everything, and the Desolation burned at his palms, because his father took everything from him until his world was pain and despair and he couldn’t—

In the dream, Izuku tried to cry. Could feel the thickness of it in his throat, clogging up his nose as he whimpered in the cold darkness.

No one heard him.

When Izuku awoke it was with a start and a shudder, a dry sob stifled on his lips as his eyes flared open, only to immediately flutter shut once more at the bright light.

“He’s awake.”

Izuku didn’t recognize that voice. He forced his eyes open, blinked away the spots and pinprick tears, reaching up to wipe them away—

A clink, when his hands were met with stubborn resistance. Izuku’s vision was a kaleidoscopic blur of color as his eyes darted hastily towards his sides and found thick cuffs securing him to the bed.

The bed. The medical bed.

No, no, no he couldn’t, not right now, please he needed more time to ready himself he couldn’t—

“Whoa, hey, kid, just calm down—”

His chest burned with rasping breaths, with the Desolation pricking against the inside of his skin but—distant, somehow. Separate. As if he was feeling it through layers of muffled fabric, and fuck were these suppressor cuffs? Why did they need him in suppressor cuffs--?

“Listen to me, just breathe. You’re not in danger, everything’s fine. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Izuku hadn’t realized that he’d closed them, but whoever this strange voice was, he was right. He’d rather see what was going to happen than be forced to fumble in the dark—his need to know, to drag his suffering into the light no matter how painful, that had always been what gave him such an affinity for the Eye.

So he opened his eyes. It was still bright, but not quite so blinding as before, and as Izuku’s breath hitched and stuttered against his ribs his eyes locked on the only other figure in the room.

Eraserhead stared back at him, one arm loosely hanging in a sling at his chest while the other rested in his lap, wrapped in clean white bandages. He sat, slumped in a chair at the foot of the bed, a few plasters stuck to his face and peeking out from beneath his collar but otherwise whole.

“Where…” Izuku winced at the harshness of his voice, how it scratched painfully against his throat like smoke. He coughed, and Eraserhead let out a weary sigh.

“Water’s next to you, kid. You should be able to reach it.”

“R… right.” His breathing was still erratic, but it was rapidly calming as Izuku began to piece together what the hell had just happened. Upon closer examination, he realized that Eraserhead was right—the cuffs restricted his movement, but there was enough length that he was able to reach the glass of water on the table next to him. He brought it to his chest, felt the cool press of glass against his palms as he stared down at the rippling liquid.

“You know,” said Eraserhead with no inflection, “you’re supposed to drink it.”

“I- I know.” Fuck that hurt, like knives along his throat, but instead of raising it to his lips Izuku examined the IV slipped beneath the skin at the crook of his elbow. Logically he knew that, if they wanted to poison him, they could’ve already done it. That did nothing to allay his fears.

Another sigh. The rustle of fabric, and Izuku couldn’t help but cringe.

“Not gonna hurt you, kid. Give me the glass.”

Izuku’s gaze slid up, looked over his outstretched hand, his open posture, his blank expression. Warily, he handed it over, pressing it into his hands and pulling away just as quickly so as to avoid brushing against him.

 Eraserhead made direct eye contact with him and took a sip. Izuku couldn’t help the shocked tightening of his shoulders, the way his eyes widened almost imperceptibly at such a brazen display of- of trust? Was this trust? Carelessness, maybe?

Either way, the hero didn’t drop dead, or spit it out into a nearby plant, so… when Eraserhead handed the glass back, Izuku took it with less trepidation and raised it to his own lips.

The relief was instant and intoxicating. He greedily drank down the whole glass, gasping as it soothed his ragged throat.

“Thanks,” he croaked. Eraserhead just grunted, collapsing back into his chair. Izuku squirmed at the silence, punctuated only by the dull tick of a clock and the faint drip of liquid in his IV. “What…” he said at last, wincing as Eraserhead’s sharp gaze returned to him. “What happened?”

Eraserhead stared. Blinked. At last he reached up to scratch his chin with a sigh. “Let’s cut to the chase. You’re a member of the League of Villains, correct?”

The dryness returned to his mouth, but there was no water to soothe it. “Yes.”

“Great. And how old are you again?”

“Uh…” Izuku hunched his shoulders, looking back down at the needle in his arm. “I’m, uh, eighteen.”

“Kid…” Eraserhead let out the most exhausted sigh yet, pinching at the bridge of his nose with his good hand. “Fine. You got a name?”

“…Phobos.”

“That’s not—” He huffed, settled back impossibly further in his chair. “Okay. Okay. Fine.” Silence again, only this time Eraserhead was the one to break it with a dry chuckle. “God of fear, huh?”

Izuku shrugged. “It fits.”

“I bet. What kind of quirk is that, kid?”

“It’s, uh, a complicated one?”

“Right. That’s what you told Asui.”

Izuku started, eyes darting up to meet Eraserhead’s. “Asu- uh, Tsu, or- whatever, is she okay? Are they- what happened to—”

“Slow down. They’re all fine. You were…” Eraserhead hesitated, scratching at his jaw again. “You were the most severely injured.”

“…oh.” That explained the ache in his bones, the lingering weakness that made it difficult to so much as drink a glass of water. “That’s… good.”

Eraserhead raised a brow. “That you were injured?”

“Wha- no! Obviously not that, I just- it’s good that no one was… hurt.”

“Right,” said Eraserhead dubiously. “None of the students were harmed beyond a few scrapes and bruises. Besides you, both Thirteen and I were seriously injured… along with several villains in the flood zone.”

Izuku paled. “Uh-huh.”

“Care to explain that?”

“I, uh… no, actually. I would not.”

“Of course.” Eraserhead leaned back with a groan. “Look, kid, you’re not giving me a lot to go on here. You understand that, right? This looks bad. For you.”

“…yeah.”

“This is two criminal acts, both of them against UA. And that’s not counting the stalking thing from a few nights ago.”

“I- I wasn’t stalking—”

“Okay. Sure,” said Eraserhead with a huff. “My mistake. You just happened to have a camera pointed in my general direction while crouched on a rooftop at three in the morning. Could’ve happened to anyone.”

“I just needed your eyes,” muttered Izuku blearily. “I- if you didn’t wear those stupid goggles then I wouldn’t’ve had to—”

“Hold up. My eyes?”

“For… for my quirk.” Izuku ducked his head with a wince. “It, uh, needs eye contact. For some things.”

He shouldn’t be saying this. He’d already disobeyed enough—spilling Sensei’s secrets like this might actually get him murdered. Although… maybe he was past that point, anyway.

“Kid. Phobos. Whatever.” Eraserhead considered him for a moment before dragging a hand across his face with a groan. “Kid’s got a villain name. Of course he does. Can you please give me a real name?”

“Uh… D-Deku.” God, that was terrible. Better than Midori though, which had been his first instinct, so…

“Deku,” said Eraserhead dryly, brow raising at Izuku’s aborted flinch. “Right. Well. It’s better than Phobos, so I’ll take it.”

Izuku couldn’t say he agreed. “It’s- I’d prefer Phobos.”

“Well I’d prefer a real name, so I guess we’re both going to be disappointed.”

He couldn’t help it—Izuku let out a startled laugh. “Hah, that’s. That’s funny.”

Eraserhead just gave another sigh, standing with a stiff roll of his shoulders. “I’m never funny. Now that you’re awake, I’ll bring the detective in here.”

Any good humor was squeezed out of him, tightening around his throat. Izuku swallowed, trying to dispel the dryness in his mouth. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

“No one’s going to hurt you,” said Eraserhead as he walked towards the door.

“Why do you keep saying that?” muttered Izuku, quiet enough that he thought it was beneath his breath, although the frown on Eraserhead’s face would indicate otherwise. Shit. Maybe he had a concussion or something? His head did hurt…

The door opened, and Izuku’s eyes snapped up to appraise the newcomer—an unassuming man in a long, tan trench coat, hat held in his hand to reveal black hair that had clearly once been combed. Long day, presumably.

“This is Detective Tsukauchi,” said Eraserhead dully as the detective took a seat. “He’s just going to be asking you a few questions.”

“Am I…” Izuku’s gaze flitted over to Eraserhead where he now leaned against the wall, watching with what could be a bored expression if not for the strain of the Eye beyond the suppressor cuffs. Tsukauchi removed his coat to hang it on the back of his chair, prompting Izuku’s attention to shift back to him. “Am I under arrest?”

Eraserhead snorted, and Tsukauchi gave a gentle smile. “Why don’t we decide that after you answer a few questions?”

Great. So he was definitely under arrest. If he could just get out of the cuffs, maybe he could pull the Lonely around his shoulders and get out of here. Izuku tugged uselessly at the restraints with an exaggerated wince. “Uh, if I’m not under arrest, could I maybe—”

“So you can disappear again?” Eraserhead snorted incredulously. “Kid, do you think we’re stupid?”

…yes? “No, of course not! I just- it kind of hurts, and—”

“First question,” cut in Tsukauchi, firm but not unkind. “What is your name?”

For a second, Izuku almost expected something to accompany that, like the aching compulsion of the Eye, but there was nothing save the detective’s open smile. “Um. Phobos.”

“Okay. Can you tell me your real name?”

“No.”

A frown briefly pulled at Tsukauchi’s lips before his expression evened once more. “Can you tell me why?”

“…” The name Midoriya was recognizable enough, no doubt. Even just his first name might raise questions, especially if they managed to find an image from his childhood—besides a taller, lankier frame and the obvious addition of a roiling box of terrors masquerading as a quirk, Izuku knew he hadn’t changed much appearance-wise. He could tell the detective that, in theory. He could do a lot of things.

Izuku wasn’t in the habit of running into fire. He knew too well how hot it burned.

When he took too long to answer the detective only nodded, looking down to flip through his notes. “Okay. That’s fine, we can circle back to it. So, how did you come into contact with the League of Villains?”

Izuku just blinked back at him. He seriously thought, if he wouldn’t even share his name, that he would reveal something like that? Sure, he was absolutely screwed whenever Sensei decided to retrieve him, but that didn’t mean he had to be an idiot about it.

“…okay. We can circle back to that one too.” Tsukauchi exchanged a glance with Eraserhead, who just shrugged. Clearing his throat, the detective flipped to a new page. “How about this, then. Are you working there of your own volition?”

“Uh…” Izuku coughed. “What do you mean?”

“He’s asking if you want to work with them, kid,” cut in Eraserhead.

Obviously not. But what Izuku wanted hadn’t mattered in a very, very long time. Best not to give them a reason for suspicion, that would probably please Sensei the most. “Yes. I want to work with them.”

The detective paused at that, jotting something down before flipping to a new page, and that was enough to set Izuku’s fingers twitching because even with the Eye restrained like this he still needed to know what was written there, needed to see it, devour it—

“Are they threatening you in any way?”

Besides the constant risk of quirk training? “No.”

“Hurting you?”

Shigaraki’s actions alone would no doubt qualify. “No.”

“And how old are you?”

Izuku sighed. “Eighteen.”

“Right.” Tsukauchi scribbled down a few more notes before lifting his head again. “Let’s talk about your quirk.”

Izuku stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why?” Ah, there was the return of that easy smile, and the Stranger prickled at the hinge of his jaw when he realized it wasn’t quite as natural as it had first appeared. A mask.

“Because I don’t want to.”

“It’s just an interesting quirk is all,” said Tsukauchi easily, and now that he was on the lookout Izuku could see it, the twitches of his face behind that splintering porcelain. “I’d like to know more about it.”

Izuku breathed. Forced the Stranger down for a moment to bask in the stillness of the Eye once more, infusing himself with that cool, terrifying indifference that often overtook him as Confession. Weaker now with the cuffs, of course, but he could still feel it faintly pressed against his skull.

He smiled. Pulled it taught, twisted to something less than natural. Tilted his head at just the wrong angle and felt his eyes go a little too glassy. “I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

Tsukauchi shuddered, and Izuku tried not to revel in that.

Tapping his pen against the notepad—nervous tic, Izuku realized—the detective hastily changed tact.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you or… deceive you in any way. I just don’t want to overwhelm you.”

And that did burn in his lungs, because really? This man expected him to believe that? Besides, as if Izuku could be overwhelmed by something as simple as a question from this man when he had experienced terror beyond imagining to become the thing that sat in his skin.

Izuku’s smile tightened before it fell. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Right.” The detective cleared his throat. “Right. Well, how many quirks do you have?”

Izuku forced a laugh at that. “One, obviously. Everyone has one quirk.”

Tsukauchi frowned. “But yours appears to be quite multifaceted.”

Izuku shrugged. “I suppose that depends on your own perspective. It feels like one quirk to me.”

“Seems like a powerful quirk.”

“I guess. Sometimes.”

“What’s it called?”

Izuku hesitated. He’d never given the overarching quirk a name, never felt the need to, really, when he’d so neatly divided it into its own separate categories. It was just his quirk. It didn’t need a name. He wasn’t sure there was a name that could fit.

“Phobia,” he said at last, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice.

Tsukauchi hummed thoughtfully, staring down at his notepad. “Phobia and Phobos. It seems you have a theme.”

“Always good to build you brand,” Izuku croaked.

“Of course. So it’s fear related, then?”

“It’s complicated. I’m not going to waste time explaining it to you.”

“Ouch,” said Tsukauchi agreeably. He flipped through his notebook again, tapping his pen against the paper for a long while until at last he sighed.

The shift was harsh and immediate, the Stranger snapping in his bones as the detective straightened, leaned forward, honed his gaze to something sharp and stiflingly professional.

“Before,” he said in a clipped tone, a far cry from the affable good nature he wore a few seconds ago, “you said that everyone has one quirk. That was a lie.”

Izuku felt his heart stutter in his chest. “What? No, it wasn’t.”

“Lie.”

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t lying—”

“Lie.”

“I—” Izuku felt his breath hitch, desperately fought to manage the stabbing panic in his lungs. “Stop. I wasn’t lying. I was just- I mean, it’s true, isn’t it? Everyone has—”

“Lie. Kid…” Tsukauchi sighed, as if Izuku were just trying his patience. “That’s a lie. Stop lying.”

“I’m not,” Izuku snapped, snarled, feeling the Hunt curl tight in his gut as he backed into a huddled corner. “Leave me alone.”

“Do you want me to read your rap sheet, kid? Just from the USJ incident, we have fifteen counts of assault, we have breaking and entering, we have illegal quirk use, we have—”

“Your quirk,” Izuku muttered, and again the Eye burned against the restraints. “Your quirk lets you detect—”

“Worry about yourself. You’re looking at jail time, and a lot of it. They won’t go easy on you just because you’re a minor—”

“Fine. I don’t care. Send me to jail, then.”

That seemed to startle the detective out of this new mask, and Izuku watched with keen interest as the cracks began to spread. “…what?”

“I said,” Izuku smiled. “Send me to jail, then. Because I. Don’t. Care.”

“You will,” insisted Tsukauchi, a click of his pen revealing his nerves. “Kid, I don’t think you understand—”

“Oh, I understand what a prison cell looks like, detective.” Izuku let his smile turn sharp, let it fill with too many teeth. “And stop calling me a kid.”

“I—” Tsukauchi cut himself off with a final click, standing to turn towards Eraserhead. “Can we talk?”

The hero just nodded, and the two left the room.

Alone again. That was comfortable. Would have been better without the suppressants, but Izuku could make do.

He narrowed his eyes at the closed door before turning his attention to the cuffs. Come to think of it, maybe something could be done about that.

Chapter Text

“I don’t think he told the truth once.”

Shouta just sighed, leaning against a wall in the unused room they’d found. “Your deductive reasoning never fails to impress.”

The hero watched with mild amusement as Tsukauchi ran his fingers through his already mussed hair. “Eraser, he just- he lied about being there willingly.”

“You didn’t have to tell me that.”

“He lied about them hurting him.”

“Again,” said Shouta, crossing his arms. “You didn’t have to tell me that. The kid wouldn’t drink water until I’d taken a sip first.”

It was as if Tsukauchi hadn’t even heard him, striding forward to pace the length of the small room. “Do you want to know what he told the truth about, Eraser? One of the only things? Knowing what the inside of a cell looks like.”

Shouta sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thud. “You know,” he said wearily, “I would have assumed that you were used to people lying to you by now. Seeing as how you deal with criminals and all.”

“Most of the people I deal with aren’t children.”

Shouta snorted. “Wow. Sounds nice.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s kind of funny.”

“That kid is in deep shit, Eraserhead.”

Shouta’s mouth twisted, and he looked away with a wince. “Sorry. Underground hero. You… see a lot of it.”

“I know,” said Tsukauchi, more softly than before. “I know. I just… something about this isn’t right.”

“Obviously.” Shouta watched the detective through narrowed eyes. “But that’s not what’s bothering you.”

Tsukauchi stiffened, before relaxing with a sigh and a sheepish laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“Underground hero.”

“Right. Well…” He hesitated in the manner of someone who was about to pick out pieces of the truth in hasty offering, a look and tone that Shouta knew well. “There’s a bit of a rumor, I’m sure you’ve heard of it in underground circles, but… it’s a villain who can steal quirks.”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Shouta dismissively, ignoring the dread pulling at his gut. “It’s a ghost story. Someone like that either never existed, or is long since dead.”

Tsukauchi laughed again, fingers running over the brim of his hat where it was clutched in his hands. “No, it’s definitely real. Or at least… based in reality. And I think that kid might know something about it.”

“This personal, detective?” asked Shouta pointedly. “Because—”

“I know. And it’s not.” Shouta didn’t need a quirk to tell him that was a lie. Tsukauchi let out a shaky exhale. “Look, I’m a professional. I’m just going to do my job, and my job involves following every lead I can. This kid… all of the other villains we interviewed, they all said that it was this kid who convinced them to tag along. They aren’t even part of the League, not really.”

Shouta huffed. “He’s not exactly criminal mastermind material. You should’ve seen him when he woke up—thought he was going to have a heart attack right there.”

“Powerful quirk,” muttered Tsukauchi. “Quirks, maybe, we don’t know. He’s definitely there against his will, they’re definitely threatening him with something… so why? Just for his quirk? From what we’ve seen it’s… powerful, but not quirk trafficking powerful.”

“The ability to disappear? To make others disappear? To… compel violence, somehow?” Shouta snorted. “I’d consider that traffickable.”

Tsukauchi didn’t look too sure. “Maybe. But—”

“Have you seen the villains from the flood zone? I think most of them are down the hall.”

“Yes, obviously yes, but- well, that’s a volatile quirk, isn’t it? And being able to just—” he snapped his fingers “—disappear? How do you contain someone like that?”

That… was actually a good point. He imagined that kidnapping a child who could literally vanish at a moment’s notice would be exceptionally difficult. “You convince them that they can’t escape.”

“How? If it’s after the quirk came in, then how do you convince them of that? A child with no control of their quirk would just panic and run anyway, probably activating their quirk in the process. And someone who was older would definitely know how to use it, so…”

“Okay.” Shouta sighed, tugging a hand across his face in a feeble attempt to rub some alertness back into it. “Okay. Fine. What’s your point, then?”

“My point… my point is that we’re missing something.”

Shouta rolled his eyes, peeling himself away from the wall with a groan. “Great. That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day. Let’s get back to the kid before he disappears again.”

Tsukauchi huffed but followed him out into the hallway, evidently too caught up in his thoughts to continue their conversation as they headed back to the kid’s room. Shouta froze when he opened the door, Tsukauchi nearly running into him while he stared at the hospital bed.

“Kid,” he said, straining to keep any inflection from his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Um.” The kid looked sheepish, like he’d just been caught cheating on his homework or something as he tucked his half-mangled hand behind him. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Shouta turned to Tsukauchi. “Get a nurse.”

“R… right.” As Tsukauchi left, Shouta entered the room and closed the door behind him, reaching the bed in a few, long strides.

“Let me see the hand, kid.”

Phobos—Deku—whatever—actually bared his teeth at him. “No.”

“Kid. The hand.”

“No.”

“I don’t—” Shouta cut himself off with a sigh, instead placing both of his own hands behind his back. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just let me see it.”

Phobos hesitated, eyes narrowing for a moment before he slowly drew out the injured hand and held it in front of him. Bruised, bloody, already swelling with sickly greens and yellows—Shouta sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to snap forward and grab it.

“Why did you do that?”

The kid shrugged, eyes darting towards the door for just a moment.

“No.” Shouta pinched the bridge of his nose, barely holding back a frustrated groan. “No, I need to know why. You can’t just- you wanted to leave? Is that it? Some kind of escape attempt?”

Another shrug. Shouta felt his eye twitch.

“There’s still a quirk suppressant in your system, kid. The cuffs are just on top of that. Even if you got out of them, it would be an hour at least before everything wore off.”

Phobos paled at that, shoulders hunching as he drew the mangled hand to his lap. “…oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

Oh Jesus Christ was he seriously picking at his injuries right now? “Give me the hand.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request. Give it.”

“Fuck off.”

Shouta sucked in a breath through his teeth, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as if that might help him find his patience. “Kid. Either you give me the hand, or we sedate you and take a look at it anyway. Your choice.”

Phobos snorted, hand curling closer to his chest. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

He wasn’t even flinching. From the way it looked, even at a cursory glance, that injury must have hurt like hell, but the kid barely seemed to pay it any mind.

Definitely been hurt before, then. Enough that his pain tolerance was far higher than it had any right to be. Shouta sighed, sinking into his chair and glancing towards the door. “The nurse will be here soon. You’ll have to decide by then.”

Phobos was silent, brow furrowed as he stared down at his lap. When at last he spoke it was halting, hesitant. “The… are there actually suppressants? Like, in me? Right now?”

“Yes.” Shouta had requested it himself. The kid was too slippery for cuffs alone; this incident only confirmed that.

“Oh…” He gave a shaky laugh, raising his hand towards his face before seeming to think better of it and letting it fall once more. “That’s, um. That’s interesting.”

Shouta just hummed. Where the fuck was that nurse?

Phobos shifted on the cot, voice barely audible when he murmured, “Why do I need the cuffs, then?”

“Because you could still run without a quirk. And you’re technically under arrest.”

“Yeah. About that. You should… probably let me go?” Phobos winced when Shouta raised a skeptical brow.

“Are you trying to scare me right now? I’ve seen kittens more intimidating.”

“Ah, no. I mean… I guess kind of…” Phobos trailed off, picking at his hand again and the kid needed to stop doing that or Shouta was going to have a fucking aneurysm—

“It’s just…” Phobos sighed, shoulders hunching, eyes flickering around as if he were weighing his options. As if he wasn’t sure he should be saying this at all. “You seem, um. You’re not bad. And you’re just doing your job. I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me.”

“People are already hurt.” Maybe that was too much, because the kid gave a full-body flinch.

“Um. Right.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Right, I guess they are, huh? I’m… a villain. So. That’s what I do.”

Shouta sighed. “Kid…”

“No. No, you’re right. I have to, uh. I have to. So. It’s. And.”

“Take a breath.”

“I’m fine.”

“Breathe, then.”

Phobos took in a shuddering breath, as if to prove that he could. He flashed an unconvincing smile. “See? I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Shouta paused, noting through narrowed eyes how the kid worked himself through an encroaching panic attack with an ease that spoke of practice. “What’s your quirk, kid? Seriously.”

“Uh- huh?” Phobos glanced up, eyes wide and almost… glassy. Strange. “I’m. My quirk is… weird?”

Shouta resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead letting out a soft huff. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you?”

Great. He could already feel himself shifting into what Hizashi so endearingly referred to as teacher mode, and the way this kid’s voice cracked almost constantly wasn’t helping matters.

“Just give me the basics, then,” said Shouta, voice stern but soft. Ugh. This was a villain, not some student who needed a little scare and a brief detention.

“I’m- I, uh.” Phobos shuffled, looking oddly at his hand. “I- you said quirk suppressants?”

“…yes.” The way he was acting, it put Shouta on edge, set a stiffness to his shoulders that he only felt when he was being watched, being followed, being stalked in the night. Something was off, and for a moment he wondered if it was something in the suppressants, a bad reaction that was leaving the kid woozy and off-balance, but… wouldn’t they have noticed that before?

“Hm.” Phobos blinked, hard, and Shouta felt a breath hiss through his own teeth as the kid pressed a thumb against his mangled hand, resisted the urge to leap out of his chair and instead clutched tightly at the armrests.

“Stop messing with that,” he said evenly, with what he hoped was an appropriate amount of authority. Slowly, Phobos glanced up again, his eyes still retaining that strange, glassy quality.

“Why?”

Shouta blinked. “Wh- because you’re going to hurt yourself?”

Fuck, that wasn’t supposed to be a question. This was serious, and sure they had enough doctors on hand that he’d probably be fine, but—

Phobos shrugged, messy green hair falling back over his eyes as he stared back down at this hand.

“Do you ever…” He breathed, a ghastly noise that seemed to shudder in his ribs, and Shouta couldn’t help but feel that it- it wasn’t his voice anymore. That this wasn’t the same kid, this- this thing that tugged and prodded at its own twisted bones with an almost clinical interest. “Hm. Just, uh. Meat. At the end of the day. Right?”

Shouta couldn’t- he couldn’t move. That wasn’t right, that wasn’t normal, he was a pro fucking hero, he wasn’t supposed to be pinned to his chair by a child still strapped to a hospital bed. He- he wasn’t—

“Look, Eraserhead.”

He didn’t want to. But he did.

In the more rational part of Shouta’s brain, the cool, calculated voice that so often made itself heard, he knew that this must be a quirk. Could draw the spider-thin connections between that soul-wrenching loneliness he’d felt in the mists and this- this revulsion, at the sight of that disfigured hand.

Shouta had seen corpses, had seen shattered  bone peeking out from ribbons of tattered flesh. He’d seen faces beaten into shapes that weren’t quite human anymore, seen how wrong entrails looked splayed outside the body. As a hero, especially as an underground hero, Shouta had his fair share of horror stories, gore and viscera that worked its way into his dreams.

He’d never… felt like this, though. And he knew that wasn’t right. That is was just a broken hand, and though it was ugly it was by no means the worst thing he’d ever seen.

Phobos tilted his head, wrapped a broken finger in his careful grasp, and twisted.

There wasn’t- it didn’t crack, like it was meant to. Didn’t grind together in the hideous sound of bone against bone, it just- it made this god-awful squelching sound and Shouta couldn’t- fuck he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, all he could feel with every feeble gasp was the shift of his lungs, how they pressed uncomfortably against his ribs. He could- that noise, he could feel it inside of him, and it was enough to make him sick.

Phobos smiled, and there were too many teeth. He didn’t- that was the only way to describe it, there were too many teeth.

“No? Never thought about it?” His voice, it was wrong. It splintered around itself, wet and gurgling somewhere deep in his throat, so thick with blood that Shouta almost expected it to dribble from his lips. Again, again Phobos pushed a thumb to his hand, as if prodding the bones back into place, and the sound of tearing flesh was deafening against Shouta’s ears.

The boy laughed, and the hideous noise sent hot sparks of pain through Shouta’s broken arm. The arm that hadn’t even looked like his when they finally dragged him from the USJ, a twisted, broken mockery of the thing that had always been there, blood and sinew laid bare.

It hadn’t been human. The thing, limp at his side, it hadn’t been him. It was just bone, and flesh, and meat.

Phobos smiled again, and Shouta couldn’t help but think that his lips stretched unnaturally across his face, couldn’t help but raise a hand to his own mouth if only to assure himself that it was still there, that he could feel it, that it wasn’t just another piece of useless skin.

This is wrong. Shouta wasn’t afraid of this. Had never been afraid of this.

And yet, when Phobos wrenched his other hand from its restraint with the sickly sound of twisting bone and the squelch of rubbery flesh, all Shouta could do was scramble violently from his chair, flinching away from the awful clang of metal against the cool hospital tile as it clattered to the ground. He stumbled backwards until he pressed against a wall, plagued by the prickling awareness of how rigid it felt on his spine.

It was like- no. No, it wasn’t like anything had had ever felt before, there was no allusion he could draw to make sense of this roiling mass of- of terror inside of him, this sickly, desperate vertigo that scrabbled at his skull and forced acrid bile to the back of his throat.

Calmly, as if the shifting bone within his hands did not bother him at all, Phobos began to prod the lumps back into place. The bone was- fuck, fuck, Shouta didn’t know how to describe it, could only clench his own hands to remind himself that he was real, he was here, every disparate piece of himself was rigid and unchanging, and belonged to him.

Another painful jolt through his broken arm reminded him that that was not the case. The memory of that creature cracking his skull across the concrete, of jagged pain ripping through his vision, of pushing his mangled body through the motions of humanity.

I’m not afraid of this, the desperate shreds of reason cried, lost to the clamor of twitching flesh and exposed viscera and the awful feeling of his arm shattering beneath another’s grip. Slow. Easy. Like it was nothing to them, and- well, that was it, wasn’t it? It was nothing. Just an arm, just an eye, just little bits of himself that could so easily be carved away.

As Phobos rolled out his wrist, crackle of newly-set bones shuddering through the small room, he reached towards the crook of his elbow and grasped the rubber tube that hooked him to the IV drip.

The. The IV. That was supposed to- there were quirk suppressants in that IV. There was- he shouldn’t’ve been able to—

Past the bitter revulsion at the way his lungs expanded, the inescapable feeling of blood thick in his veins, the bile that burned on his tongue at the thought of dragging his body into any sort of motion, Shouta shook the hair from his eyes and looked.

Immediately he remembered how much of a mistake that was, the itching pain assailing his senses far more insistent with his recent injuries, but- but fuck, he could breathe again without that awful squelching in his chest.

Everything fell away, an icy shock of water that shivered through his bones. Shouta… he still felt sick, but it was a manageable sort of disgust, the kind that left him unsettled but not overwhelmed.

With a dull thud, Phobos fell to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, limbs splayed out unnaturally around him. Shouta probably would’ve felt bad for the kid if he hadn’t just encountered what was probably the second worst experience of his life. First, of course, being that awful, suffocating mist. Which was also the kid’s fault. So. Sue him if he was running a little low on sympathy.

“What the hell was that?” he growled, fully aware of how unsettling he looked with his quirk activated and intending to take advantage of it for as long as the prickle in his eyes would allow.

Phobos didn’t even look up. Just… lay there, shuddering against the ground, and through the haze of spitting rage that followed his crushing terror, Shouta realized that the kid was… wrong, somehow. Just. Wrong.

Limbs bent unnaturally. Eyes, they were- from what Shouta could see beyond the burn of his quirk and the boy’s own messy curls, they held that same glassy quality as before, but this time it was almost devoid of life. And his hands… Shouta saw them twitch, and had to force himself to look away before that ugly revulsion washed over him once more.

They’d been fixed, for the most part, but… whatever the kid had done to slide the bones back into place before, it was like the patchwork threads of it had unraveled, leaving ugly lumps beneath the too-tight skin, fingers twisted unnaturally to the side as blood trembled through the mangled flesh with every spasm of his heart.

It looked painful. Unnatural. Just… just meat.

Shouta blinked, wincing at the angry hum of a migraine at his temples. The doctors had told him not to use his quirk for another few days, but… this probably constituted an emergency.

When Phobos gave a wheezing gasp, Shouta forced his eyes open again, squinting through the too-bright hospital lights to stare down at where the boy shuddered on the floor.

“I—” Phobos coughed, an awful, bloody thing that wracked him with full-body tremors. “Please don’t do that again.”

Shouta paused. Hesitated, before taking a cautious step forward. “Don’t use your quirk on me, and I’ll think about it.”

Phobos let out a noise that Shouta thought might be laughter, though it escaped him as a gurgling half-whine that grated at the ears.

“I- I wasn’t—” He gasped, curling in on himself. “I’m sorry, I was- it was supposed to be the Stranger, I thought it was- with the detective, I- I thought I fed it enough, I thought- fuck, fuck, I couldn’t really feel it, I couldn’t- the cuffs, I didn’t realize until I was already out and I. I. I don’t. I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to- I- please don’t make me feel like that again.”

Shouta knelt down beside him, unsure of what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing here. The door opened, and he glanced behind him to see a frazzled Tsukauchi flanked by two nurses, both of which looked nearly dead on their feet.

“Sorry that took so long, I think they’re kind of at capacity right now- what is happening.”

Shouta sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. I think… I think he just used his quirk on me. Still trying to piece it together myself.”

Phobos gave another feeble little gasp, scrambling along the floor until he was curled into a corner, hands tucked beneath his arms. “Please. Please, please I didn’t mean to, please don’t do it again.”

“I used Erasure,” clarified Shouta when Tsukauchi shot him a puzzled, bordering on accusatory look. “I don’t think—”

Tuskauchi looked up sharply, some of the exhaustion melting from his shoulders. “What? Eraser, I thought the doctor—”

“It was necessary,” Shouta snapped, rubbing at his eyes with a scowl. “The kid didn’t give me much of a choice.”

Tsukauchi said nothing, instead raising a brow at where Phobos still lay, curled into a huddled ball in the corner of the room.

Closing his eyes, Shouta forced down the overwhelming urge to snarl, to defend himself when the detective clearly didn’t have any idea what this kid was capable of. He hadn’t even been at the USJ, he didn’t know—

Shouta breathed deep, and noted with some distaste how the lingering echoes of that awful quirk still caught against his ribs.

When he opened his eyes again the nurses were gone, and the detective was closing the door behind him while looking at Shouta expectantly.

“I’m… not sure how to explain it,” Shouta began, taking a moment to glance at the kid. He… he looked so small, like this. So scared. Fuck, but he couldn’t forget that awful feeling, the disgust curling in his gut. The fear. “I’m also not sure how he pushed through the suppressants. What’s the dosage on those?”

Tsukauchi hesitated, mouth twisting as he stared at where Phobos had tucked his knees to his chest. “Not sure. Obviously not high enough, then, but… should we try to calm him down? I don’t- shit, I’m not good with kids, Eraser.”

Shouta resisted the urge to roll his eyes at that thinly-veiled call for help, if only because he knew it would hurt him more than anything else. “This isn’t exactly my expertise either. Maybe we should call in a professional.”

“You’re literally a teacher,” hissed Tsukauchi, still glancing nervously at the kid. “That’s your job.”

“My job is to teach obnoxious high school students how to be heroes. This is way above my paygrade.”

“We’re the only ones here—”

“I can’t.”

Tsukauchi paused, tilting his head. “…what happened?”

Shouta didn’t know how to explain it. How was he supposed to press it into words? The way the kid’s bones had shifted beneath his skin, as if they weren’t solid anymore. Soft, malleable, twisting flesh into a different shape all because he could.

It was illogical. But something about going near the kid, just the thought of laying a hand against that rippling skin, it- it was still too fresh in his mind. It sickened him.

That awful noise again, the squelch of meat and gore, and both him and the detective startled, heads snapping towards Phobos.

Ah. It seemed that he had… regained control of his quirk. Wonderful.

Shouta supposed he should consider himself thankful that the boy didn’t turn it on them, this time. It was a hollow victory.

He had to look away, unable to stomach the sight of pulsing skin and twisting bone, the sound of it enough to squeeze his stomach as Phobos fixed the mangled mess of his hands.

Shouta let him. If the previous reaction was anything to go by, Erasure was a uniquely distressing experience for the kid, and as long as he didn’t make any move to attack them Shouta didn’t see any reason to smother his quirk. And… honestly? He wanted those hands to be normal again, couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore.

With a final, sickening pop, Phobos let out a shaky exhale. Shouta cautiously glanced back to find him sitting with his back up against the corner, newly-healed hands pressed gently together in front of him.

“Please,” he repeated, with less desperation this time though his voice still sounded ragged, “don’t do that again. I won’t use my quirk against you.”

“What…” Tsukauchi cut himself off with a shaky cough. “What was that?”

Phobos sighed, slumping further against the wall and rubbing his hands across his face. “That’s, uh. My quirk. I guess.”

“You guess?” Shouta couldn’t quite scrape the growl from his voice, but instead of flinching Phobos just let his hands drop to his lap.

The shadows under his eyes had somehow deepened, and when he laughed it was a hollow, bitter thing. “Yeah. Yeah, Eraserhead. I guess.”

“At the USJ you exhibited very different abilities,” Tsukauchi pointed out, apparently recovering from his horror far more quickly than Shouta might have given him credit for. Although, to be fair, the detective had probably seen his fair share of gore. And… he hadn’t experienced that, the awful, creeping power of whatever the fuck Phobos’ quirk was.

Phobos hummed, idly tugging at his fingers as if to make sure they were in the right place. “You’re right. I did.”

“And?” pressed Tsukauchi, notepad already in hand. “What does that mean?”

With another sigh, Phobos wearily shook his head. “Ask a real question. Please.”

Tsukauchi frowned, clicking idly at his pen. “I…”

“You have one quirk?” cut in Shouta.

Phobos shrugged. “It’s complicated. Yes? And also no.”

A glance a Tsukauchi was unhelpful, as the detective was furrowing his brow in an effort to untangle the truth of that statement.

Shouta sighed. “Aspects, then? Different… activation requirements?” The kid had said something about feeding it before.

“Kind of.” Phobos wrapped his arms around his knees, tugging them closer to his chest. “I’m scared.”

“It’s okay,” assured Tsukauchi hastily. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

Phobos shook his head, frustration curling at his lip. “No. No, you don’t- I’m scared. That’s my quirk. That’s the… ‘activation requirement’. It’s fear.”

That was reasonable, given his name, but… it still didn’t make sense. Shouta had never heard of a quirk with such disparate abilities, all seemingly unrelated to each other. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed. “And what fear was that?”

“The Flesh,” said Phobos simply, a shudder running up his spine. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You’ve said,” said Shouta. Phobos just winced.

“Still. I know it’s not a… a pleasant fear. I- it’s- I don’t have a lot of control over it, yet. It’s kind of, uh. New?”

“New,” Tsukauchi repeated. Fuck, Shouta needed to sit down. Maybe have a drink.

“I don’t think any fear is pleasant, kid,” he said instead.

Phobos shrugged. “I. Uh. I like the Lonely… it’s nice. Quiet, I think.”

The Lonely… “In the USJ,” Shouta began, but Phobos was already nodding his head.

“Yeah. Yeah, I, uh, I think I… dragged you all in? I don’t really know how, I’ve- uh. I’ve never done that before.” He let out a nervous laugh, tugging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Lot of firsts, huh? Long, uh… long day.”

It probably wouldn’t be helpful to point out that it had been nearly a week since the USJ.

“I like the Eye too,” Phobos muttered, rubbing the heel of a palm against his forehead. “It’s, uh. It’s nice sometimes. Just… watching.”

Well, that wasn’t creepy at all. Unbidden, Shouta recalled that night on the rooftops, the prickling unease he’d felt before his gaze had snapped up towards the lurking kid.

“So…” Tsukauchi hesitated, sitting down on the bed and tapping his pen against the notepad. “You said the- the Flesh, you said that’s new? What does that mean?”

Phobos fell silent, fingers picking at the ends of his hospital gown as a tension wound its way into his shoulders. At last, he let them fall with a sigh. “I don’t think I can tell you that.”

“Why?” pressed Tsukauchi.

“Because I don’t want to die.” Silence, stifling in the small space. Phobos winced. “Not- not like that, I mean, it’s- uh. It’s fine. I just don’t want to, um. It’s not dying, really, it’s fine, I probably won’t die, I mean.” A nervous laugh ripped through him, and he clutched tightly at his knees. “I’ll be fine! Probably! And it’s not like- uh, I’m already kind of screwed, right? So what does it matter if it hurts more or less I mean it’s still going to hurt so what’s the difference, right? They’re- he’s- oh fuck I really don’t want to die—”

“Hey.” Shouta forced his voice to be as soft as possible, scrubbed the lingering anger from his words. “It’s okay. Nothing’s going to—”

With a terrified keen, Phobos’ head snapped up, wide eyes fixing on him for a moment before the kid jerked his gaze to the side, shutting them tight.

“Don’t use your quirk,” he whispered, hoarse. “Please. Please don’t.”

“I’m not…” Shouta felt his chest tighten. Something was wrong. Initially he’d thought that the kid was just experiencing the usual discomfort that tended to accompany Erasure, that bitter shock of a power numbed in their veins. This… this was fear. Brow furrowing, Shouta knelt before the trembling kid and shook off any lingering strands of putrid nausea as he reached out a cautious hand.

“Hey, kid,” he said. “Look, I’m not using my quirk. Okay? I’m not going to. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Phobos sucked in a shuddering breath, eyes still screwed shut. “S- sorry. Sorry. I just- I really don’t want to- to die. And I’m not sure but if you- just please don’t. Please.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“You…” The kid opened his eyes, blinking blearily up at Shouta. “Really?”

“If my quirk is hurting you, it wouldn’t be very rational of me to use it,” said Shouta simply. “As long as you don’t try to attack us again, there’s no reason to.”

“Oh. Uh. Right.” Phobos gave a shaky cough, voice more firm when he spoke again. “Right. No reason.”

Oh fuck, they couldn’t let this kid go to prison. He was a child, and sure he might have been dangerous, but it was clear that everything he’d done was under duress, and… wait.

“Hey, kid,” said Shouta as gently as he could muster. “If you got out of here, where were you planning to go?”

Phobos stared up at him, hesitating only a moment before replying, “Back.”

Great. Great. “Why?”

The kid blinked, as if this was a ridiculous question. “Because… I have to?”

“Why do you have to?” asked Tsukauchi, mouth pressing into a thin smile as Phobos’ gaze snapped towards him.

“Uh.” Phobos paused, fiddling with his hospital gown once more. “Because I, uh. They’d catch me anyway, so… it’s always better to come back than to be- to be hunted so…” His voice trailed off into a whisper.

Hunted. The way he said that word, it was almost reverent. Hushed, like to speak too loud would draw unwanted notice.

Hunted. Shouta felt that creeping unease dig sharp claws into his shoulders. He spoke like it had happened before, a dreadful familiarity that had him curling nails into his palms.

You didn’t hunt a child. You hunted an animal.

“That’s not going to happen,” said Shouta, the words falling from his tongue before he had the chance to even process them. “We’re not going to let that happen. You’re never going back there.”

Tsukauchi shot him a pointed look, and for good reason because they couldn’t promise that. Couldn’t promise safety when uncertainty hung over this kid like a thick cloud, when they didn’t even know his name.

The kid stared up at him with wide, fearful eyes that had just begun to cross over into trembling hope, and Shouta knew that he was fucked.

There was only one place in Japan where that kid would be safe.

“I…” he sighed, glancing towards Tsukauchi. “I need to make a phone call.”

Chapter Text

Eyes. Eyes everywhere.

Izuku scrubbed a hand across his face in a vain effort to relieve some of the tension behind his forehead. No luck, of course, as he was escorted down the long hallway, passing onlookers whose curious eyes flickered over him, raked red lines across his skin, he could feel them—

And Eraserhead was watching. Always. Izuku wasn’t sure if it was by virtue of a sight-based quirk or simply the fact that the hero was practically his prison guard, now, but for some reason Eraserhead’s eyes burned more fiercely than any others.

At least he wasn’t wearing the cuffs, anymore. Although honestly a little quirk suppression might have done him good. The Eye was a constant pressure just behind his forehead, and the Lonely dragged at his shoulders like a mantle of lead. They’d been starved, snapping past their bonds and bursting forth the instant every trace of suppressants had been purged from his body.

Izuku forced down a shudder as his gaze caught an unobtrusive security camera set into the ceiling above them. When they passed beneath it, he could have sworn that he heard the whir of machinery, of a lens constricting, focusing on him.

After that, he noticed every single camera on their journey through the halls. Twenty-three in total. Each seared itself into the back of his neck with a cold, unyielding scrutiny.

“You’re twitchy,” said the hero, because of course he noticed. Of course, and the keen examination that implied only brought another pounding pulse against the inside of his skull.

Izuku shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Just a little, uh, nervous? Never… it’s not like I know what to expect.”

Eraserhead stared down at him, and Izuku fought back the wince that rattled in his bones. It wasn’t like the man deserved an explanation, no matter what empty promises he made. And besides, the less Izuku revealed about his quirk, the more valuable he remained to the League. Once all of his secrets were pulled from his tongue he’d be useless, and that fear slithered in the creases of his mind. He couldn’t be useless, worthless, Deku. Maybe he could prove it. Get something of worth here, anything that might convince Sensei that he was still a valuable asset.

Shigaraki might want him dead on sight, but Sensei had always been more cautious than that. Though it sent a thousand legs skittering up his spine, thin spiderweb snaring at his limbs, Izuku could at least count on the man thinking it through before he sentenced Izuku to be scrapped for parts.

The Flesh shuddered at that, and Izuku fought nausea as he swallowed back its bile. No. He would not be indulging in that again, thank you very much. He could still feel it wriggle in his hands, that terrible sensation of losing all sense of personhood when Erasure stripped him of his quirk.

Again, again that nausea, and he needed to stop thinking about it, but the Eye forced his thoughts towards his own undoing, as always.

It just furthered his already existing theory, really. The Flesh was fear of being eaten, of being made meat, but also… a creeping anxiety that there is nothing special about us in the slightest. That anything separating humanity from simple farm animals is wire-thin at best.

A fear that we do not own ourselves. A fear of consciousness trapped in flesh.

So Erasure, of course, having culminated that fear, would naturally lead to that sickening conclusion. Izuku supposed he should have been thankful that he was only playing up the body horror aspects of the fear, more sculpting of flesh and limbs mangled beyond human. Had he felt phantom teeth pressed against his skin, he might have actually lost it.

That was concerning. It lent credence to the idea that, should Eraserhead use his quirk while Izuku was manifesting the End, Izuku might actually just die. On the spot. No ifs, ands, or buts—the End was, at its core, a fear of death.

Which really had a simple solution, and one Izuku would normally be quite keen to abide by: don’t feed the End around Eraserhead. Seeing as how Izuku was hardly interested in manifesting that aspect on a good day, it shouldn’t have been much trouble at all, but…

There was a sort of paradox, there, a vicious cycle. Izuku couldn’t feed the End because he was afraid of dying. That fear, in turn, fed the End.

And so on, and so on, threatening to close icy fingers around his heart.

He needed a distraction, but the only offering these hallways had to offer were the eyes and the cameras and the looming dread of whatever sentence lay in store for him. They hadn’t told him much of anything, only that he would be coming to UA for a meeting to “discuss his future”.

The Eye was running wild with that, and the Desolation was threatening to spark in his palms. This was unsustainable. If he didn’t wrest control of at least one of the aspects, they’d start to overcome him.

Just- just a couple seconds, he could- he couldn’t use the Lonely, even though that would be his go-to, it was just too obvious, but…

Izuku took a breath, felt it swell uncomfortably in his lungs. He blinked.

Immediately some of that fierce pressure subsided, curling contentedly behind his forehead as Izuku peered through the eyes of- oh. Oh, he hadn’t really… thought of it, had he?

Strange, that of all the eyes he had gathered, he’d somehow settled upon Eraserhead. Leaching off his gaze as the man lazily surveyed the same hallway, a little higher up, this time. And Izuku fought the vertigo of that, the way his legs threatened to stumble as everything was shifted just the slightest bit to the left, leaving him off-balanced and dizzy. This… this was a little strange, even for him.

Still, at least it was something, and the Eye sighed its contentment as it forced itself onto the hero’s sight, watching passive and unyielding as he blinked, yawned, slowly looked down and to his right—

Hm. That was. Not a good feeling.

Izuku had never seen himself while using Beholding. Shigaraki had described it as “creepy”, which was the only bearing he really had on the matter. It wasn’t as if the doctor would deign to share notes, and it seemed that Sensei enjoyed dangling bits of information before Izuku’s nose for little other reason than his own amusement, so there wasn’t much help to be had there.

Creepy… didn’t really do it justice, Izuku thought. Although his perspective might have been skewed by the piercing headache spiking through his skull, that creeping, crawling sensation shuddering up his back as the Eye fell upon him, his own gaze rebounded and redoubled to scrutinize him.

It was wrong. Not quite in the sense of Erasure, of fear being ripped from his skin until all that was left was the bitter conclusion, but still it was… and the Eye forced him to watch, compelled him towards a lidless observation that drank in every second of his own squirming discomfort.

His eyes were wide, but unseeing. Not quite, thought Izuku, because they were seeing quite enough, weren’t they? But they were certainly not comprehending anything of the floor beneath his feet, instead fixated upon something beyond sight. There was a light, pale and almost… viscous, pouring out from his sockets. And Izuku could see a faint rustle through his hair, as though a breeze was winding through the dark green strands.

Izuku watched as Eraserhead reached forward, saw the hand at the edge of his vision—and for a moment Izuku wondered if the hero would use Erasure again, and he was struck with abject terror that sent a line of tension through his slack-jawed face.

But no. He startled as that same hand clapped against his shoulder, whatever thread binding him to that terrible extraspection snapping at the contact, and Izuku hastily blinked out of Beholding to press the heel of a palm against the growing ache behind his forehead.

Well. That could’ve gone better, he supposed. But at least the Eye had been somewhat fed settling in his skull and satisfied to keep the rest at bay.

“What was that about?”

Right. Hero. Standing right next to him. Izuku sighed, rubbing at his temples in a vain attempt to ease his growing headache.

“Sorry. My, uh, quirk. Sometimes it…”

Eraserhead sighed as if he understood exactly what Izuku was going to say, which Izuku sincerely doubted. “I assume you’ve never had quirk counseling.”

Izuku couldn’t hold back a snort at that. It seemed that was the only answer the man required, judging by his long-suffering groan.

“How long have you been having quirk slips like this?”

“Wh… what?” Izuku couldn’t help but bristle at the implications of that. Quirk slips were for five-year-olds, and yeah maybe Izuku hadn’t had his quirk for as long as most, but he’d like to see anyone juggle fourteen fears as efficiently as him. “It’s not a slip, I—”

“You used your quirk.”

“I- I mean yeah, but I didn’t—”

“Did you mean to use it?”

A tension worked its way into his jaw, grinding at his teeth. “I- maybe? I don’t know. Yeah.”

“You meant to.”

“Yes.”

Eraserhead stared at him, an echo of that horrible scrutiny of before that had the Eye pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

“So let me get this straight,” said Eraserhead, voice dulled by a dogged exhaustion. “You’re telling me that, while being escorted by a pro hero, directly after being arrested for illegal quirk usage, you decided to use your quirk unprompted and without any warning.”

“I…” Well, when he put it like that, it did sound kind of ridiculous. But it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice—it was either that or disappearing all together, and Izuku had a feeling that Eraserhead wouldn’t have taken kindly to Izuku draping the Lonely around his shoulders.

“Right.” Eraserhead snorted and turned away, reaching for a door handle. “Just clarifying. This room, come on.”

The office was large. Grand, floor-to-ceiling windows flanked one side, welcome sunlight filtering in through the glass. The same straight-line, brutal design aesthetic that plagued much of UA was still present, but softened by more traditional accent pieces. A tea shelf in one corner, golden vines flowering along its sides. In the other rested a small bamboo fountain, water trickling down the spout to splash quietly into the porcelain bowl. More surprising still, in Izuku’s eyes, was the large desk at the end of the room, covered in neat stacks of paper that must have had some method of organization, though whatever that might be was lost on even him. It was more western in appearance, a grand thing of wood panels and what Izuku had no doubt were a multitude of nooks and crannies were items could oh so easily become “lost”.

Behind it sat a large, plush chair, turned away from the rest of the room so that its back was to the desk. Izuku heard Eraserhead sigh before the hero directed them both to the seats before the desk. As he settled down, Eraserhead pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“Good morning, principal.”

Izuku bit back a yelp as the chair whirled around, revealing… nothing, within.

“Good morning Aizawa-san!”

That time Izuku did jump in earnest, blinking away his shock when the chair spoke in a cheery, lilting tone. What the fuck…?

A furry head popped up from behind the desk. One paw rested on the hardwood, another quick to follow it as principal Nedzu stood to his full height, leaning his weight forward onto his arms with what Izuku assumed was a disarming smile—hard to tell, against an animal’s features.

Okay. So. Izuku understood, in theory, that principal Nedzu wasn’t exactly… human. But it wasn’t as if he’d ever actually seen the man, and being faced with it in person was… well, it was unsettling. Something of the Hunt simmered in his blood, and Izuku instinctually tightened the leash before its baying could reach his ears.

He saw the principal’s whiskers twitch. Watched the faintest curl of a lip, and felt his own begin to answer in kind before he slammed down on the impulse.

Wow, he was not having this, not today, no thank you. Izuku hastily cleared his throat, glancing at Eraserhead while he tried not to squirm beneath the principal’s sudden scrutiny.

“So, uh, s- sir? What’s, um. Why am I here?”

Just like that the spell shattered, and the principal brought his paws together with a loud clap. “Oh, of course! My apologies, I did not expect it to be so… hm, what would be the word… potent, I suppose.”

“Uh…” Izuku glanced more urgently at Eraserhead, who was pointedly avoiding his gaze. Great. “Okay?”

“No matter! Your quirk is quite interesting, Phobos-kun.”

“Ah.”

“Tsukauchi-san and Aizawa-san here have filled me in on the details, although I must admit there seem to be quite a few gaps, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Y… yes?”

“Wonderful!” The principal clapped his paws together once more, before busying himself with a pot of tea that, frankly, Izuku had to imagine he had pulled from thin air. “Ignorance is only the precursor to knowledge, is it not? What a joy it is, to be faced with the unknown. Phobos-kun—now, should I call you Phobos-kun? Or is there a false name you’d rather go by?”

This was. A lot. The Eye was spiking again, but Izuku just mutely shook his head. The principal grinned, sharp and full of teeth.

“Of course, we can decide upon that later. Much work to be done!”

“Principal,” Eraserhead sighed at last, wearily accepting the teacup that was being pressed into his hands. “Please tell the kid what’s going on before he has a heart attack.”

“Oh, but Aizawa-san, mystery is the heart of life, is it not?”

Eraserhead closed his eyes and breathed. “Sir.”

“Yes, yes.” The principal waved an impatient paw, sliding another teacup over to Izuku, who took it more on reflex than anything else. “Well, I suppose we can have our fun later. Now there is business to discuss… first off, Phobos-kun, this is a simple variety of sencha. I have other green teas if you’d prefer, but I assumed you would be more comfortable with the familiar.”

Izuku blinked down at his steaming cup. He… wasn’t expected to drink this, was he? Izuku hadn’t had tea in… well, unless one counted the rare occasions Sensei would call upon him to share a kettle—which usually resulted in testing how little of it he could get away with drinking—Izuku couldn’t recall the last time he’d actually had the stuff.

“This is… fine, thank you.”

“Wonderful!” cheered the principal, taking up his own cup and pressing it to his lips with a contented sigh. “So, Phobos-kun, I hear that you are in quite the predicament.”

Understatement of the century. Izuku shrugged, forcing the tension from his shoulders as he wrapped tight fingers around his own teacup. Just like a meeting with Sensei. He could do this.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” he managed at last. “But I’ve also been in better.”

The principal laughed at that. “Oh, of course! But we are here to discuss your future, specifically your future with us. Tell me, do you wish to go to prison?”

Izuku felt his muscles attempt to stiffen, but managed to beat the impulse back with yet another shrug. “If that’s where I go, that’s where I go.”

“But I imagine that’s not an optimal scenario for you.”

“Better than a few alternatives I can think of.”

“Oh?” The principal had a glint in his eye that Izuku decidedly did not like. “And what would those alternatives be, I wonder?”

“Community service.”

He laughed. “Hm, quite a shame. You see, what we are proposing is very much like community service, in a way…”

Izuku wished the man would just spit it out. He could already feel the Web running wire along his limbs, and he had plenty of that when dealing with Sensei.

“I don’t want to go to prison,” he admitted, eyeing the principal carefully across his cup. “But there don’t seem to be a lot of options, here.”

“I’ll cut to the chase, then, Phobos-kun. Are you aware of UA’s vigilante reform program?”

Wow, that cleared up everything and yet nothing at all. Izuku narrowed his gaze, setting his cup down on the table as his brow began to furrow. “The… yes. I, uh.” He coughed, desperately trying to settle his own uncertainty. “I know about it. Yeah.”

“Interesting! It’s not typically common knowledge. It comes up so rarely, you see.”

“I, uh, it’s… it’s my business. To know about things.”

“Hm.” The principal’s whiskers twitched, eyes glittering in the light. “As it is mine, Phobos-kun. Well, then, I’m sure you are aware that, as a prestigious institution dedicated to creating heroes, UA has quite a loose jurisdiction when it comes to these things.”

Izuku was no idiot, he could see where this was going. But- but that was ridiculous, for many reasons, greatest of all being, “I’m not a vigilante. I’m a villain.”

The principal huffed. “Oh, I expected better. Quick, Phobos-kun, what is the difference between a vigilante and a villain. They are both criminals, are they not?”

“I- yeah, I guess, but-“

“The legal definition of villain is actually quite vague—intentionally so, I believe, but that is a discussion for another time. The definition of vigilante, however…” Principal Nedzu shot a meaningful glance at Eraserhead, who sighed as he sank further into his chair.

“Unlicensed individuals who use their quirks illegally in order to stop a crime,” the man muttered.

“Which!” continued the principal. “Technically! You are!”

Izuku froze. They… they couldn’t know about that, could they? Again the Eye flared, more out of a threat of being seen than anything else, but it certainly did nothing to allay his fears. He- his work as Confession had never been connected to his work as Phobos, Phobos barely even existed past crimes he was reasonably sure couldn’t even be traced back to him, it was- he didn’t- they couldn’t know about that—

He breathed, swallowing the air that threatened to stutter in his lungs. No time for panic, yet, not when he hadn’t even been accused of anything. Instead Izuku let that same terror flood him, let the Eye take greater control to infuse him with its lidless indifference.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

The principal’s whiskers twitched again, and this time Izuku stared hungrily at the myriad microexpressions that flitted across the man’s features, so unfamiliar and yet just within the grasp of understanding.

“Oh, but has it already slipped your mind, Phobos-san? Your actions at the USJ, especially those described by students in the flood zone, would no doubt qualify.”

Oh thank god, that was what they were talking about.

Wait. That was what they were talking about?

“I- what?” spluttered Izuku. “I didn’t- that was bad. I hurt people.”

Eraserhead gave a little huff. “Kid, you really think vigilantes don’t hurt people? That’s the problem.”

“And the purpose of the reform program,” said the principal with a nod. “Youth who take to vigilantism are statistically more likely to turn violent as time goes on. With early intervention, however, they can be turned into model heroes! A win for all sides.”

“But…” He could still hear the Slaughter croon in his ears, the screams of battle and bulletfire. “I’m not… I’m not a hero.”

“Regardless of the merit of that statement,” said the principal, “it is of little matter. The purpose of this is not to prove your worth as a hero, but to justify your staying at UA. Whether you truly wish to pursue this path means little, and is not a decision you must face now.”

Eraserhead sighed. “Principal—”

“I wouldn’t worry yourself with it, Phobos-kun!” cheered the principal with a wave of his paw. “Although I certainly would be focused on a new name, preferably one that won’t raise so many eyes during rollcall. Do you have any suggestions?”

This was too fast. Everything was- it was all moving far too fast, and Izuku was having trouble keeping pace. “My- name?”

“Yes, of course! You know, it is quite unlikely that we would be able to identify you by first name alone. You only have to falsify a family name, should that be your concern. And even then I find it highly unlikely that—”

Eraserhead groaned. “Principal.”

“Hm?” The principal’s whiskers twitched. “Oh, my apologies Aizawa-san. You’re correct, there is still much to discuss. It’s quite difficult, after all, to arrange the safety of a criminal on such short notice, wouldn’t you agree?”

That seemed to silence Eraserhead, who sank impossibly further in his chair. The principal just grinned.

“Oh! And that, of course, brings us to the matter of wardship.”

Eraserhead’s eyes snapped open as he straightened against the backrest. “No.”

“But Aizawa-san, I have not even—”

“UA has wardship designation, correct? Put him up in an apartment.”

“That seems particularly unwise, given his circumstances.”

“The dorms—”

“Will not be ready for months at least, even if we sped the process along.”

“I can’t- I’d have to talk to Hizashi—”

“If you truly haven’t already, Aizawa-kun, then you can consider me both surprised and greatly disappointed.”

Eraserhead made a strangled noise at that, but did not respond.

“Good!” The principal leaned over to rifle through some drawers, before popping back up with a folder grasped tightly in his paw. He handed it to Eraserhead, who accepted with a weary sigh. “Now that that’s all settled, we simply have to go through the process of properly registering your quirk, ensuring that your identity remains secure, keeping tabs on you both on and off UA grounds…”

“I- wait,” Izuku cut in, because there was no way in hell this was really happening, this was- he- the Spiral curling fractal patterns across his skin because this wasn’t real. This was just a trick, a lie, a fantasy conjured by his fractured mind and—

It wasn’t, though. Logically, Izuku knew that nothing he had ever imagined had been so… complete. Little things, maybe, words twisted out of context, injuries he couldn’t remember receiving, memories that Sensei would insist were false. Those, he could attribute to the Spiral.

This… this was too big. The Eye would never allow it, especially with how it pulsed and writhed within him.

“I can’t. I- they know who I am,” he said weakly, grasping at any reason this could not happen, because Izuku was many things but a hero certainly wasn’t one of them.  “Your students, they… saw my quirk. And me, they won’t—”

“I’ll be having a discussion with them,” said Eraserhead gruffly. “We’ll clear up any misunderstandings.”

“Misunderstandings,” Izuku repeated. “Mis- that’s not- that isn’t a misunderstanding, I—”

“Phobos-kun,” said the principal, a sharpness to his gaze that pounded in Izuku’s skull. “Is there something else bothering you? I must admit, this seems most optimal for someone in your situation, but if there is a factor we are not considering I invite you to share it.”

“I…” Midoriya Izuku was not a hero. Could never be a hero. Too tangled up in Sensei’s wire, mutilated pieces sewn together by the doctor’s careful hand until he wasn’t even human anymore. There had existed an Izuku who might have wept at the chance to even walk through these halls, bouncing on his feet at the prospect of learning at All Might’s alma mater. At learning from All Might, and didn’t that just twist the knife further?

That Izuku was dead. Had been for a very, very long time, buried in the rubble of his childhood home.

Now it wasn’t enough to be a hero—he needed to be useful. He needed to be- to be worth something, or Sensei would cast him aside with the others, left to rot amongst the dead-eyed faces that still haunted his dreams.

Sometimes, his fear was the only thing that kept him going, striving to be something better, something worthy of life beneath Sensei’s heel. But that was all there was for him—this, UA, it was a fever dream.

But it wasn’t as if he had any alternative. And… Sensei hadn’t come for him yet. So clearly, he wanted Izuku to be here… right? Wanted to squeeze some new usefulness out of him.

And so, past a throat stopped up with cobwebs, Izuku forced a smile. “Thank you for the opportunity. I won’t waste it.”

Chapter Text

“Who else knows about All for One.”

Toshinori froze in the doorway, that constant, gnawing pain in his stomach sharpening as he wearily dragged his gaze to Naomasa. The man looked as worn as he felt, which was certainly saying something. Fingers curled resolutely in his hair as he stared down at a veritable hurricane of scattered papers, interview notes peeking out from behind official incident reports, empty mugs of coffee dotting any bare scrap of wood.

Closing the door carefully behind him, Toshinori walked towards his friend’s desk and sank into a chair. “It hasn’t changed since the last time you asked.”

Naomasa huffed, not looking up from his notes. “Repeat it, then.”

“Alive? It’s you, myself, Gran Torino, and principal Nedzu. I’m sure there are select individuals within the Public Safety Commission who are also aware, but I find it unlikely that they know how our quirks are entwined.”

Naomasa nodded, jaw setting to a resolute line as he brought a hand down to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

“I… okay. One more.”

“Naomasa, what—”

“Just- just one more, Toshi, okay?” Another sigh, and Toshinori fought to ignore the simmering dread in his gut as Naomasa stared back down at his scattered files. “Is All for One dead?”

Scarlet crusted against his knuckles, burning agony ripping through him but he’d won, he’d won and what did it matter if the smell of iron would seem to haunt his steps for weeks after, if he could still sometimes feel that thick, itchy tug of dried blood around his fists? As long as he had won. As long as he had finally brought Nana’s spirit peace.

“Yes,” said Toshinori, and the certainty of it felt like One for All surging through his veins. “Yes, he is.”

A sigh. Naomasa looked at him, looked at him, and that boundless power fizzled away to nothing. Toshinori knew, knew it in the twisting of his gut and the aching hole where his flesh used to be, before Naomasa even opened his mouth.

“He’s alive, Toshi,” he rasped. “He’s… he has to be alive. It’s the only explanation.”

“No.” A breathless prayer, a hope crumbling in his clenched fist. “That’s not- he’s dead.”

“Truth.” Naomasa hissed the word between his teeth like a curse. “You’re telling the truth, but it’s- it’s not true. Toshinori he—”

“I killed him.” The grim finality of those terrible words ripped through Toshinori like a dull butcher’s knife, just as they always had. But Naomasa shook his head, and he could feel the cuts begin to sharpen, felt the blade whet itself against his bones even though it couldn’t be true.

“They ran a DNA test on the Noumu, tried to match it to the existing database. Do you know what they found?”

Toshinori shook his head, because he knew if he spoke Naomasa would catch it as a lie. It seemed he needn’t have bothered, though. His old friend deigned to tell him anyway.

“Multiple people. Multiple quirks. You have no idea how much the Commission is trying to cover this up, it’s- it’s insane. It’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”

A loaded silence, behind that last statement. Because they both knew it wasn’t true, but neither was willing to dispute it.

Still. Toshinori tasted that familiar iron tang against his tongue, and he fumbled for his handkerchief almost on impulse as frantic thoughts threatened to overwhelm him. Still.

“It’s not necessarily him,” he said. “It could just be… remnants. All that’s left of his influence.”

Even as the words rolled from his tongue they tasted of ash.

“It’s not just the Noumu.” Naomasa sighed, and Toshinori wondered how long he’d been sitting in this windowless office, how many times he’d stood to fetch a new styrofoam cup of cheap station coffee before giving up on it altogether, hunched over his work and too absorbed in seeking out those wire-thin connections to focus on anything else.

Then again, Toshinori really wasn’t one to talk when it came to unhealthy work habits.

“It’s- there was a boy,” continued Naomasa with some hesitance, sifting through his notes. “He was with the League, the only one we took in that actually seemed like he might know anything.”

“Yes, I remember. Green hair?” It had been a desperate scrap from the moment he’d entered the USJ, but Toshinori remembered the unconscious boy he’d carried to safety, along with a most irate Aizawa-san. “He seemed young.”

“He is young,” said Naomasa grimly. “But that’s not the problem, he- I think he has multiple quirks.”

Toshinori felt the words tumble from him before he had a chance to process them. “That’s not possible.”

“Yeah.” Naomasa laughed, hoarse with a bone-deep exhaustion. “Yeah. That’s what the kid said. But here’s the thing, Toshi. He lied.”

“He…” No. No, that wasn’t- the child was too young to know about All for One, even if he somehow was a villain that was- it wasn’t possible.

Toshinori felt a cough splinter in his chest, and hastily pressed the handkerchief against his lips as it wracked his body. The memory of grotesque fingers digging into his sides, of wind lashing scarlet furrows against his skin, of ash and smoke and blood clogging his throat with every labored breath…

It wasn’t possible. And yet.

“Toshi…”

“I’m fine.” Toshinori waved off Naomasa’s concern, tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket and pressing a smile against his face. “It’s fine.”

Naomasa eyed him critically. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“It will be, though. Because—”

“Because you’re here, yeah, I get it,” the detective sighed. Toshinori couldn’t quite repress a cringe.

“Ah, I wasn’t going to—”

“Whatever you were going to say, that was what you meant. Let’s just… god, I don’t know where to start with this.” Naomasa stared back down at the scattered papers as if they had personally offended him. “The case is already closed. Getting those files in the first place was enough of a hassle, but now that he’s supposed to be dead it’ll be impossible. Not that that would be much to go on anyway. We have no leads, no information, plus this whole mess with the USJ is just—”

“What about the backpack?”

Naomasa paused. Tired eyes met Toshinori’s. “What backpack?”

Toshinori shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The… backpack. That the young boy had, it was- there was a lot going on at the moment, but I remember thinking it was strange.”

As a pro hero, it was always worth it to notice when things were odd. That the child was there in the first place was reason enough to draw scrutiny, but the ratty backpack around his shoulders was also a bit of an outlier. Surely, if he was carrying such a thing with him, there would be something of merit inside?

Naomasa blinked. Looked down at his files. Dragged his gaze up once more with an expression of dawning horror that curdled in Toshinori’s own gut.

“Toshinori. There was no backpack.”

Izuku didn’t know what he expected from Eraserhead’s house. He’d… seen a lot of pro heroes’ homes, from both his work as Phobos and his activities as Confession, and most of them were… well. They were celebrities. That certainly painted quite a picture.

Even those who’d never quite risen high enough in the ranks for instant recognition still cashed pretty sizable checks depending on their agency, and Izuku had seen more “modest” homes than he could count, had watched heroes return to buildings many times the size of his childhood apartment and still complain that they couldn’t afford anything nicer.

And playing for the other end of the spectrum, of course, was the fact that Eraserhead was an underground hero. Izuku, admittedly, hadn’t trailed as many of those—mostly because it was more difficult, but also because, honestly, the crooked ones were much harder to identify. Months of work trailing an underground hero who appeared to be aiding a local druglord for a cut could all get flushed down the drain when it turned out the hero was only running a sting, intending to take down the whole operation.

Point being, Izuku really didn’t know what he expected, but a charming little apartment complex nestled in a firmly residential area certainly wasn’t it. The… the building had pink trim. Izuku discreetly eyed Eraserhead as he rifled for the key, but the man didn’t seem to pay him any mind.

Pink trim. Out of the whirlwind that was the past few weeks, he knew that was what would stick with him. Absolutely typical.

Nice place, though. He wondered how many heroes lived here, because the security was, while subtle, definitely enough to merit it. There was even a receptionist—a kindly old woman sitting behind a desk that exchanged a nod with Eraserhead as they passed by, barely looking up from her knitting project.

Socks, Izuku couldn’t help but notice. She’s knitting socks.

They were swirled with color, little purls of striking wool that flowed from the gentle click of her needles. And, of course, because things weren’t strange enough, Izuku could tell that they were sized for an adult.

No pictures of children or grandchildren on the desk, though she clearly wasn’t shy about personal effects given the skeins of yarn, the row of cat figurines, and a wall of… what appeared to be signed hero merchandise. Even Eraserhead was up there, name scrawled across his signature goggles where they rested proudly on a shelf.

So… no relatives. Who were the socks for, then?

This was pathetic. Izuku’s hands itched for his tape recorder as Eraserhead ushered him past, and was he really so starved that he would pick apart the home and habits of a harmless old woman?

Although… Izuku couldn’t help but notice the sharpness of her gaze, how it lingered upon him, causing the Eye to flutter beneath her scrutiny. There was a slight wrinkle in her clothes as well, the draping fabric folding oddly against whatever lay beneath, suggesting some kind of weapon… and Izuku did catch the faintest hints of gnarled scar tissue crawling up from under her collar.

The Eye was nowhere near sated, but it hummed, little scraps of knowledge only intensifying its hunger.

From the paraphernalia represented behind her, he could match almost all of it to heroes he knew. Some was more obscure—a scrap of fabric or a glint of metal that could belong to anyone. Others… it was mostly underground types, though a couple others dotted the shelves. The most public of them was Present Mic, signature shades practically screaming their presence next to Eraserhead’s goggles. But he seemed to be an outlier.

This building was intentionally unassuming, Izuku decided as Eraserhead led them towards the stairs—and he was unsurprised at that, trust an underground hero to avoid elevators whenever possible. He doubted the thing saw much use from any of the residents, save maybe the old lady.

Heroes lived here. Every hero represented on that wall had a unit in the complex, Izuku was sure of it. Just as he was sure that the gentle, harmless caretaker was as much of a smokescreen as the building itself.

Damn. And Izuku thought he was paranoid.

Although apparently all of that paranoia had been thrown out the window the instant they had an opportunity to bring an actual fucking villain onto the premises. Funny, that.

Eraserhead lived on the fourth floor—the top floor of the building. Izuku wondered if that was also intentional, if he’d chosen the top floor on purpose in order to make it more difficult for anyone to sneak in through the window.

“We’re here,” said the hero unnecessarily, pulling out his keys again to unlock the door. “Shoes off there. Don’t let the cat out.”

He had a cat. Of course he did. Honestly, Izuku was impressed that he managed to keep his hero costume so free of hairs.

As Izuku slipped off his shoes and Eraserhead locked the door behind him, he glanced into the rest of the apartment. It was well-furnished, a bit more… modern, than what he might have expected from Eraserhead. More furniture, useless knick-knacks, even vinyl records hung on some of the walls which was… well, that felt a little out of character. Eraserhead didn’t strike him as a music guy, and certainly not as someone who’d shell out cash on something so frivolous.

A few steps further into the apartment, and Izuku was met with a pleasant, open concept living room and kitchen, the two spaces separated only by a pristine, white marble countertop. In the living room there was the biggest fucking flatscreen TV that Izuku had ever seen. Sitting across from just- the rattiest fucking couch, it didn’t- the thing was practically threadbare, and surely it had once been a pleasant enough purple but age had faded it to a pale grey.

Izuku glanced behind him to see Eraserhead unwinding his scarf, obviously intending to rest it on a hook near the door. He looked away just as quickly, because the thought of the hero without his iconic weapon was just… weird, and uncomfortable. Like he was being let in on a secret he sorely did not deserve.

Instead he focused his attention back on the apartment, stepping a little further to get a better look into the kitchen… before stopping in his tracks.

There. Above the sleek, modern stove. Was a fucking wall hanging. That read, in English: Live. Laugh. Love.

Izuku was going to lose his goddamn mind.

The Eye hummed behind his forehead as his gaze began to flit idly across the apartment, collecting any stray scraps of information in the hopes of untangling this frankly baffling decision. The vinyl records he had already seen, a shelf full of cat figurines made sense given the real-life creature whose toys were scattered about on one of the carpets, a sleeping bag draped across the back of a sofa was also understandable, but- Izuku looked closer, and amid the cats he found a few birds, wings flared in flight or perched nimbly on the shelf. Another shelf held a few trophies, old awards for school talent shows and youth music contests. And, when Izuku glanced back at Eraserhead, watched as he wearily hung the scarf on a coat hook, he saw there was already a leather jacket hung beside it.

He was asking before he’d even registered it, the Eye forcing the question on his tongue as Eraserhead turned around. “Who—”

“Hey, Shou!” Izuku nearly jumped about ten feet in the air at the newcomer’s voice, whipping around to see an… oddly familiar face step into the living room, long blond hair tied back into a half-bun. His voice was loud, unabashed, and his hands gestured wildly before him. “Did you see Nakamura-san on your way in, because- oh! Right! What’s up! I’m—”

“Present Mic,” Izuku breathed, the Eye pulsing as the disparate threads weaved themselves into something tangible, and fuck he itched for the gentle whir of his tape recorder in his hands. “Yamada Hizashi, ranked 47^th in the last ranking season. Quirk: Voice. Requires support gear in order to regulate the intensity and direction of his quirk. Born July 7^th, 2132, and graduated from UA high school, class of ’49. Founder and main host of Put Your Hands Up radio. Severe entomophobia. Fluent in at least five languages including JSL and English…” Izuku paused, head tilting slightly as the Eye pressed against the inside of his forehead, blistering with white-hot intensity. “…married to Aizawa Shouta, also known as Eraserhead.”

Izuku blinked. Felt his mouth begin to twist at the squirming discomfort scrabbling against his skull, and he rubbed at his temples in a vain attempt to relieve some of that burning pressure.

There was a brief moment of silence before Present Mic let out a nervous laugh. “Haha, that is… really super! Not unsettling in the slightest!”

Izuku repressed a wince, offering a half-hearted shrug instead. “I… you’re in the spotlight, a lot. The Eye likes you.”

“Wow! Okay! Uh… thanks?”

Behind Izuku came the most exhausted sigh he had ever heard in his life.

“Hizashi,” said Eraserhead, laying a hand on Izuku’s shoulder and not so subtly pushing him through the apartment. “Meet… Phobos. Phobos I guess you’re…” another sigh “…already acquainted. Is this going to be a persistent problem?”

Izuku bristled and pulled away from the hand, crossing his arms. “Excuse me?”

“The quirk slips,” said Eraserhead dryly. He yawned, and made his way towards the couch. “You keep having them. Is it going to be a problem?”

“I- I’m not—”

“Because, seeing as how you’re now my student, apparently—”

“It’s not a quirk slip,” Izuku snapped, fingers pressed tight against his arms, enough to feel the bite of nails. “It’s- I just- notice things. Sometimes.”

“Whoa, hey there little listener, nobody’s mad at you or anything,” said Present fucking Mic, whose apartment he was in, because apparently that was a thing that was happening now. “What Shouta means to say, is sometimes we can have a little trouble with our quirks, right? No shame in that.”

Yes shame, actually. A lot of shame. Izuku couldn’t afford to be defective, that kind of thing chipped away at his usefulness.

“It’s not a quirk slip,” he muttered, though he did force some of the tension out of his shoulders and managed to pry his nails from his arms. “It’s… I really did just… notice. I can’t turn it off.”

A bit of a white lie. Izuku could, theoretically, “turn off” the Eye’s constant, gnawing hunger for knowledge, but doing so would mean indulging in far less pleasant fears. At least the Eye was useful.

Eraserhead glanced at him, before falling face down onto the couch with a huff. “You said married. How could you possibly know that?”

“I…” Izuku hesitated, tugging at his sleeves. While it was true that he was a naturally curious person—there was a reason he had an affinity for the Eye, after all—it also couldn’t be denied that the Eye did… give him a bit of a boost, when it came to that sort of thing. As well as a strong incentive to look.

“When you took off the scarf,” he said at last. “There was a chain. Present Mic-san has a matching one. They’re the same metal, and the same age… you don’t seem like the kind of person who would wear jewelry for no reason. So…”

Present Mic laughed. “Let’s cool your jets there for a moment, kiddo. I’m off-duty, so that’s Yamada to you, dig?’

“Uh.” Right. He was so not doing that. “Okay.”

“You noticed the chain,” said Eraserhead, voice slightly muffled from where he lay against the couch. “I only had my scarf off for a couple seconds. It’s barely even visible outside of my clothes.”

“I’m. Uh. Very observant.”

Eraserhead huffed. “Apparently.”

“Well!” Present Mic cheered, hands spreading out as if to showcase the apartment. “Welcome to our humble home! We have a spare bedroom down the hall, so we can get you set up in there in just a bit, er… Phobos.”

Christ. That was going to get very old, very fast. “Akatani.”

“Oh!” Present Mic cleared his throat. “Well! That was easy, I guess.”

Eraserhead peeked blearily over the back of the couch. “That’s not your real name.”

“It… could be.”

Another huff, and the hero dropped onto his face again. Izuku couldn’t hold back a snort at that.

“Okay then Akatani-kun, is there anything you’d like for dinner? I was thinking of throwing together something nice, seeing as how you’re our guest and all, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you or anything—”

“It’s fine,” said Izuku, because that ship had long since sailed. “Whatever you have just… I’m not picky.”

“Great! But, just between you and me, Shouta and I are super stoked to have you here, so how ‘bout you tell me your favorite and we’ll see if we can make it happen!”

Ah. Izuku felt his shoulders begin to curl up to his ears, the Desolation itching in his palms. “I… I’m not picky.”

Great. Real smooth, Izuku.

“I mean, uh-“

“No, that’s okay! Guess we’ll have to find you a real favorite food, then.” Present Mic leaned in with a conspiratorial wink before practically waltzing off towards the kitchen. “Shou!”

Eraserhead grunted.

“Soba okay?”

Another grunt.

“Great!”

And… that was that. Izuku was left standing between the kitchen and the living room, unsure of what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing.

He was in the home of not one, but two pro heroes. That… that had to be worth something, right? There must have been an office drawer, a lockbox, a laptop… something holding information valuable enough to keep him alive. Whatever Sensei wanted him to do here, Izuku was sure that standing around like a slack-jawed idiot wasn’t part of the equation.

Fuck, he was tired. And… hungry, now that he thought of it. The first strains of home-cooked food were just beginning to fill the apartment, and Izuku found he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper meal. He’d mostly subsided on street vendors and dollar store snacks, as of late. Perhaps when he was in Sensei’s good graces he might be treated to a feast, choking down food past the skittering sensation of spider legs up his back while Sensei just… watched. Made idle conversation that didn’t feel idle, though often Izuku couldn’t quite pick out the hidden meaning.

“I…” Izuku cleared his throat, trying not to wilt when Present Mic’s gaze turned back on him with a questioning hum. “Uh… my room?”

“Oh! Yeah, little listener, it’s just the third door on the right. Down that hall right there, can’t miss it!”

“…thanks.”

“No prob! I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

“I- right. Okay.”

He had a room. It was so big, it- what the hell was he supposed to do with this space? It felt like it could swallow him up. And the window, it was… he had a window.

The Lonely weighed heavy on his shoulders. Pathetic little Deku, giddy over a fucking window. He just… he’d never had a window. Pulling open the curtains—soft, pale green, with the faintest flower patterns stitched in a slightly darker thread that only revealed themselves upon closer inspection—Izuku peered out into the encroaching night, hands pressed against the sill.

He- he could have a plant, here. He’d heard about people doing that. For a moment he wondered if mom had had a plant, but he… couldn’t remember.

Gone now, anyway. Just like this if he wasn’t careful. The Desolation itched in his palms, threatening to scorch the off-white windowsill, and Izuku carefully arched his hands so that just his fingertips pressed against the wood. He shouldn’t get attached.

“Don’t open that.” Izuku nearly leapt out of his skin at the sound of Eraserhead’s voice, and it really was a testament to how starved the Eye—along with every other aspect—was, that he hadn’t felt the telltale prickle of eyes on the back of his neck. When Izuku whirled around with a start, Eraserhead just fixed him with an unimpressed gaze.

“There’s an alarm,” he explained, scratching idly at the stubble dusting his jaw. “Every window has one. This complex has good security.”

Right. He was still a prisoner, after all.

“Of course.” Izuku leaned back on his hands, and though he felt the muscles of his face begin to twitch towards a scowl he managed to smooth them to something resembling disinterest. “I saw, when we came in. Let me guess. The passcode is a combination of your birthdays?”

Eraserhead’s glare intensified, if that was even possible. This time, Izuku couldn’t fight the grin.

“Wow. I was gonna guess anniversary next, just so you know. So maybe don’t change it to that one either.”

Silence, and for a breathless moment Izuku wondered if he had overstepped. If Eraserhead was more Shigaraki than Kurogiri, or god fucking forbid another Sensei—

The hero gave a little snort. “Problem child,” he muttered beneath his breath, before turning without another word and leaving Izuku with an empty doorway, a racing heart, and a serious case of emotional whiplash.

Well. That was rapidly becoming a theme, wasn’t it.

Dinner was an exceedingly awkward affair, despite Present Mic’s best efforts. The food, of course, was excellent. Honestly Izuku couldn’t really fault the company either. Present Mic could talk enough for three people, an effortless conversationalist who knew exactly when to pass the mic to someone else. Eraserhead, surprisingly enough, also managed to hold his own, offering short comments about his day, observations about the UA first years, little asides that somehow had Present Mic bursting into raucous laughter.

The problem, of course, was Izuku. That was usually the case.

They wanted him to talk. It was so obvious that they wanted him to talk, pointed looks that only intensified through the Eye’s relentless lens, but he- he couldn’t get the words out. What was there to even say? Present Mic would make a joke about his radio station, Eraserhead would make a snide remark, Present Mic would react with faux betrayal, and then-

Then it was his turn. The briefest of lulls, and Izuku could hear it but- he couldn’t pounce, couldn’t pick apart the tangled mass of threads in his mind to something worth saying. So he just stuttered out an awkward laugh, felt the Lonely tighten around his neck as the conversation mercifully moved on.

He was an intruder, here, as well as a prisoner. He couldn’t forget that. Izuku had nothing in common with these people—by Sensei’s design or his own experience he didn’t know, although honestly at a certain point the distinction lost all meaning.

It turned the food bitter against his tongue, which was a damn shame because it really was delicious. Better than anything he’d had in a long while, but he didn’t really deserve it, did he? Izuku was too much of a fuck-up to have a seat at this table, and every painful second of stilted conversation was enough to prove it.

Pathetic, pathetic, but he wanted Kurogiri. The man never spoke much but at least he didn’t expect anything of Izuku, just offered a seat at the bar and didn’t complain when he spread his notebooks over the countertop.

Oh god, it was turning around to him again. The realization was enough to squeeze his ribcage around his lungs, dread clutching up towards his throat with slender fingers.

He just wanted to be alone.

And then he was.

Izuku’s first reaction upon slipping into that mist-swirled haven was an almost overwhelming relief. No expectation, here. No one to expect much of anything.

Second, of course, came the panic. The Lonely was heavy around his shoulders, leeching off his thoughts as best it could because it was hungry. Apparently he’d been spending far too long around other people as of late, if even the Lonely was acting up. Fuck.

Such a fuck up. Can’t even sit at a dinner table right, running away at the first sign of conversation, you really are going to be alone forever—

Okay. Not helping. Very much not helping.

Briefly Izuku considered just… staying there, for a bit, because above all else he was and always had been a fucking coward. That’s why no one ever liked him, whiny, useless little Deku—

Enough. Enough. As much of a comfort as it might be to sink into those thoughts, it wouldn’t do him much good now.

Better to rip off the bandage, face whatever punishment would inevitably fall upon him for this. At least, on the bright side, now he’d know what that punishment was. Izuku tore the Lonely from his shoulders and immediately pressed his hands flat against the table, eyes firmly shut and head bowed. No threat.

The instant the buzzing mist faded from his ears there was noise, loud enough to make his shoulders hunch.

“Holy shit, that’s- whoa. Whoa, okay. Cool.”

A heavy sigh. Izuku did not dare open his eyes, but he heard who he assumed was Eraserhead sink back into his chair.

Silence. He liked the shifting quiet of the Lonely better, without the fierce scrutiny of these heroes.

“Kid,” began Eraserhead delicately, though with the tone of someone who had just aged thirty years in the last ten seconds. “Did you mean to do that?”

Oh, great. A trick question. Yes would imply disobedience, and No would imply defectiveness. Izuku fought to keep his face under control and his palms flat, even as he felt the telltale spark of the Desolation begin to squirm beneath his skin.

Fuck it. He’d just have to go with the truth and see where it landed him.

“Not… really,” he managed. “It’s- um. No.”

“Okay.” Another sigh, then what sounded like someone slumping onto the table. “Okay. You can open your eyes, kid.”

“Oh, uh. Alright.” He did, squinting a little at the light, but not daring to lift his hands. Arguably those were the bigger threat, anyway.

“Did we…” Present Mic cleared his throat, casting a quizzical glance at Eraserhead who was, indeed, practically lying on the table. “Was it something we did?”

“No, no, it was just- it’s me. I’m sorry.” Bitter, ugly failure, useless little Deku—

“Which one was that, then?” asked Eraserhead, voice slightly muffled by his arms. He shifted his head slightly to peer up at Izuku.

“Uh. That was… the, um, the Lonely.”

Eraserhead’s shoulders tensed, before slowly easing back once more. “Hm. Did you feel… lonely?”

Always. But Izuku didn’t think that was what the heroes wanted to hear.

The heroes. Such a useless little Deku that nobody cares about, they wouldn’t even be talking to you if you didn’t have a quirk, wouldn’t have looked for you back then so why should they care now—

Oh. Izuku desperately wanted to scrub at his face, but he didn’t dare pick up his hands until it was permitted. Apparently that was still festering at the root of the Lonely. Great. He couldn’t foresee any problems arising from that in the future, when he was literally living with two fucking pro heroes. And going to UA. Where he would be taught. By heroes.

“Hey, kiddo? You still with us?”

He was so tired. Izuku looked up at Present Mic and forced his expression to remain even. “Sorry. Just… lost in thought, I guess.”

Were they not going to punish him? At all? Casting a discreet glance at Eraserhead, Izuku slowly eased his hands from the table. Nothing.

Instead the hero just sighed, pushing himself off of the table to lean back against his chair. “We’re going to have to figure this out. Your first assignment will be to list every aspect of your quirk and what you think the activation requirements are. Think about it tonight, you’ll start tomorrow.”

“I- wha-“ Izuku spluttered, but Eraserhead raised a hand to cut him off.

“If you’re going to be in my classroom you need to get a handle on your quirk. Otherwise you’re just a liability.”

Useless. Better if you just disappeared. The Lonely threatened to tighten.

Hizashi leaned forward across the table with an airy laugh. “Oh, loveable husband of mine, we’re going to be having a capital ‘d’ Discussion. ‘kay?”

Amazingly enough, Eraserhead’s gaze actually snapped from a weary indifference to something more alert, almost bordering on fear. “’Zashi what—”

“And as for you Akatani-kun, don’t beat yourself up about it, yeah? I’ll let you in on a little secret: I had quirk slips up until I graduated high school. Heck, I still get them from time to time. Sometimes that’s just how the cookie crumbles, you know?”

Izuku couldn’t stop staring. Which was… bad, because he knew the Eye could sometimes make his gaze unsettling—too wide, too blistering, and never quite blinking as much as he probably should. But it- this was Present Mic. The 47^th hero in the country was telling him that he lost control of his quirk sometimes.

You can’t afford that, though, and Izuku felt the Web spin silk across his back. You’re not like him.

Still. The Lonely eased off of his shoulders for a moment, hissing its discontent as Izuku forced himself to blink.

“Uh… thanks.”

Yamada beamed, and Izuku thought it might blind him. “No problem! Now let’s get you off to bed, yeah?”

Bed. Bed sounded really good just about then, so Izuku nodded and dazedly followed Yamada down the hallway, even though both of them knew full well that Izuku had already visited the room.

“Well, here you go! Sorry it’s a little bare, and honestly kind of small… it’s a guest room, but if you need something bigger then—”

“No.” Dear god, just the thought of it was… already Izuku knew the walls would stretch away into the darkness, leaving him adrift in an inky void. He coughed, avoiding Yamada’s gaze. “No, it’s, uh. It’s fine. Thank you.”

“Of course!” Yamada cheered without missing a beat. “Anything for our newest listener. There are some pajamas in the closet over there, hopefully they’re the right size but we ordered a little big just to be safe. Both of us are… pretty light sleepers, so just holler if you need something, okay?”

Izuku didn’t miss the threat that curled beneath those words, but he forced his head into a jerky nod. “Okay.”

“Great! Well… good night!”

“Good night.”

The door closed behind him, and finally Izuku was alone. The Lonely returned in force, with the Eye scrabbling furiously behind it. Izuku eyed the empty shelves as he changed into sleepwear.

If he just had his notebooks, maybe he could sate the Eye. As it was, being apart from them for so long made his fingers twitch for a pen, threatened to wrap static around his voice. Without recording what he saw, the Eye wasn’t able to feed with nearly as much efficiency.

Izuku flopped into the bed with a sigh, ignoring how shadows curled along the ceiling. The police hadn’t brought up the notebooks at all, so he assumed they’d somehow been destroyed at the USJ. And that… that really did sting, had the Eye snapping behind his skull so fiercely that Izuku pressed the heel of a palm against his forehead in the hopes of chasing any kind of relief. In vain, of course.

Sleep did not come easy to him, that night. When he finally managed it, his dreams were of tangled webs and lidless eyes.

Chapter Text

There was a certain quality to abandoned buildings meant for bustling crowds. An emptiness that tugged the Lonely tight around his shoulders and hummed thick static in his ears, echoing down hallways too wide for his small footsteps. It was the ghosts of shoulders bumping into his, the deafening silence of a too-large space, the subtle sense of creeping dread that something is wrong, like a world tugged just a few inches to the left.

Had Eraserhead not been walking beside him, Izuku might have suspected that he’d accidentally stepped into the Lonely’s embrace. As it was, he tried to ignore its pinprick hum needling at his skin and followed the hero closely down the empty halls of UA.

A hero school, he unhelpfully reminded himself. The hero school.

Izuku was dangling at the edges of Sensei’s web, squirming fitfully against the gossamer strands. Every kick, every tug, every muffled cry just sent rumbling tremors dancing towards the center, until finally those twitching mandibles would start to reel him in.

An offering. He needed an offering, one that could begin to atone for the magnitude of his failure. Anything to sate that bloated spider.

A shudder rolled up his spine, and Izuku ducked his head to Eraserhead’s sharp gaze. The man was far too observant for his own good. That kind of thing got people killed. It was never worthwhile, noticing the gun beneath a customer’s shirt, the muffled shout of a soon-to-be murder victim, the shadowed silhouette flitting down a nearby alleyway. Looking, that was one thing. But looking led to knowing led to oh god, oh god, why isn’t someone doing something about this?

Led to, oh. I’m someone.

Such an attitude had ended in more grisly deaths than Izuku could count. Had almost dragged him towards his own, but luckily the Eye was not his only shortcoming. More than anything, Izuku was a coward. Yes he was starved for knowledge, more than eager to consume that which might destroy him—but he still had sense. The Hunt ensured that he would run when needed, the End instilled him with that constant, creeping dread of looming death. Every fear that vied for his attention was another tug towards safety, no matter how terror-ridden.

It evened out, in the long run. The hardship was manageable, and the benefits too convenient to ignore.

For instance, the steady thrum of the Eye told him that Eraserhead was still staring at him, though the hero was quite adept at seeming like he wasn’t.

“Is something wrong?” asked Izuku past the cobwebs in his throat. Eraserhead was dangerous, but he’d never expressed a negative opinion on speaking out of turn.

The hero hummed, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and the Eye flickered as his gaze darted away. Caught you.

“You’re sulking,” Eraserhead muttered at last. “I’m not sure why.”

Oh, really? Izuku bit his tongue, because there were still limits that he wasn’t quite willing to prod, yet. Instead he took a breath, shifting his shoulders beneath the constant, comforting weight of the Lonely.

“I’m not sulking.”

Eraserhead sighed. “Okay. Upset, then.”

“I’m not a child,” Izuku snapped, shoulders hunching when that blistering gaze snapped back towards him. Instead of retaliating, however, Eraserhead just sighed.

“I’m… sorry. Hizashi has pointed out to me that I might be a little too… direct. With you. I’m not trying to make you feel…”

“Like a criminal?” asked Izuku dryly, and that won him a short huff of breath.

“Maybe.” He fiddled with something in his pocket, eventually pulling out a small container of eyedrops. Probably for his quirk. Not quite the goldmine of information he was looking for.

Come on, he was better than this. Never before had he been presented with such an opportunity, and here he was wasting it. Like fucking… requesting a bag of stale chips for his last meal.

Every step was a tightrope walk on silver threads, and he could never forget that. When the spider reeled him in it would be hungry. It did not know the difference between a feast of information and his flesh—or, rather, did not care to tell.

“So…” Izuku began, hating how the words echoed strangely down the hallways. “I’m… going to school here, then.”

“Yes.”

“That’s… neat.”

“It’s an opportunity to start over,” said Eraserhead pointedly. “Not everyone gets that chance.”

How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? Thanks for not sending me to jail? Or maybe, That’s great, but this isn’t the kind of second chance you think it is?

I’m a liar, and you shouldn’t trust me.

“I still don’t understand why I couldn’t stay at the apartment.”

Eraserhead shot him a withering glare. “Yes, you do.”

Wicked conversationalist, this one was. Not for the first time Izuku wished that he’d gone with Yamada instead. Present Mic was needed at the radio station, Eraserhead at the school. Such was the life of heroes, he supposed. Always buzzing about, never getting much done.

Still. There was a reason he’d gone with Eraserhead, and here he was squandering every chance he got. The hero was right, after all. Sensei, in an uncharacteristic act of mercy, was giving him yet another chance, one he needed to work out if he didn’t want to be another faceless body dredged up from the pier.

The End curled around his heart, cold and skeletal. Well. Eventually. He was sure there would be plenty of suffering to be had first.

Izuku repressed a shudder and shoved the End far, far away, waiting for his heart to thaw before seeking Eraserhead’s attention once more.

“Are you gonna give me a tour, then?” he asked. “This place is kind of big.”

“It is. You should try and familiarize yourself with it from now. It’s easy to get lost.”

Music to his ears. A wonderful excuse, should he end up somewhere he ought not to be. Izuku offered up a shaky smile, gesturing to a door as they passed by. “What’s in there?”

“A classroom.”

“…great. And in there?”

“Another classroom.”

Well. Wasn’t this fun. He bit back a sigh, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket and struggling not to let the Lonely overtake him. “Can I ask where we’re going?”

“Yes.”

Izuku sighed in earnest, narrowing his eyes when he caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Eraserhead’s mouth. So he was doing it on purpose, the absolute bastard.

The Eye pulsed behind his forehead at knowledge denied, even so small a scrap, and Izuku felt his mouth start to twist into a grimace before he forced it smooth. “Great. Good to know. Real helpful.”

They walked in silence for a little longer, static melting away to the sound of ocean waves that pressed up against his ears like sea shells. Soothing as it was, it definitely wasn’t a good sign.

Finally Eraserhead stopped in front of a familiar door, and even as he spoke Izuku began to recognize their surroundings.

“This is Nedzu’s office. There’s still some paperwork I need to complete, plus a few more details that need to be ironed out.”

Izuku coughed, shifting his weight and fidgeting with a jacket sleeve. “Could I… maybe go to the bathroom? While you’re doing that? Please?”

“Seriously?” Eraserhead groaned as his hand stilled against the door handle. “You’re supposed to be under supervision.”

“I…” Izuku felt his lips pull into a frown, shoulders hunching as that pinprick hum intensified. “I’m sorry, I just thought…”

“Kid, it’s not—” Eraserhead cut himself off with a heavy sigh. “Look, you’re not in trouble, just—”

Izuku twisted a finger around one of the many threads at the frayed edges of his sleeves, feeling it grow taut as he wrapped it tight across his skin. “No, I- I understand. You don’t trust me, it’s… I know what I am. It’s fine.”

A groan. Eraserhead let his head fall against the doorframe with a dull thunk. “It’s not that. Kid. I’m not trying to call you some kind of monster. You just need to be watched—”

“Because I’m going to do something terrible,” supplied Izuku morosely, winding the thread ever tighter around his finger. “I know. I- I’m sorry. I’m a villain, you’re a hero I- I get it.”

The thread snapped, and came away.

Another thunk. Eraserhead muttered something beneath his breath, and though Izuku wasn’t aided by the Hunt he could swear he caught Yamada’s name somewhere in the mix, along with a few choice curse words thrown in for flavor.

“Fine,” Eraserhead snapped at last, pulling his head away from the doorframe to settle into his customary slouch. He jerked his chin to their left. “Bathroom’s down that hall. There’s a sign, you can’t miss it. Come back here immediately. Got it?”

“Yessir.”

“Good,” said Eraserhead gruffly, pulling open the door with a wordless grumble. “Don’t get lost.”

“Yessir.”

The instant the door was closed, Izuku took off in the opposite direction from where Eraserhead had pointed, back the way they came. He could have sworn they passed some sort of administration office, somewhere they’d keep files and records, as well as a computer with access to the school system. As he made his way down the identical hallways his fingers twitched in his pockets, Eye fluttering behind his skull in its bitter hunger.

“Soon,” he muttered, as if that might soothe it. As if it could understand. “I’ll get you something. Just- ease up a bit, will you?”

And that pulsing pressure did fade, somewhat. Izuku didn’t know if that was worse.

Down a hallway, right at the second junction, then another right and- hold on. Wait, was he- no. Another right? That didn’t make sense, but then again, neither did a left…

As Izuku stood blinking at the center of an intersection much like the last five, he realized that he… might have actually gotten lost. Not on purpose, this time, a ploy to hide his snooping, but actually, truly lost.

“Okay, this is… fine,” he muttered beneath his breath in a vain attempt to quell his rising panic. “This is fine…”

He just needed to keep walking. All roads led to information, right? A cautious step had the Eye fluttering once more, and he let it rest at the forefront of his mind, let it hone his senses to something sharp, seeking out a path among these endless corridors.

It felt like the Spiral, almost. Not as twisting, not as painfully nonsensical, but still a maze that teased the mind with doubt and lies. Izuku felt those fractal patterns start to trace along his skin, and the Eye pulsed ever more fiercely, as if snarling at the intrusion.

Izuku winced, feeling very much like the rope in a cosmic game of tug-o-war.

“I’m not lost,” he muttered aloud, tracing the wall with a finger as he walked. “I know where I am. I know where I’m going. It’s just the between that’s hard.”

Unfortunately, Izuku had been living in that space between for most of his life. Grasping for any sort of solid destination only to have it slip from his fingers. Like a lure, and legs skittered down his spine. A fisherman’s hook to nowhere.

To somewhere.

Izuku couldn’t see the hand at the other end of the line, only the line itself. One spot of radiance in a void of inky darkness, and there was nowhere else to go.

At some point he had stopped looking, absently letting his fingers dance along the wall as a cautious hum built up in his throat, matching pitch with the static at his shoulders and the steady rhythm of the Eye. And then his wandering feet stopped, fingers catching on the edge of a doorframe.

He’d stopped looking, but he’d never stopped seeing. Watching, waiting, wide-eyed and unblinking even as he tried to look away.

Izuku stared at the sign on the door, rubbing a thumb across the bolded words before pushing it open with a heavy, static-tinged sigh. Teachers’ Lounge.

It would do. It had to.

The large room was blessedly empty, and if the static was any louder in his ears he might have thought this was the Lonely, that he had stepped into that empty echo of their world—but no. There was still life, here. The mists had not crept in to swallow sound and twist at voices.

Still, he needed to be mindful. The cold, unfeeling lenses of cameras were always watching, digging into his flesh and battering against his skull, and that next step into the gentle mists was right there…

Izuku tugged the Lonely close, head leaning back with a sigh as it settled heavy in his gut, a prickle running down his skin as if it were nuzzling him in goose-fleshed welcome, and that ceaseless buzzing faded out to settle around him, soft mists that swirled playfully around his feet.

Alone. What a relief, a balm to soothe the agony of a thousand eyes. He was better off here, with no one to hurt him, and no one to be hurt by him.

Another soft hum vibrated in his chest, and Izuku made his way towards one of the file cabinets in the corner of the room. The Eye fluttered open past that soothing swell of the Lonely, roughhewn static edging in on the roll of waves upon the shore.

Izuku let them intertwine, letting the tantalizing scrap of knowledge past this drawer as well as that distant whir of cameras watching over spur the Eye forward. The Lonely, he knew, he would not have to feed. It gorged itself often enough upon himself, and though it certainly whined at his better interactions with the heroes, nothing would ever truly dispel that lurking dread that he did not belong.

The Eye, though, was starving. That little stunt at the USJ had taken a lot out of him, and Izuku glanced up at the blinking light of the security camera, trying to figure out if he was in a blind spot. It was pointed more towards the door, so… maybe. If he moved one cabinet to the left… there. Maybe he was at the edge of its sight, but he’d do his best not to attract any undue attention. It wouldn’t be obvious, and it wasn’t as if they’d be scrubbing through security footage for every flicker of movement.

Izuku was still unclear on what did and didn’t translate over to the real world when he was enmeshed in the mists of the Lonely. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity to test it, either, so he’d rather play it safe and assume that opening this cabinet drawer would cause it to do so outside his little pocket of solitude as well. As for pulling out a file…? He imagined that would look very strange, a manilla envelope floating in midair. And he definitely knew that once he tucked an item into his jacket it was fully in his space, because he’d carried out quite a few assignments that way.

Actually… he’d pulled those kids into the Lonely, hadn’t he? Izuku had never done something like that before, never even thought to attempt it. Was it just a matter of will? Of purpose, and intent? The mists had always seemed to have a mind of their own, settling around his shoulders like a cloak of pins and needles, but… this was still his quirk, if only on a technicality.

Izuku thumbed through the files carefully, selecting a folder that looked promising and sliding it partway from the drawer. With a deep breath, he willed the mists to swirl forward, towards him.

The change was immediate. Instead of the lazy curl of fog, an ebb and flow that drifted around him, Izuku watched as a few tendrils of mist snapped forward, clinging to his skin like heavy dew. He felt them crawl up his arms in fitful shudders, hair raising in their wake as he pushed the Lonely onto this file, watched the static and fog eagerly consume it.

A triumphant warmth curled in his chest as he pulled the file out, leaping to his feet with the envelope raised above his head—

Oh. Oh, he was- dizzy. Very dizzy. Izuku felt the ground lurch beneath his feet, stumbling backwards as he hastily released his control on the mists and watched them settle back into their lazy ebb and flow.

“Okay,” he said, dropping roughly to the floor and pulling the file to his chest. “Okay, so I can do it willingly, but it’s… hard. It takes up a lot of energy, I need to…” he hummed again, a pleased lilt to the tune when it echoed strangely in the fog. “I’d need to feed the Lonely. If something this small was so hard, then… all those people…”

His fingers tightened, threatening to crease the paper. It really was a wonder he had lived at all.

“Maybe the Eye helped,” Izuku muttered, fingers twitching for a pen. God, he wished he had his notebooks. The Eye burned with the need to catalogue, to note his thoughts and hoard them somewhere safe. In the hopes of easing that pressure somewhat, Izuku idly flipped open the envelope, scanning the page for anything of interest. “I was feeding it a lot, I mean… just watching all of that happen, that was… and I used the Eye to find them, so it must have been involved. Maybe it was less, because it was both? Or maybe there was just so much fear… or is it possible that it’s easier with people? Because they can be afraid, maybe they- it’s like a battery?”

All at once, Izuku realized that he hadn’t absorbed any of the information on this page. He knocked a fist lightly against his buzzing skull with a groan. “Focus.”

There wasn’t time for this train of thought—he was on a budget right now. The longer he was gone, the more suspicious Eraserhead would become.

This file was dedicated to teacher schedules. Not particularly interesting at first blush, but Izuku was more than accustomed to weaving threads of data to a pleasing picture, patching holes with bolstered inferences. Much of the folder was loose sheets of paper, stacks of Leave Request Forms all filled out with names and reasons for the absence. Hero work - Mission was a common line. Most of them didn’t have specifics, but the implications alone were enough to make the Eye shiver.

He needed to record this, the urge was near overwhelming. Izuku would have preferred his tape recorder, but a scrap of paper would do—he flipped through the folder until he found a blank sheet of loose leaf, probably stuffed in by accident along with one of the forms. A pen was easy enough to find, and almost certainly too small for its disappearance to show up on standard security feed. Izuku didn’t bother commanding the mists to smother it this time, simply snatching it from a desk and tucking it in his pocket before settling down on the floor once more.

He made quick work of it, pen flying across the page as he jotted down the important details. Izuku had long since mastered the skill of shorthand, and the flutter of the Eye helped to sort the most valuable information from the rest, as always.

At last he was done, ink smudged faintly along the heel of his palm but otherwise unmarked. With a heavy sigh, Izuku tightly folded up the piece of paper and tucked it, along with the pen, into his jacket pocket. He then slipped the folder back into the file cabinet, rolling out his wrist as he did so. That much writing always strained his fingers.

“Aaand time to go.” He’d dawdled long enough. Eraserhead was sure to be pissed by the time they met up again, and though the Desolation sparked nervously in his palms at the thought, that was nothing compared to the looming threat of Sensei. That crushing expectation, the need to be useful or else find himself discarded as a lifeless husk… yeah. Yeah, he’d rather suffer Eraserhead’s wrath.

Izuku ducked into the hallway, hands stuffed into his pockets as he gradually eased the Lonely from his shoulders with a trembling exhale. The static shivered for a moment, mists nipping at his ankles before they drifted off into nothing, And suddenly the crushing weight of reality was upon him again, like a mob was pressed in around him, suffocating him even though he was alone in this empty hallway.

With a wince, Izuku tugged the Lonely a little closer, felt it hum contentedly as he adjusted to the real, far-too-crowded world.

The slip of paper was heavy in his pocket. Izuku didn’t know if it was enough. It was a lot, but for what he’d done…

Noumu.

Izuku shuddered, shoulders hunching at the memory of Shigaraki’s voice. Follow orders like a good little Noumu.

Maybe he was supposed to be like that thing. Maybe that was just the next step, a final bid to squeeze the usefulness from him. Maybe that was where the lure was leading.

Those lifeless, bulging eyes, pockmarked flesh that threatened to split with every ponderous motion. Crisscrossed thread, silvery wire all wrapped so tightly that it dug deep furrows into the skin.

Izuku shuddered. If there was even a chance, the faintest flicker of a hope that he could avoid that fate, he would take it. He’d been too rash, at the USJ. The full implications of Shigaraki’s words had no choice but to roll around in his skull, every angle of their meaning examined in painful scrutiny by the Eye.

Sensei had always called it a gift. Izuku had been quirkless, and now he wasn’t, and that was a gift. Forget the pain, the suffering, the constant choking fear. A gift.

The Noumu had several quirks, all jammed together awkwardly within a patchwork body. Izuku wondered how much that must have hurt. Whether that was a gift as well, in Sensei’s eyes.

He needed to prove himself useful enough without it. Needed to show that he could be something more than that witless creature, shambling husk of what used to be a person. He didn’t need quirk training, didn’t need to be fixed, he could be useful. He needed to be useful.

A man like Sensei would not accept anything less. Whatever misplaced trust these heroes had in him was just another thread to tug against, to twist to his purpose. That was it.

At the USJ, he’d made the near fatal mistake of caring. He couldn’t afford that again.

“Hey. Hey. You- you’re that kid.”

Izuku froze, hand stilling along the wall. When he turned he saw exactly what he expected to see—the purple-haired boy from the USJ, glowering at him from the other end of the hallway.

“Well?” the boy snapped. It was… god, what was his name?

A gentle pressure swelled behind his eyes, before it faded just as suddenly. Izuku forced an awkward smile, hands firmly planted in his pockets. “Hey! Uh, Shinsou, right?”

The boy’s scowl only deepened, and he closed the distance with his fists curled tightly at his sides. “You are. It’s- Phobos.”

“Well…” Izuku gave a half-hearted shrug. “I mean, yeah. That’s me! But I’m, uh, kind of going by Akatani right now—”

“Cut the crap. You’re a villain.”

Oh, this was just wonderful. And to make matters worse, it was as if Izuku could see the faintest flicker of spider thread drifting from Shinsou, heavy with dewdrops from the Lonely’s mist. He blinked, hard, to dispel the unsettling sensation, a little off balance from wondering what that could mean. Sometimes an aspect or two would gravitate towards someone’s quirk, or a fear that threatened to consume them, but… when it came to the people he usually dealt with, the culprit was the Desolation more often than not.

The Lonely, he could see. The Web… that gave him pause.

Shinsou’s brow began to furrow, posture shifting towards anger and oh, he’d said something, hadn’t he?

Izuku managed to cough up a nervous laugh. “Sorry! Sorry, um. I’m not really sure… what you want me to say?”

Shinsou actually rolled his eyes. “You’re a villain,” he said as if this cleared it all right up.

“I’m… okay? Sure?”

“And you’re in a hero school.”

“I- oh! Oh, no, I’m not- I’m just lost, Shinsou-kun—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Izuku coughed. “R… right. Sh…Shinsou… san?”

“Whatever.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t trust you.”

Izuku couldn’t help it—he laughed, a startled noise that bubbled up his throat. “Yeah. Yeah that’s, uh, pretty clear! Thanks!”

“It’s not like you’ve really given me a reason to feel anything else.” Shinsou narrowed his eyes. “They won’t… tell us everything that happened. But that mist, it was… it was you.”

Dangerous, dangerous, a threat he really couldn’t afford. The Lonely shuddered, heavy across his shoulders, but Izuku pushed both it and the Eye back for the moment with soothing platitudes. They were sated, somewhat. The Spiral was eager to snap forth in its place, having only gotten a taste of the endless maze that was UA.

Izuku shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets as the Spiral danced in twisting fractals across his skin. “You saw my quirk, Shinsou-kun.”

“Yeah.” Shinsou’s grip tightened against his own arms. “Yeah, I saw two quirks.”

“I…” Shit. The Spiral began to drift away, and Izuku had to bury the urge to wince. There were so many possible combinations of the aspects that he could explain away, but the Slaughter and the Eye… gritting his teeth into a smile, Izuku tugged the Spiral back to the forefront and ignored the gooseflesh writhing up his arms.

“A lot of things were happening, Shinsou-kun. Are you sure you weren’t just… imagining things?” Izuku plastered concern across his face, felt it turn sickly, saccharine. “Sometimes trauma can—”

“I wasn’t seeing things,” Shinsou hissed. “I…”

“It’s okay,” said Izuku with an understanding smile. “You did hit your head pretty hard… don’t you remember? It was bleeding a lot, I was so worried…”

“Stop. You’re lying, that’s- I know what I saw.”

“And what was that?”

“Two quirks, you- it was that song, and then the weird, creepy thing with your eyes—”

“But Shinsou-kun—”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Shinsou-kun,” repeated Izuku calmly, “that’s impossible. That can’t have happened. I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“You—” Shinsou cut himself off with a clack of his teeth. “Okay. Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, then fine.”

“Shinsou…” Izuku sighed, dutifully ignoring the tug of guilt as he let the Spiral dance across his tongue. “I feel like if I had two quirks, I’d be the first to know about it.”

Shinsou bristled. “The first to lie about it, too.”

“You’ve got me there,” said Izuku with an easy laugh. “But I mean… it does seem a little unlikely. Even you have to admit that. Like, I get that you don’t trust me, and that’s really fair! It is! But this is kind of just…” He waved his hand with a grimace. “It’s a lot.”

Doubt dragged at Shinsou’s face, his eyes flickering to the side, and Izuku felt the Spiral twist between his bones as he watched Shinsou try to piece together what he could actually remember.

Memory was a funny thing. Izuku knew that better than anyone, how easy it was to forget, to be so sure of something only to be faced with indisputable proof that you were wrong. To be lied to, by your own mind.

Bruises he couldn’t remember, cuts he could but had seemed to disappear, words branded into the inside of his skull that just- he didn’t- had it ever been real? Sensei was the only constant, and even then Izuku knew the man was lying to him, could feel it in that creeping sense of uncertainty, but what were his other options? He had no choice but to take Sensei’s lies as truth and twist reality to fit them.

Shinsou narrowed his eyes. The Spiral trembled.

“That thing had two quirks. More than two. That’s what the- the hand guy said.”

Even now, Shigaraki was ruining everything. The man truly had a gift.

Still, Izuku laughed. “Come on, Shinsou, Shigaraki is- I mean, he’s not really all there, right? He also said he was going to kill All Might, so… grain of salt? Maybe?”

“No.” Izuku grimaced as the Spiral snapped, fading back to trace spindly lines through his veins. “No, you’re a liar. You’re lying right now, why are you- what is your—”

“Akatani. Shinsou.”

Izuku couldn’t repress a wince as Eraserhead’s icy voice cut through the tension. Time’s up.

“Ah- Eraserhead-sa—”

“Aizawa.”

“…Aizawa-san.” Izuku cleared his throat, glancing at Shinsou, who was still glaring at him, so that was- that was great. “I, uh—”

“What,” Eraserhead practically growled, “was the one thing I told you not to do?”

“Um… get lost?”

“And what did you do?”

“Get… get lost…”

Eraserhead sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How did you even get here? It’s… Shinsou.”

Shinsou straightened, finally dragging his accusatory gaze off of Izuku, thank god. “Yes, sensei?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was…” It was Shinsou’s turn to fidget, shuffling his weight awkwardly from side-to-side until at last he raised his chin with a determined set to his jaw. “I was looking for you, sensei.”

“You could have just texted me. School is supposed to be closed.”

“But I—”

“I understand your wardship designation gives you certain clearance. If you abuse those privileges, they will be taken away from you.”

“Sensei—” Shinsou hissed, before cutting himself off and looking sharply to the side. “I… understand.”

“Good.” Eraserhead’s expression, impossibly, softened. Izuku watched in mounting incredulity as the hero took a step towards Shinsou and rested a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m not angry with you. It’s just that there are some security measures that Nedzu tends to put in place when the school’s supposed to be empty. Most of it should be smart enough to recognize you, but…” he let out a puff of breath “…I don’t want to end up scraping you off the walls.”

Shinsou snorted, shaking off the hand with a roll of his eyes, though his posture had lost some of its stiffness. “Don’t want to deal with the paperwork, more like.”

Eraserhead shrugged, the smallest uptick at his lip. “It can be two things. You’re lucky I was here for a meeting, he probably disabled most of the security. Just don’t snoop around in here when school isn’t in session. Some of these rooms contain sensitive information.”

Alarm bells started ringing in Izuku’s head just as Shinsou’s gaze widened, those pale eyes snapping back towards him and narrowing once more.

“Phobos was snooping,” he muttered, crossing his arms. Eraserhead sighed.

“We’ve been over this. Don’t call him that around your classmates.”

“His name, you mean. His villain name. Because he’s—”

“A child, same as you.” When Shinsou only winced, he gave another sigh. “Akatani.”

Izuku straightened. “Yes?”

“Were you snooping?”

The Spiral etched itself onto his jaw. “No, sir. I just got lost.”

“Great. Glad that’s settled. Shinsou, we’ll be escorting you back.”

Shinsou startled. “Wha- no. That’s- I can walk by myself—”

“Let’s go.”

“Sensei, you don’t have to—” he groaned as Eraserhead simply turned away, shooting a glare at Izuku. “This is your fault.”

“I’m literally just standing here.”

“You—”

“Shinsou. Akatani.”

Both boys scrambled after him, and Izuku ignored the blistering heat of Shinsou’s gaze by curling his fingers around that piece of paper, tucked away in his pocket.

It will be fine.

Whatever suspicions they had were inconsequential. He’d be pulled back soon enough.

Chapter Text

The instant they returned to the apartment, Eraserhead pointed at the kitchen table.

“Sit.”

Izuku bit back the I’m not a dog that blistered in his throat and did as he was told, fidgeting with his sleeves while Eraserhead disappeared into another room. When the man returned, Izuku was surprised to see a stack of loose-leaf in his hands, and raised a brow when he dropped it unceremoniously on the table.

“Am I supposed to do something with this?”

“Here.” Eraserhead fumbled through his pockets for a moment before pulling out a pencil and pushing it into Izuku’s hand. “We’re going to talk about your quirk.”

“Great,” said Izuku flatly, though the Eye fluttered at the familiar roll of a pencil between his fingers. This was bad, no matter how desperately the Eye urged him to write, to record every stray thought and press it to this crisp, blank paper.

Eraserhead didn’t move, just sat in the seat across from him and leaned back in his chair, regarding Izuku with a weary expression.

“Are… you going to sit there the whole time?”

“Evidently you can’t be trusted to mind yourself without supervision,” said Eraserhead dryly, and Izuku fought to keep his mouth from twisting in distaste. One time, and already the man’s scrutiny had grown ever harsher.

He sighed, tapping the tip of the pencil against the paper. “I talk out loud, sometimes. It’s annoying.”

Eraserhead shrugged. “I live with Hizashi. I can deal with annoying.”

“It’s- I don’t really want—”

“Would you rather just talk to me?” asked Eraserhead, scratching at his jaw. “Instead of thinking out loud? That could be less awkward for you.”

Izuku couldn’t help the scowl, couldn’t wrestle it from his face as he stared down at the loose leaf. “I… maybe.”

In writing, there was no way to trust the flow of his hand, what the Eye might compel him to record. He wouldn’t get as much out of a simple conversation, but it was definitely safer. The Eye rumbled its discontent as Izuku gently laid the pencil down, forcing his muscles to obey past the spike of pain through his skull.

“I’m…” He cleared his throat with a cough, mouth suddenly dry. “I’m not sure where to start.”

Eraserhead hummed, as if he was actually invested in this conversation. “I’ve only heard you talk about the… Flesh? And the Lonely. Maybe one of those?”

“Right. Uh- it’s kind of- boring. No one really wants me to talk about it—”

“None of the villains, you mean.”

Izuku winced in earnest, fingers reaching for his sleeves again. “Yeah, but- I mean, they’re right about that. It’s boring.”

“I’m asking you to talk about it.”

“Okay. I…” God, it was just his fucking quirk. He wrote down his observations constantly had notebooks jam-packed with the stuff. Izuku took a breath, imagined he could feel it swell against his ribs as he wound his finger around a stray thread. “Okay. So, the Lonely. It’s- um, actually, I guess I should start with- ah. I—”

“Take your time,” Eraserhead murmured, and though Izuku tensed he could find no indication of annoyance, or anger. Instead the hero’s voice was almost… soothing. Calm, without the heavy burden of vicious expectation. “Compose your thoughts, then start again.”

“Right.” Another breath. “Okay. My quirk is- it’s fear-based. I think you kind of know that, it’s- it directly feeds off of, and can manipulate, fears. Which is- I mean, I haven’t really tested it but it seems like it works best when it’s something the person is actually afraid of, but I can manipulate people into a new fear if I try hard enough, it just- it’s harder. And it takes a while?”

“So there’s a synergy, there. And you can force it, but it’s easier if you don’t.”

“Yeah.” Izuku nodded, fingers tapping restlessly against the table. “Yeah, like, the Flesh didn’t really want to feed off of you? But I could- with your injuries, I could shift the focus… it’s weird.”

“It seems a little out there,” Eraserhead admitted. “But it’s not entirely incomprehensible. I’m not usually afraid of body horror.”

“Right. Right, but you were, in the hospital.”

He gave a slow nod, brow drawn together in thought. “I was. In a way. And that… fed your quirk?”

“That aspect, yeah.”

“They’re distinct, then.”

“Yeah. Well- no. It’s—” Izuku groaned, crumpling up a corner of the loose-leaf between his fingers. “It’s complicated?”

When Eraserhead gestured for him to continue, he sighed.

“It’s… like this paper, I guess. If I- I can rip it up—” He tore a scrap from the corner, then another, letting them scatter across the table. “—but it’s still- I mean, it’s the same page? But, uh, not even that separate, more like…” He squinted down at the table, nose wrinkling as he crumpled up the whole sheet into a loose ball. “It’s all tangled together, they bleed into each other, but there are still… faces. Like, you can see the edges, kind of… I don’t know.”

Bafflingly, Eraserhead nodded. “How many aspects are there?”

“Fourteen.” Izuku dropped the crumpled piece of paper. “Each one represents a different fear. Kind of.”

Eraserhead let out a short huff of breath. “You don’t have to keep saying kind of, kid, I get it. This is all very loose.”

“Yeah, well. There’s… the Lonely. That’s the, uh, I guess it’s invisibility? Functionally, anyway.”

Eraserhead shifted in his chair, mouth twitching into a frown. “That… place. You said that was the Lonely? It’s a location?”

“Yes and no. It’s a state of being.”

“Of being alone,” Eraserhead supplied dryly. Izuku couldn’t hold back a snort.

“Basically, yeah. It kind of just… removes you. Isolates you. You still exist, but it’s separate, like… the other side of a mirror.”

“And you somehow brought us all there? In the USJ?”

“Yeah, I, uh.” A nervous laugh bubbled in Izuku’s throat, and he tugged a hand through his hair. “I’m not really- I’ve never done that before. I’ve brought things into the Lonely, but it was never on purpose, and…” He thought back to the folder, how the mist had snapped to his will. “Yeah. Well. It takes a lot of energy, apparently, but I can.”

“Time was distorted. The perceived duration spent in that place was different for everyone involved.”

“Really?” The Eye pulsed at the information, and Izuku couldn’t help the way his gaze darted up. “That’s… fascinating. What was the determining factor? Or- it was probably fear, I’d imagine that- I mean, the Lonely naturally would feed off of a sense of isolation, anyone who doesn’t feel that would find it easier to shake off the mist, and- would this confirm that they acted as a battery? I wouldn’t be able to sustain something like that normally, but if I somehow made it self-sustaining then- what was the longest? The shortest? Was there—”

“Akatani.”

Izuku froze, ignored the hot press of the Eye as his shoulders began to hunch. “I- sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” said Eraserhead matter-of-factly, as if he actually believed it. “I was just losing you for a second, there.”

“Right. Sorry, I- I can get carried away sometimes.”

“So I’ve noticed. That’s also your quirk?”

The space behind his forehead burned, as if his skull might splinter at the pressure. Mouth twisting, Izuku rubbed the heel of his palm against the point of pain. “Yeah. I, uh… guess I kind of did that when I first came in here, too. With… Present Mic—”

“Yamada,” corrected Eraserhead mildly.

“Y- Yamada-san. Sorry. It’s uh…” Another breath, and he could do this. Enough information to seem useful, but not enough to make him obsolete in Sensei’s eyes. Just another delicate tightrope walk in the series of gossamer threads that was his life. “It’s the Eye.”

“The… Eye.” Eraserhead huffed. “Let me guess, fear of being watched?”

“Yes… kind—”

“Kind of, yeah, I get it.”

Izuku forced a weak smile. “Sorry. But- it’s the fear of being watched, but also of being known. Being seen, it’s- that fear that someone can look at you and know you for who you are.”

Eraserhead hummed thoughtfully, tracing a finger along the wood. “And what does that do?”

“It’s- well. I can see through other people’s eyes.”

His finger stopped it’s gentle pattern. “Explain.”

“Well- I—” Izuku tugged at a particularly stubborn thread, the sound of tearing fabric filling his ears past the noisome static. “If I, uh, see someone’s eyes, in person, I can… look through them? Just, I don’t know how else to explain that…”

“That sounds…” Eraserhead paused, and when Izuku looked at him he saw a struggle of composure, a man fighting to find the words that would mask his discomfort. “I imagine that would be useful.”

“It… is,” said Izuku carefully. Not as if they could do anything about it, short of killing him. Or… blinding him, actually. That might work as well. His eyes smarted at the thought, and he blinked rapidly to clear them of pinprick tears.

“At the hospital, you said something about needing my eyes. That’s what you meant?”

Izuku nodded. “I need to see them. In person, without any coverings in the way.”

“And… now you have.”

Izuku tried not to grin, to reveal how the Eye reveled in his simmering discomfort, in the idea that at any given moment he could be watched. Finally—not the feast he was looking for but at least enough to tide him over.

Eraserhead sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with the barest hint of a scowl. “I assume there’s no way to undo that.”

“Short of blinding me, no.” Fuck. Izuku resisted the urge to slap a hand across his mouth, fingers instead tangling themselves in his jacket sleeves once more. “I mean—”

“No one’s going to hurt you, Akatani.”

So sure. Almost as if he meant it. Izuku forced a laugh.

“I know,” he lied, “it’s just- sorry. Things kind of… slip out, sometimes. With the Eye.”

“I’ve noticed,” Eraserhead said dryly. Before Izuku could overthink that, the hero sighed, slouching in his chair. “Moving on. You’ve mentioned the Lonely, the Eye, the… Flesh.”

“Fear of being eaten. And also, um… just being meat, I guess.”

“…right. Of… course it is.” Eraserhead rubbed his hands against his face with a groan. “Fear of being eaten. That’s. You understand that that sounds…”

“Horrifying?” deadpanned Izuku. Eraserhead snorted.

“Yeah. Yeah, it really does.” He sighed once more, muttering as if to himself. “Being meat, what does that even… okay, kid. That’s three. You said fourteen.”

“Um.” Izuku fidgeted, glancing at the clock. When was Yamada supposed to be home again? “I, uh. There’s the Desolation.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“It’s the fear of pain. And… destruction. Losing everything, it’s- just the- the bad things about fire. None of the light and warmth, just… burning.”

“Great.” It did not sound great. “Fantastic. And that lets you…”

“Oh! Right, it- well.” Izuku held up a hand and let the Desolation spark in his palm. “Just heat. You know. Pretty basic, I guess.”

Eraserhead didn’t blink as Izuku picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper in his hand and almost immediately burned it away to ash and cinder. “How hot can it get?”

Izuku shrugged, trying to ignore how the Eye pulsed at that knowledge lost. “Haven’t tested it. But… pretty hot. Enough to melt plastic.”

“Enough to melt steel?”

Izuku paused. The… the bars of his cell, they’d been warped by heat, hadn’t they? Not quite molten, but stained with soot from where his desperate fingers wrapped around the metal, glowing white-hot beneath his palms until the pain forced him back.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s fine.” Eraserhead ran a hand through his hair, tucking it back behind an ear. “Next?”

“The…” Fuck, this was becoming a treacherous tightrope to navigate. The Stranger and the Spiral were too useful to give away, and the End was obviously… he couldn’t give that up. The Web wasn’t a great pick either, with how dangerously it steered his thoughts towards Sensei…

“On the rooftop,” said Eraserhead, mercifully cutting into Izuku’s swirling thoughts, “I thought you had some kind of transformation quirk.”

“Oh!” Perfect, perfect. “That’s the Hunt.”

Or… maybe not so perfect, judging by how Eraserhead’s lip twisted. “The Hunt.”

“Y- yeah. Fear of, well. Being hunted. Feel like that one’s… that one’s pretty obvious…”

“And you—” Eraserhead cut himself off with a frown, as if testing the words on his tongue and finding them distasteful. “You’ve… been hunted.”

It wasn’t a question. And yet, Izuku didn’t quite know how to answer it.

Feet pound silent thundering in his ears, the baying of hounds springing free like static across his skin, phantom teeth nipping at his ankles as the salty taste of blood on teeth on tongue—

Prey-fear, coursing through his veins. Weak and desperate. Sprinting on sprained ankles and bruised toes, the catch of sharp thorns on skin wind deep salt fresh taste of—

At last, Izuku shrugged. “I guess I could see how you’d think it was a transformation quirk,” he replied instead, a non-answer that still said all too much. “It enhances the senses. More animalistic, I guess. I get the features to go along with it.”

Eraserhead stared, gaze narrowed, before letting the matter drop with a reluctant nod. “That tracks. I suppose those fluffy ears had to be good for something.”

Despite himself, Izuku felt his face heat. “They’re- it’s just a side-effect of the quirk. I do hear better, they- it’s not my fault they’re fluffy.”

Eraserhead huffed. “Relax, kid. I didn’t think it was such a sore spot.”

“It’s not, I just…” Izuku trailed off into an incoherent grumble, absently tracing a thumb over the shell of his ear to assure himself that the Hunt hadn’t somehow snuck up on him during this conversation.

Shigaraki called them cute. They were not cute. They were- he was a hunter, something to be feared, it wasn’t—

“Are you still thinking about it?” Eraserhead raised a brow. “You have a complex.”

“I—”

“What are the others, then? Just- I don’t need the details right now, but just list them for me.”

“Oh, uh.” Izuku hesitated, but… it wasn’t as if this would actually reveal anything, right? The fears and how they manifested could often be… a little esoteric. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, counting off on his fingers.

“There’s the Web, the Spiral, the Stranger, the… End, the Slaughter, the Dark, the Corruption, the Buried, and the Vast.”

Izuku swore he caught Eraserhead’s eye twitch. “How do you come up with these names, anyway?”

A shrug, the barest hint of a grin tugging at Izuku’s lips. “I have a lot of time to myself. You start to think about these things.”

Also, the names just… fit. As if the fears called out to them. But Izuku didn’t want to touch that aspect of his quirk with a ten-foot pole, not around Eraserhead.

The hero groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache. “Okay. Let’s just… rapid fire. I’ll say the- the name, and you tell me what it’s a fear of. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“Great.” Eraserhead sighed. “Down the list, I guess. The Web.”

“Manipulation.”

“O…kay. Just—”

“Do you really want me to get into it? I thought you said rapid fire.”

Eraserhead grumbled something incoherent, but relented. “The… spinning…?”

“The Spiral,” corrected Izuku, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Fear of lies. And madness. Like… your senses lying to you.”

Eraserhead nodded. “The Stranger.”

“Uh… things that are uncanny. Not quite human. Familiar but… not.”

“Wonderful. The End.”

“Death.”

“Makes sense. Slaughter?”

“War, violence, but like… unpredictable. Unmotivated.”

“And that’s…” Eraserhead sighed. “That’s different from the fear of death… how?”

This time Izuku rolled his eyes in earnest. “It just is.”

“…thanks for clearing that up. Okay, fine, the- okay, the Dark, I think I can get a handle on that myself. The… Corruption?”

“Bugs. And, uh, rot. Also… disease? And, uh…”

“I think I got it, thanks,” said Eraserhead dryly, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I wouldn’t mention that one around Hizashi.”

“Yeah.” Izuku flashed a nervous grin. “I, um. I gathered.”

“Buried, I also think I can—”

“Claustrophobia, choking, drowning, being buried alive—”

“Yes, I understand. I get it.” Another sigh. “I’m assuming the Vast is… the opposite of that.”

Izuku nodded, skull buzzing with the need to speak it. “Agoraphobia, but also heights and falling, and just- also just the sense of- of how small we are, in the universe, just- so insignificant—”

“Wow.” Eraserhead scratched idly at his jaw. “How existential.”

Izuku winced, feeling his shoulders begin to hunch. “It’s um. Fear. Sometimes it’s existential.”

“Unfortunately.” The hero stretched his arms above him with a harsh exhale, glancing over his shoulder at the clock. “Hizashi’s here.”

Izuku’s nose wrinkled. “Wha—”

He nearly seared fingerprint burns into the table when the door slammed open.

“HONEY I’M HOME.”

Eraserhead slumped onto the table as Yamada skidded into the kitchen, feet almost sliding out from under him as he slipped on the hardwood.

“Where is my husband! Where is he! I missed him!”

“Somewhere else,” grumbled Eraserhead, and Yamada let out a dramatic gasp.

“What? Where could he have gone?” Yamada looked to Izuku, who felt very much like a deer snared in too-bright headlights.

“Uh…”

“Listener! We need to find my husband! I’ll go print out fliers, we’ll need some kind of descriptor, hm…” Yamada tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin before giving a crisp snap. “Oh! Of course! Grumpy homeless man, looks like he hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours at least, hair smells suspiciously like stolen conditioner—"

“I said I was sorry.”

“…oh? What was that? Who was that speaking?”

Eraserhead sighed, longsuffering, and tilted his head slightly to peak at Yamada from between strands of hair. “Someone who’s very annoyed right now.”

“Shouta!” Yamada cheered, rushing forward to drape himself over his husband, practically crushing him onto the table. “It is you!”

“I want a divorce.”

“Then I get the cat! She likes me better anyway.”

Eraserhead shifted, looking truly offended for the first time since Yamada entered the apartment. “She does not.”

“She does!” Yamada practically sang, pulling himself from Eraserhead with a blinding grin. “She slept on my side of the bed last night, which means she likes me better.”

Eraserhead scoffed. “That’s because you’re a furnace.”

“Doesn’t change the facts, Shou!” Yamada stuck out his tongue, walking back towards the door only to return with a few bags of takeout. “Look! I made dinner!”

With a snort, Eraserhead reached forward to clear the table, and Izuku rushed to help him. If the hero noticed as he stuffed a few crumpled sheets of loose-leaf into his jacket pockets, then he didn’t comment on it.

Dinner was… loud, but not quite the nightmare of before. The Lonely fed well enough, as always, but it didn’t feast, didn’t force itself upon his shoulders to spirit him away from the rest of the world. The conversation didn’t drift towards him as often, the two heroes seemingly content to speak amongst themselves, this time.

Izuku knew that they probably felt bad about the other night. That they didn’t want to pressure him, that they’d rather let him talk at his own pace.

It still felt lonely. Comfortable, but lonely. Like he was a ghost at this table, silent and watchful, and unworthy of anything more.

A familiar feeling, but the solace only spread so far. The Eye was hungry, and it did not relish in this as it might have once, instead snapping for more, prompting him to probe, and pry, when the Lonely’s grip was already vise-like around his throat and he- he couldn’t speak.

He didn’t belong here. The Eye scrabbling at his skull was proof enough of that, forcing him to note the harried glances cast his way, the soft words exchanged behind his back as he was all but escorted to bed, how he hadn’t even seen this mythical cat because it was, like most animals, too afraid of him to even stand his presence.

When Izuku finally sank into bed he felt worn, afflicted with a bone-deep exhaustion that he knew no sleep would ever remedy. The pulsing behind his eyes assured him that he would not rest tonight, and the twitching of his fingers was an acrid reminder that his little chat with Eraserhead was a poor substitute for his actual journals, those detailed archives of everything he knew now lost.

That… that left a bitter taste on his tongue. It explained why the Eye had been so… moody, was one word he might use. Vindictive was another. Lashing out, forcing words through his lips and pressing tightly against his skull. Out of every aspect, it had suffered the worst loss—not just starved, but mangled, chunks of knowledge ripped from his very flesh.

Difficult to put to words how important something was, until it was gone. Izuku supposed he could pass the night trying.

At least this might be better than the dreams.

Chapter Text

The Eye was hungry.

In the day he could ignore it well enough, as well as keep it sated with scraps of knowledge, scraps of fear. At night, with no eyes to burn into his skin and no journals to stain his hands with ink, there was nothing but that constant, clawing hunger.

Izuku rolled over on the bed, pulling the blanket harshly over his head before heat overwhelmed him and he threw it off again. He threaded his fingers tightly through his hair with a groan.

“The Lonely never gives me this trouble.”

A discontented throb answered him, and he hissed in pain before continuing.

“Neither does the Spiral. Or the Stranger. Or the fucking- the Corruption, I hate the Corruption, fucking… bugs. Bugs. But no, I have to deal with your bullshit.”

Predictably, his headache spiked once more, prying a choked gasp from his throat. “Fuck.”

Slamming his hand on the mattress once, twice, three times, Izuku pushed himself up until he was sitting, and blinked.

When he opened his eyes, there was only darkness. Yamada was sleeping, then. His temple throbbed.

Blink.

The cool city skyline greeted him, scraps of fabric flickering into view before retreating once more. Through the slits of Eraserhead’s goggles, Izuku could make out shifting shadows on the streets below.

He closed his eyes, fighting the rising vertigo as he swung his legs out over the side of his bed and pressed his feet firmly onto the ground. There just wasn’t any way to function like this, and without his notebooks and the gentle rasp of a tape recorder he was subsisting on small, insubstantial bursts of power that only left him feeling more starved than before. And now he was paying the price—his skull felt as if it might split open at any moment, the Eye pressing so fiercely that Izuku could almost imagine the sticky warmth of blood at his forehead.

There was nothing for it. Izuku needed to go out, needed to be Confession. Just for a little while, just to tide him over. He- fuck, he didn’t even have his camera anymore but… anything would be better than this. Stewing in his own suffering, lying there as his quirk rattled in his skull.

If Yamada was asleep, and Eraserhead was on patrol, he had a pretty good window of time.

He called the Spiral up to rest just above his skin and felt it prickle senselessly along his arms as he reached for the doorknob. Hesitant, Izuku rested his palm against the cool metal, the aching pulse of those endless corridors crooning from just beyond the fragile wood.

This was a risk. The Spiral was inconsistent at the best of times, time stretching past reason only to snap back to seconds. That, Izuku could afford. Hunger might claw harshly in those long tunnels, but true starvation was never a concern. Izuku had spent days, weeks, months wandering those halls, and though his lips grew cracked and dry, his head pounding with exhaustion, thirst, hunger, and beyond it all a very real, pulsing fear—he had reached the other end intact.

Usually it didn’t come to that. Izuku… fractals twisted in his gut, up his arms, but while the Spiral feasted on his fear of honeyed tongues and tattered memory, it had never grown so fat as when he had first manifested it. Hospital halls. Blank and same-faced, white lights that blinded him as he padded across tiled floors.

Endless. Endless. The occasional flicker of movement around the next corner the only thing to keep him company. Tricks of the eye, tricks of the mind.

Things weren’t so dire, anymore. So when Izuku twisted the handle, his fear was mostly of how time might stretch between those hallways, distance growing muddled as seconds turned to days.

Hopefully, this would be a typical experience. He might gain or lose an hour, but it was nothing he couldn’t afford. Unfortunately that was relying very much on luck, and Izuku… he’d never put much stock in the stuff.

The Eye squeezed at his temples, a pressure that felt as if it might crack bone and split his skull asunder. Izuku couldn’t quite choke back a gasp as he stumbled forward through the open door, hand darting up to stem the faint trickle of blood that he knew would be streaming from his nose.

Before him lay the twisting halls of the Spiral. Since his “promotion” from lab experiment to part-time lab experiment, the décor had shifted, somewhat. Dull, less stinking of antiseptic and bitter chemicals. The floor was tacked with threadbare carpet, just the right shade that any dark stains could be willed away as tricks of the light, shadows thrown across the floor.

And the doors. Izuku felt a shudder splinter through his skin as he pulled the bedroom door shut behind him, feeling reality fade away with a dull click. The doors that lined the hallway, he would not open for anything in the world. Only his door would suffice, his destination, however far that might lie.

The faint hiss of nails on plywood, screech of nails on metal, that was enough to be a figment of his imagination. Any whispers that drifted from beneath those battered doors were a natural consequence of silence pressing against his ears.

Izuku took a breath, shoulders setting resolutely as he started down the hall, destination fixed in his mind. This was a place of delusion. Best not to trust it.

“Upside,” Izuku murmured to himself as passed a door that might have trembled on its hinges, though when he fixed it with his gaze it snapped back to a stoic stillness. “At least the Eye can’t bother me in here.”

Not much of an upside, honestly. Where the Eye had pulsed, the Spiral itched, feather-light nails dragging across his skin in dizzy patterns that made his fingers twitch. The Spiral always left him off balance, vaguely nauseous as he struggled to find purchase on a ground that spun beneath his feet. Here, his innate desire for order, for sense, only left him vulnerable to the crippling fear that there was none.

Cataloguing only made things worse. Looking for any kind of reason only made things worse. The first few times Izuku had accidentally ended up in here, he’d tried to map out the halls in one of his notebooks, only to find himself faced with the choking horror that his map was wrong, drowning in uncertainty as he scribbled line after desperate line, trembling hands eager to map an impossible space.

Now, Izuku knew better. When he found himself taking too many left turns, he didn’t busy himself with the did I just walk in a circle? When a shuddering, grinding sound of stone on stone rumbled in the floor he didn’t even consider the are the hallways moving?

When a hall stretched before him, door tantalizing as it drifted just beyond his grasp, Izuku did not falter in his step. Refused to wallow in the why, the how, the creeping, restless fear that this can’t be happening this can’t be real it’s not possible—

Cool metal greeted his palm. Izuku took another breath, feeling the Spiral simmer and snap in his veins as he prepared to tug it back beneath his skin. Izuku twisted the doorknob, and stepped out into the night.

Fresh air greeted him, his breath escaping in puffs of mist as he nudged the door shut behind him and tugged his jacket tighter around his chest. Wearily, Izuku glanced up at the sky, eyes squinting as he mapped the distant stars.

Izuku breathed a sigh of relief. A few hours in the Spiral had turned into a half hour, give or take. That was perfectly manageable.

As those twisting fractals faded against his skin, however, the Eye redoubled its efforts, blistering pain swelling just behind his eyes while Izuku pulled up his hood, mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Almost,” he murmured to himself, wincing at the snapping, snarling response. “Be patient. Almost.”

Blink, and gray fabric whipped before his sight, blink, and a flickering computer screen seared itself into his retinas, blink blink blink until finally Izuku forced his blurry vision back towards the dingy alleyway beneath his feet, hands pressed against the exposed brickwork of the walls as he gasped in shuddering breaths.

The cold air was knives against his lungs. Distantly, Izuku was aware that he was trembling, fingers twitching against the brick.

“Please,” he hissed, screwing his eyes shut tight against the onslaught of pulsing pressure at his forehead, the twist of his gut as the Spiral seized upon his weakness, palms sparking hot against the wall when his pain called forth the Desolation. “Please. Quiet, just- ten seconds of quiet. I’ll get it. I’ll get it.”

Useless.

Left to his own devices for a week, a week, and look where he was. Shivering in an alleyway amongst discarded needles and broken bottles, nose streaming crimson as he pleaded with the fears stuffed inside his skull. An addict desperate for the next fix.

That’s all he was, without Sensei. This was as good a reminder as any.

Mercifully, Izuku felt those cobweb strands begin to wind around his limbs, legs scuttling up his back as spider silk threaded through the fractured fragments of his quirk and stitched him back together. Patchwork, messy, and toeing the wrong side of human, but together all the same.

Choking on cobwebs, Izuku opened his eyes to see the shimmering threads of the Web stretching out before him. Never before had he been so relieved to find himself snared in its grasp, and for a moment Izuku let himself gaze at the spindly wires stretching out from his chest, let himself bask in the utter helplessness of what he was.

Most people had more threads than him. This made sense, of course—most people had friends, coworkers, faces they could never name but passed every week as they waited in line at the grocery store.

Izuku… he had Sensei, a thread that was thick and yet wire thin, wrapped so tightly around his neck that sometimes he could hardly breathe. Shigaraki, Kurogiri, the doctor… winding through his ribs and twisting in his organs.

Newer, paler lines had joined those constant few. Villains he had met in passing, already fading away to nothing—although, oddly enough, the line he recognized as being from that scarred man was still wrapped loosely around his wrist. Then there was Eraserhead, Yamada, all of the kids he had saved in the USJ, their threads beaded with heavy dew from the Lonely’s mists.

The heroes he had taken in as Confession. Those were strong as well, threading through his jaw, twisting oddly behind his eyes.

And one more. Thin. Spectral, ghosting along the cracks in his skin and stitching through the faded burns across his back.

If Izuku had ever doubted that his father didn’t even care enough to think about him, well, there was the proof.

He was interested in none of those, however, and instead grasped a pale thread that hung loosely from his arm, winding it tight around his fingers to feel the simmering anger that thrummed across the strand.

Izuku had pissed off quite a few people in his day, but this one was fresh. And as he played the string between his fingertips, he had a good idea as to who it belonged to.

With a sigh and a brisk shake of his head, Izuku followed the thread, stopping only at the edge of the alleyway to pull his hood up over his hair. The Hunt would be faster, but… he didn’t dare drop the Web now. And with how starved everything had become, the Hunt might very well overwhelm him.

There was a certain comfort in being led by the nose. At least someone knew where he was going.

Izuku walked for the better part of an hour, darting through shadowed alleys and crowded streets, ducking effortlessly away from nighttime revelers as he resolutely followed this single thread.

It wasn’t long before he found himself crouched outside a derelict warehouse. He’d chosen that door for a reason, after all—one of the many he was familiar with dotting the rundown portions of the city, where crime ran rampant and it was almost too easy to find the kind of trouble he was looking for.

Izuku clambered up a neighboring building, holding his breath as the rusted fire escape creaked beneath his hands, but he managed to drag himself onto the roof unscathed. It was an easy leap to the next building, taking the roll onto his shoulder with only a few scrapes and bumps as he got to his feet on the warehouse roof. Shaking out the ratcheting tension in his shoulders, Izuku plucked the string before him, watched it shiver as it stretched down, through the rusted sheet metal and crumbling concrete beneath him.

Conveniently enough, some sections of the roof had crumbled away, revealing the dim lights within. Izuku scrambled over to one of these makeshift skylights and took a breath as he lowered himself to the ground, easing off the Web as he gazed through to the warehouse’s interior.

The Eye burst forth in its place, and Izuku stifled a groan as it snapped and surged with renewed intensity. Without so much as a thought a spare piece of loose-leaf was crumpled in his hand, pen tapping restlessly against the worn paper that he’d snatched from the kitchen table what already seemed like a lifetime ago.

Below stood the same woman Heavy Step had sold his illicit gear to. Clearly they’d downgraded from their previous location, and Izuku suspected that their hasty move might have had something to do with her blossoming ire towards him—or, at the very least, towards Confession. A version of himself that existed only in her mind.

With no new leads, and the ones he’d clung to from before surely having gone stale, Izuku was left sifting through the rubble of his last project, hoping that this woman had found a new hero to do her dirty work. Several, if he was lucky. Izuku could really use the distraction.

The Eye hummed as he took note of their new base, the offshoot rooms and hallways from this central area, how the woman’s wolfish features twitched as she prowled around the space, ears flicking towards every member of her little operation when she passed them by. Still setting up, it seemed. Unloading boxes, checking inventory, crates and barrels scattered around the place as the warehouse buzzed with activity.

Her eyes glinted in the faint moonlight, and Izuku narrowed his own gaze as he caught that telltale sheen. His fingers itched, and he gave into the impulse, scribbling down anything and everything he could glean about this woman’s quirk.

The eyeshine would suggest superior night vision. Could she have a stronger sense of smell as well? If so he would need to be cautious. The ears and tail were obvious enough at first blush, and he’d already seen the canines beneath her curled lip when she’d threatened Heavy Step. She was muscular… Izuku wondered if that also had anything to do with her quirk, or if she just kept her physique up on her own. Sometimes animalistic mutation quirks could manifest in a modified muscle mass…

Oh. Oh, her eyes. Right. His temple throbbed, and Izuku blinked eagerly into the wolf woman’s sight.

The relief was immediate, pressure easing to a swelling warmth behind his forehead, dull rasp of static barely brushing against his ears as he peered through her narrowed gaze and took note of everything he saw.

Much of the same, honestly. A few more faces, some he recognized from last time, some not. Few addressed her, instead bowing their heads as she passed, as if paying deference. That was… did that also have something to do with her quirk? Perhaps she preferred more subtle expressions of respect, was more in tune to the careful minutiae of body language. That would explain her frustration with Heavy Step—beyond anything the man must have said, he held himself as if he were superior. This woman, she couldn’t have liked that.

Eye contact, then, might be something to think about. She probably wasn’t a fan. Most likely didn’t appreciate bared teeth either… Izuku wondered if she could be intimidated, that way. If someone truly presented themselves as larger, stronger, a threat that maybe she couldn’t handle… he dismissed the thought almost immediately. Such a thing wouldn’t help him—he wasn’t exactly the most intimidating person in the world. Better off playing up obedience, subservience. Appeal to her sense of pride.

One of the lackeys addressed her directly, though Izuku noted that he still kept his eyes carefully averted, and as he read the shapes of his lips Izuku thought he might finally have a name to this face, eagerly jotting it down amidst his makeshift notes.

Kiba. Not exactly original. And certainly not something he could look up in the phonebook.

Ah, well. At least he wouldn’t have to call her wolf woman anymore.

He could spend hours like that, lying face down on this crumbling rooftop, muscles beginning to seize as he alternated between looking through any of the eyes he could make out below and blinking out to jot down what he could see himself, from his angle. The Eye hissed a soothing song, no longer splintering through his skull but rolling in a gentle ebb and flow that calmed his frayed nerves and left him centered. He felt in control, here. Powerful. Drinking in everything below without consequence.

Eventually he did move, scoping out the rest of the building, peering through windows and gaps in the walls to map the rooms within. Not much, yet. Apparently they were still reeling from their move. Izuku suspected that taking Heavy Step out of the equation had been an unpleasant shock, spurring them towards more precautions now that they might be on Confession’s radar.

He snorted to himself as he jotted down the contents of another room, hanging precariously from rusted pieces of exposed rebar. As if Confession would come for them.

No mention of new deals as far as he could tell, which was… unfortunate. He could have used the distraction, new eyes to steal and leads to follow, but it was definitely a start. Probably for the best, if he was being honest. He couldn’t afford to do this every night, it might start to get suspicious. And though the Spiral had been on his side so far…

One time, Izuku hadn’t quite specified his location to its satisfaction, and had found himself spat out at some random house in the middle of England. So. He’d rather not rely on the good graces of those writhing hallways.

At last he returned to the rooftop one final time, jotting down a few concluding notes before smoothing out the paper as best he could, nose wrinkling at the sorry state of his penmanship, forced to scrawl across uneven concrete like this. Sighing, Izuku carefully folded the loose-leaf and stuffed it in his jacket, all the while dutifully ignoring the faint, discontented rumblings of the Eye. Radio static filled his ears like cotton, and still there was that faint tension behind his forehead, but at least it was fed. No longer a starved beast scrabbling at his insides.

Izuku slipped from the rooftop, ducking into a shadowed alleyway and returning to significantly less busy streets. He shoved his hands into his pockets, comforted by the press of ink-stained paper as he let the little scraps he had collected roll around inside his skull.

There was something about this time of night that he had always found unsettling. With the Eye sated, his less preferred fears were creeping from their boxes, and the Dark, an old but familiar friend, leeched the warmth from his extremities, numbness spreading through his fingertips as shadows swirled beneath his feet. A low growl scraped against his ear, and Izuku shuddered at the thought of some beast prowling just beyond sight, wrapped in shifting darkness, bared teeth dripping viscous shadow.

The Still and Lightless Beast would always stalk his steps in the night. Izuku willed himself not to glance over his shoulder, not to peer desperately into every back alley, because he knew the result would always be the same—tricks of the dark. Glint of eyes, of teeth, of claws. It must have been pushing three in the morning, perhaps even later, because the streets were near empty, and as Izuku walked they only grew more barren.

Just him, tugging his jacket tighter around himself while the Beast prowled close behind.

Well, he thought, as his heart pounded in his throat. At least I’m feeding it.

There was no denying his fear, childish though it was. Izuku had spent enough time trapped in dark cells to know that sometimes, shadows did hold threat. The unknown—that was where true danger lay.

Shigaraki would mock him for this. Izuku was sure of it. Even if the overgrown child spent just as much time avoiding dreams as he did, holed away and busying himself with games or television or the occasional screaming tantrum.

He could summon forth the Eye, cast off this brackish unknown and sear his sight into the swirling darkness, but… it curled comfortable at the front of his skull. If he could hold onto that sated feeling, he would, and… the Dark was just a child’s fear anyway. He could bear it.

Behind him, the Beast growled, low and shuddering. Izuku shivered, gaze fixed on the path beneath his feet as the chill seeped into his bones and shadows pressed against the haloed glow of streetlamps, the darkness stretching off into infinity.

From his left came the muted sounds of a scuffle.

Izuku froze, noting how the Beast’s footsteps halted a full few frantic heartbeats after his own. That… that was not a trick of the night, darkness warping his senses to mask whatever lurked beyond.

Ten seconds. Ten seconds, and he’d move on. One… two… three…

Another scuffle. The sharp clang of a knife, running shivers up his spine as metal scraped against brickwork. A muffled cry.

This was the unknown, this was the threat in the dark. All reason dictated that he should walk away. He- he wasn’t really a vigilante, and that was for a reason, damn it. Confession only struck when the iron was hot, when he had carefully gathered all of the evidence and honed it to a weapon worthy of his enemy’s demise.

This… this was a mistake. The folly of it screamed in his joints, and yet- and yet—

The Dark swelled in the space between his bones, only heightened by the pitiful glow of dim streetlamps as he surged forward into the alleyway, barest dregs of the Hunt flickering in his veins with gnashing teeth and baying howls as he closed in on prey catch kill.

His sharpened eyes caught the blurry outlines of two figures, one holding a knife to the other as they spat muffled words, their meaning lost to the night but their intention enough to spark the Desolation in his palms, to feel the Hunt strain against its leads, to hear the barest strains of the Slaughter, distant but pure.

Izuku could almost taste the violence, so thick was it on the air. And as the Dark roiled like brackish water pressing cold against his skin, he knew beyond any doubt that, should he not intervene, someone would die tonight.

No sense, but Izuku had never considered himself very sensible.

“St- step. Step away.” The slimy cold was enough to set his teeth chattering, and yet the man with the knife seemed unphased, his silhouette turning just enough that Izuku could make out the faintest scruff across his jaw.

“Oh, look at this. Do we have a little sidekick-in-training here? How about this, kid—you’re next. I’ll even let you have a head start.” He grinned, teeth glinting in the yellowed streetlamps beyond. “Always did like a chase.”

The Hunt snapped and snarled, but not with prey-fear. Not with gasped breath harsh breath ragged breath as heart thuds loud—

When Izuku heard the baying of those hounds, he felt it sharp and fierce. He felt them heel beneath his hand, trembling for the order, the chance to tear through trees and underbrush and sink their teeth against the sweet taste of prey.

Behind him, the Dark reared. The Still and Lightless Beast growled, and for a moment Izuku felt his own chest rumble in agreement.

Pop. Glass shattered, tinkling against the ground in a delicate noise that cut through the night. A streetlamp flickered out.

“Go away.” Izuku felt his voice grow firm, bolstered by the closing gloom. “Leave. I won’t ask again.”

The man laughed, though Izuku heard the waver masked behind his trembling bravado. Weakness. Fresh sweet scent of blood, thick and twisting in the water.

“I won’t ask again. Want to play hero, kid? You’ll die like one.”

Pop. Another streetlamp, closer this time. The last one remaining shined its faint light just outside the dim alleyway, its glow only heightening the shadows that surrounded it.

“Oh?” A choked sound as the knife pressed closer, and Izuku smelled the salty tang of blood, could taste it fresh against his lips. Behind him, the Beast snarled. “That’s how we want to play this? This light thing, that your quirk? What, can you mess with lightbulbs or something? Good fucking try, but I’m not scared of the dark.”

“You should be.”

Pop. The last streetlamp burst in a swell of shadows, and the darkness that answered was total and suffocating. It curled around his arms, cool and slimy, tingling up his fingers in that familiar numbness as Izuku saw without seeing the man drop his knife, his curses echoing in the infinite nothing as his blade clattered pitifully to the ground.

With the fleshy thud of heavy limbs against the asphalt, Izuku felt the swell of shadows that marked the Beast’s passing. He did not see the glint of fangs as blackened ichor dripped from its gaping maw, did not see how it stretched and shrank beyond reason as the darkness rippled around it, did not see the bloodlust in those sightless eyes when they fixed on fresh prey.

He heard the dull impact. Heard the squelch of blood, the strangled shout as someone fell against the cold, unforgiving ground. He heard that growl, felt it in the space between his bones, and as Izuku stepped forward he could have sworn he saw thick globs of blood splatter across the pitch black alleyway.

Probably just a trick of the night.

A cloud passed by overhead, the moon stretching down to reach pale fingers through the clustered rooftops. Silver light pierced through the roiling darkness, and all at once the Beast vanished from not-sight.

The first thing Izuku noticed was the nausea. The second was the blistering pain in his fingertips as feeling flooded back through his veins.

The third, of course, was the bleeding man at his feet.

Priorities, Izuku.

“Y- you…” Izuku’s gaze snapped towards the other man, the one he’d… saved? Had he- was that what this was? “I…”

Oh. Oh, this man was hyperventilating. This man was on the verge of having a panic attack. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Izuku didn’t know what to do.

Actually, a panic attack sounded really nice right about then.

Suddenly, in a flash of movement that almost had Izuku bringing his guard up, the other man ducked into a low, crisp bow.

“Thank you, thank you, I- I didn’t see him and he just- he grabbed me and I couldn’t- I couldn’t move—”

“Don’t,” Izuku nearly choked on his words as he surged forward, pushing the trembling man upright and back towards the wall, where at last his terror caught up with him and he collapsed, sliding down the brickwork until he was sitting firmly on the floor.

With the faint moonlight, Izuku could see that he was younger. Maybe mid-twenties. Gold-flecked eyes blinked up at him, wide and not quite adjusted to how dim the alley remained. Too late, Izuku tugged at his hood, hoping that it had at least covered his hair throughout that encounter. Though… it had been dark. Still was, honestly, and the Beast lurked in shadows at the edge of sight.

“Th- thank you,” the man muttered once more, wrapping his arms around his chest. “I- I think I would have- oh my god. He- he was going to- I was going to die—”

The End, cold and skeletal, closing around his heart. Even now he was feeding on this man, this victim, and this was why Confession never did this sort of thing. Izuku didn’t particularly enjoy being a boogeyman, but with this writhing, patchwork mess of a quirk… it was inevitable.

Still. It wasn’t as if he could turn back time. A shuddering wheeze snagged his attention, and Izuku’s gaze snapped towards the villain who now lay on the ground, knife useless at his side and one hand clutching at the wounds in his chest.

He… would live. Probably. As long as he kept that pressure on the wounds. Although, if tonight was any indication towards his usual behavior, Izuku wasn’t really inclined to care either way.

Shigaraki had killed men for less. At least… this was a good thing, right?

Izuku glanced back at the would-be victim, crouching down to meet his eye while wearily pulling the barest dregs of Stranger over his face, feeling an itch in his jaw as his features twitched to something past human. Not exactly comforting, but it would serve as a mask, for now.

“Hey. Can you, um, call the police? Do you… have a phone?”

The golden-eyed man stared up at him, fear still hovering above his skin like a thick cloud, before giving a jerky nod and digging through his pockets.

“I, I don’t- do you… money?”

Izuku paled, waving his hands frantically as the man pullet out a battered wallet. “No, no, I don’t want any money. This is- I was just passing by, I didn’t—”

“Please, I need to- can I at least know your name?”

Oh. What a prescient question, especially with the Stranger tugging at his jaw, curled so snugly around his face in a mocking facsimile of human.

Izuku, was hot on his tongue, but that was- he couldn’t say that, obviously. Past the implications, even from such a small hint of a name, it didn’t… it didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like him, not right now, at least. Masks on masks on masks and Izuku could feel his own crumbling beneath his fingertips as he pressed it ever tighter to the writhing mess that lurked beneath.

The right answer, of course, would be no answer at all. But as this man stared up at him, gold-flecked eyes wide and bright with lingering terror and- and something past that, something that was a knot, tight and blistering in his chest, Izuku… he felt that static hiss in his own ears, felt it spider silk tug his tongue loose to wrap around the proper syllables.

“Confession,” he said at last, and the Eye hummed behind his forehead. “I’m… it’s Confession.”

A hand wrapped around his own, clammy with fear-sweat and clinging as if Izuku were a lifeline on stormy seas.

“Thank you, Confession.” He said it like a prayer. “You saved my life. Thank you. I’ll…” With a final squeeze, the man dropped his hand and glanced towards his would-be assailant. “I… I’ll call the police now, then.”

“Right. I, uh, I have to go.”

Izuku didn’t wait for a response, tugging his hood further across his cheek as he hastily about-faced and stalked from the alleyway, wincing at the sight of scattered glass, all glinting in the moonlight like stars, a cruel reflection of the cold night sky above.

He couldn’t be there when the police arrived, that was certain. And as Izuku set off at a brisk pace, he found that he didn’t really… want to go back to the apartment, either. Not yet. His head was still such a mess, all muddled up with shadows and eyes and gnashing teeth.

Honestly, given that, he should have expected it. He was weak, and Sensei always could smell the weakness on him like a foul perfume.

A thousand spider legs scuttling up his back were his only warning before he felt that yawning presence behind him, and the sudden lump of cobwebs in his throat were the only thing that strangled his shout as he whirled around to find that warp gate swirling up from the sidewalk.

Kurogiri stepped forward, dusting off his suit vest and glancing mildly about the empty street, as if they were two acquaintances meeting by chance at half-past three in the morning.

At last, his slitted gaze returned to Izuku, head tilting as much as mist and shadow would allow.

“Good evening, young Phobos. The master wishes to speak with you.”

Izuku couldn’t help the full body shudder that ran through him, the sensation of tightening threads that crisscrossed his flesh.

“I…” His voice was hoarse, and he cut himself off with a bitter cough, rubbing at his sore throat before dipping his head into a nod. “Of course.”

Kurogiri returned the nod, stepping aside and gesturing towards the swirling portal splitting through the air.

Spider silk stitched through the trembling mass of fears inside of him, the Web keeping him whole once more as he stepped through that rippling, impossible space, and prepared for the familiar lurch in his gut before he was whisked away to somewhere all too familiar.

This was a script he knew. A dance whose steps he’d traced time and time again. Sensei would call, and he would answer.

The Web shivered up his spine in dreadful harmony.

Chapter Text

When Izuku stepped through the portal, Kurogiri was not behind him.

Alone.

Sensei had no eyes, and yet he could still feel that awful scrutiny, boring through his flesh.

Watched.

Izuku stepped over a mass of wires, tried not to imagine snakes twisting beneath his feet, tried not to imagine how the venom might pulse from their bite.

Suffering.

There was a mat, before a low table. A tea set. It was dark, save for the blinking of machinery, but Izuku did not dare ask for a light. That was a gift. Sight was a gift, and he had been denied it for a reason.

Always a reason. Always intent, dark and deadly past the trembling threads. He could not see the hand that held the fishing line.

“Welcome home, Izuku.” Sensei’s voice was low, rasped by ragged flesh and the dull hiss of machinery. He motioned towards the mat. “Please, take a seat.”

Izuku did not want to sit. The Hunt whined in his ears, high-pitched and desperate as it tugged against the lead, eager to run. He bound it tight with spider’s thread and took a trembling step forward, clenching his fist in a futile attempt to hide the fear that festered inside of him.

He settled on the mat, straight-backed and attentive. If he did not, Sensei would notice. Izuku did not know how, but Sensei would notice.

Silence. Static filled his ears as moisture fled from his mouth, but still Izuku did not dare to even shift in his seat.

“You’ve been quite… productive, haven’t you?”

Oh god, oh god, oh god—

“Y- yes, I—” Izuku coughed at the hoarseness of his voice. Every word tasted like razorblades, all sharp and scrabbling up his throat. “I’m. Master, I—”

“Oh, where are my manners?” Sensei shifted, and the mass of machinery behind him did as well, like spindled legs that twisted out in every direction. A hulking, altogether alien shape that scraped and creaked under its own weight. “It is important to model these sorts of things. Please, Izuku, pour yourself a cup.”

Izuku couldn’t say much of anything, could only dip his head into a wordless nod as he scrambled to do as he was told. Hands trembling, moving through the motions as fast as possible without spilling a drop, not a drop, he couldn’t fuck this up, he couldn’t fuck this up—

“You’re shaking, Izuku,” Sensei mused just as Izuku took a sip, and he tried not to choke on the bitter tea. “Would you care to tell me why?”

“I- I am. I just—”

“You wouldn’t be afraid, little one?” A chuckle, as if this were a joke of the highest caliber. Then a rasping sigh. “Drink.”

“Y- yes. Yes. Sir.” Izuku drank. It tasted of ash, and iron. He drank.

“Good. Isn’t that better?”

The tea was thick in his throat. Izuku could feel it stick even as he swallowed. “Yes. Th- thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome, Izuku.” Sensei hummed, tapping a finger against his chair, and Izuku tried very, very hard not to imagine how those same fingers felt wrapped around his neck. “Now. I’ve heard so many interesting things about you, as of late. I’m afraid not all of them were flattering.”

There was nothing to say. Izuku only nodded, taking another sip of his awful tea.

“I’m disappointed in you, Izuku.”

Choking on cobwebs, on knives and barbed wire, thin threads of silver snaring ‘round his arms and pulling tight against the flesh, snaking through his ribs to twist around his lungs and Izuku- Izuku couldn’t- he couldn’t breathe—

“Come now, child. Let’s not cause a scene. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Panic scrabbled at the inside of his chest and his skin crawled with countless spider legs, but still Izuku nodded. Quieted his wheezing gasps, squeezed his eyes shut tight and forced his pattering heart to steady. The Eye thrummed gently in his skull. Izuku clung to its impartiality like a lifeline, desperate not to care what might happen to him next.

Sensei hadn’t killed him yet. He was more than capable of it. There had to be a reason.

“There, now that is better.” Sensei sighed. “You’ve always been a rather… fickle child, have you not? Never one to shy away from theatrics… always jumping at shadows. But you know that.”

“Yes. Yes, I do, Sensei.”

“Good. Have some senbei.”

Without a thought, Izuku’s hand closed around one of the rice crackers. It was too dry, too sweet. The saccharine taste clung to his mouth even when he washed it down with that ashen tea.

“Thank you, Sensei,” he managed. Sensei only chuckled, an impossible sound that shuddered in his ears.

“Of course, Izuku. Now… all of this nonsense with heroics… I thought we’d put that all behind us, yes?”

“Yes, yes, I—”

“We know what heroes really are. Yes?”

“Yes—”

“What do you think would happen, Izuku? If you told them your real name.”

Izuku didn’t even bother questioning how Sensei knew that. It was a given—Sensei knew everything. Izuku wasn’t even a puzzle box in his master’s hands. Just an open book, pages worn and tattered, unraveling from the spine.

“I…” What was the right answer? There… there was a right answer, wasn’t there? Another cough crawled up his throat, and Izuku tried to force it down with a mouthful of that awful, awful tea. “It would be… bad.”

Sensei sighed, and that bitter disappointment was pinprick fangs around his throat. “You are usually so much more well-spoken. Has something gotten into you? If you have noticed any… deficiencies, I’m sure we can sort that out.”

The Flesh shuddered in his gut, and Izuku felt bile rising up his throat as he frantically shook his head.

“Ah- no. No, that’s—” He surged forward into a bow, pressing his forehead tight against the table. “My deepest apologies, Sensei. It- it won’t happen again, I. I swear.”

Sensei tutted, a metallic sound, like the rattling of prison bars. “Sit up straight.”

Izuku did, so quickly that his spine groaned in protest.

“Now… try again. What would happen?”

“They would hurt me,” said Izuku, the Web tugging the words onto his tongue. “Whether they meant to or not, they would hurt me. No one would believe me. And they’d… they’d know what I am.”

“And what is that?”

Izuku couldn’t help the downward tilt of his face, shoulders hunching up to his ears. “I… I’m nothing.”

“Hm.” Sensei shifted in his seat. Izuku did not dare look at him directly—only caught the glint of blinking lights as they flashed into view and were then obscured once more, the hiss of metal and snaking cables. “But you know, Izuku-kun, that I do not waste my time on nothing.”

Oh. Oh god, it was the wrong answer. The Web wound tight around his chest, crisscrossed patterns that bit into his skin, and Izuku scrambled for an answer that would keep him whole.

“I- I was nothing, Sensei. I was nothing, I- nobody cared about me. Until. Until you, and… now I’m something, because of what you- your- your generosity.”

Silence. Except not. Because the lilting hum of radio static would always stutter in his ears, the crashing waves of misty shores thundering in his chest. Baying hounds and pulsing veins and the crooning pipes of war.

Never silent. That was the sum of Sensei’s gift.

“And how have you thanked me, Izuku?” asked Sensei, quiet. Low. Dangerous. “What have you done to repay that debt?”

“I--“

“Do not speak.”

Izuku’s jaw snapped shut with a painful clack.

Sensei hummed. “Actions speak louder, Izuku. Whatever your words, what you have done… it says something very different, doesn’t it? Tomura was quite displeased, when he returned. You know how much I care for Tomura.”

Izuku nodded, heart fluttering in his throat. Sensei only sighed.

“Of course you do. You are a quick child, aren’t you? Very clever… perhaps too clever. You overthink, Izuku. It will be the end of you, if you are not careful. Because I think you knew what would happen, didn’t you, Izuku? You know what we think of those who are ungrateful. You know.”

The Eye fluttered behind his skull. Yes. Yes, he knew.

“And yet… you still did it. Which leads me to believe that you didn’t really understand the magnitude of what you were doing. Isn’t that right, Izuku?”

Was… was that right? Izuku, he… no, he knew the consequences, he’d known that saving those kids was- it was bad, would mean pain and suffering and quite possible death, but… but why did he do it, then? Why would he…

“I have always taken care of you, have I not? I gave you purpose. I practically raised you. You would not be who you are today if not for me. So, Izuku-kun… can you tell me why? What you were thinking, when you made that choice?”

Izuku took a shuddering, wordless breath, and Sensei let out a low chuckle.

“You may speak, Izuku.”

“Th- thank you. Sensei. Thank you, I…” Why did he make that choice? It was… it was a long time ago. Felt like a long time ago, especially sitting before Sensei now, the man who had pieced him back together from that useless little thing that huddled in the streets so long ago. He… he had seen those kids in danger, and… the Slaughter, it was just so loud in his ears…

Why would he betray Sensei? That was madness, the actions of a fool.

“I… I don’t know, Sensei.” Izuku felt his voice break, though he did not know why. “I don’t- it wasn’t…”

“Oh, Izuku.” And he sounded almost… kind. Pity laced with venom. “This is my fault. We both know that you’re too… excitable, for that kind of thing. As I said. You are prone to dramatics.”

Another sigh. “You didn’t really know what you were doing. Isn’t that right?”

“Y- yes. I didn’t…” Fractals danced across his skin, and Izuku blinked away the spots before his eyes. “I didn’t really… know what I was doing. I just- I didn’t think. I’m… I’m so sorry, Sensei, I didn’t think, I would never—”

“Hush, child. You still have room to grow. I am not so monstrous as to punish you for such a simple mistake.” A pause. Another shift of movement, tubes and cable snaking along the floor, and for a moment Izuku felt as if the room were closing in around him.

“I hope you haven’t wasted this opportunity, then?”

“Yes! Yes, I—” Izuku coughed once more. Took a sip, and buried his grimace in the soothing whisper of the Eye. “The heroes thought that I was… some kind of prisoner. I’ve been able to move around freely, for the most part, and I- I was able to copy down some files for you, sir, as well as- I have so many more eyes, almost every teacher at UA now, in the future I’ll be able to see so much more, I- I’ll make it up to you, if you just- I mean, please, I can be so much more useful now, I’m not- I’m not- none of that can help you if I’m dead—”

“Dead?” Another chuckle, one that grated against Izuku’s ears. “Why would I kill you, Izuku-kun? We already know that I despise waste. We know that you are… naïve. That you still have much to learn. However, I thought you too smart for such a foolish notion as that. Or have you somehow missed the opportunity that has now fallen into our laps?”

Again, again Izuku couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t so much as twitch against the web that snared him ever closer.

“I don’t believe in fate, Izuku-kun. Or luck,” said Sensei in a whisper and a rumble and a growl. “But I do find it quite fortunate, that even as you stumbled you still never lost your way. I consider that a much more useful test of temperament, wouldn’t you agree?”

A script he couldn’t see but never failed to follow. Line by ugly line.

“There goes an old saying,” Sensei mused. “What is it… ah. ‘Character is what you are in the dark’. The fact of the matter is, Izuku, that you are exactly where we needed, when we needed it. And all without any instruction or guidance. Remarkable, I would say.”

None of it mattered. None of it ever mattered. He’d always known that, but… to see it laid out so plainly before him was a special kind of hell. Dancing to a tune he couldn’t fucking hear and yet his steps always seemed to match the beat.

“So.” Sensei leaned back, hands coming up to press together, dragging a mass of tubes and wires along with them. “You will stay at that school. And you will watch. And you will listen. This is what you were already doing, correct?”

“That… that is correct, Sensei.” His throat itched, and his skin tingled with nonsense lines. Stay at UA. That… that hadn’t been the plan, he… he’d thought Sensei would pull him out, he could hand over any information and pray to god it was enough, and then… back to normal, he supposed.

But no. No, of course not. Things could never be that simple. Complex patterns weaving just beyond his sight, and Izuku was in no position to make out the full picture. Could only watch in hopeless wonder as the threads encased him in their cold embrace.

“Of course, you won’t be neglecting your other duties in the meantime.”

Izuku all but choked on his tea.

“S… sensei?”

“Your duties, Izuku,” repeated Sensei, voice dangerously patient. “Surely you haven’t forgotten already? If you are having these lapses in memory, perhaps it would be best to visit the good doctor—”

“No, no, I- I’m fine, I was just—”

“Do not interrupt me, Izuku.”

Izuku nearly dropped the teacup in his haste to bow, eyes screwed shut as he pressed his forehead against the table once more.

“My apologies, Sensei, I am—”

“Up. Up.” Sensei idly waved his hand. “Do not grovel. We both know I despise it.”

That was a lie, but Izuku nodded anyway. Sensei just sighed.

“You have concerns, then? Let us hear them.”

This was a trap, but Izuku had already stumbled headfirst into it, so there wasn’t really another option. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the legs that scuttled up his spine.

“I… the heroes know that I’m… they know I’m Phobos, Sensei. They know my- my name, and my quirk…”

“Of course they do, Izuku. The name Phobos is clearly of no more use to you. It seems, however, that you have a perfectly suitable spare at your disposal.”

Ice flooded Izuku’s veins, and he lifted the teacup carefully. “I- I’m not sure what you mean, Sensei—”

The room shifted. Wires skittered across the floor, the clatter of machinery deafening in Izuku’s ears as he felt himself get flung forward, dragged across the low table by piercing tendrils that arced across his skin, shredding parts of his jacket as they pulled him towards his master.

And suddenly there were fingers wrapped around his throat. Tight, cold, unyielding, and Izuku choked for air, gasped and wheezed and kicked in near-silent desperation as Sensei just… watched. Impassive.

The Buried shuddered in his lungs as the fingers slowly, slowly tightened, Izuku not able to keep himself from clutching at Sensei’s hand, if only in a frantic bid to relieve the pressure somewhat. It didn’t help. He couldn’t- he couldn’t breathe, lungs burning with the building pressure of the Buried, spots beginning to dance before his eyes as a fuzzy blackness encroached upon the edges of his vision and—

The hand loosened. Izuku crumpled like a puppet whose strings had just been cut, knees bruising against the concrete floors as he scrambled backwards with a painful wheeze. The air was knives against his lungs, and his throat ached with every shuddering breath. He didn’t dare to speak. Instead he returned to his seat, and tried to keep himself from trembling.

When Sensei spoke it was soft, and quiet.

“Don’t lie to me, Izuku.”

The spider swayed, fat and bulbous, at the center of the Web. Izuku felt as if he could see the venom glisten on its twitching fangs.

“I’m sorry, Sensei,” he rasped. Talking hurt, and as Izuku absently rubbed at his throat he realized that… that this would bruise. That he would have to hide it.

From the heroes. Because he was spying on them, now. Because that was his job, what Sensei had assigned to him, and…

And there was no other option. Never had been.

“I- I can. I can use that… mask. That name.” It made sense, in a way. Confession was already such a separate entity, already established as a vigilante. There was no reason to connect him to that identity.

And yet. It didn’t sit right, left the bitter taste of bile upon his tongue, because Confession was his. It was how he could make up for it, all of it, and now…

“Izuku…” Sensei chided softly, as if he hadn’t been slowly squeezing the breath from Izuku not ten seconds ago. “Did you really think you could hide that from me? I let you have your little games, but now it’s time for you to grow up.”

Right. Right, of course. Because nothing could be his. Sensei owned that, too. Had always owned it.

“Of course, Sensei.” The Web trembled through his veins, spiders crawling across every patch of skin. “I… I won’t fail you.”

“Oh, I know. You know the consequences of such a thing, don’t you?”

Hoarse screams, burning flesh, wrists that bled and bruised against thick leather.

“I know.”

“Good boy. Now, I believe you have a couple heroes to return to?”

Izuku nodded mutely, unsure if this was a dismissal. The cold, yawning void of a warp gate opening behind him confirmed that it was. He stood on shaky legs, sure to bend into a deep bow before stepping back towards the portal.

“Oh, and Izuku…”

He stiffened, glancing over his shoulder at the hulking mass of wire and metal. “Yes, Sensei?”

“I trust I do not have to tell you that this is your last chance, correct?”

Izuku couldn’t fight the shudder. “Y- yes. Yes, Sensei, I…”

“Good. I’m glad.” Sensei sighed. “You’ll know when we need you, Izuku.”

The roiling mass of shadows moved to swallow him, and Izuku simply nodded as he stepped through…

…and into his room at the apartment. He. He really should have expected that.

The message was more than clear. Nowhere is safe. He hadn’t strictly needed the reminder, but… it certainly sent flecks of ice through his veins.

Kurogiri stepped from the warp gate as well, and Izuku clenched a fist at his side in a vain attempt to mask the tremble in his shoulders. As usual, the man didn’t comment. He was nice like that.

“We… retrieved this, from the police station, before it could fall under any real scrutiny,” he said instead, lifting up a… oh dear sweet fuck.

The Eye pulsed behind Izuku’s forehead at the sight of his tattered backpack, as if it could sense the notebooks crammed within, and he could barely restrain his twitching fingers from surging forward to snatch it from Kurogiri’s grasp. Instead Izuku just nodded, reaching out to accept when Kurogiri pressed it into his hands.

Retrieved… Kurogiri was incredible, but even he was limited. If… if the bag had actually been in the police station, then that meant…

Nowhere is safe, again, again, near deafening in his ears, and the Eye drove a spike through his skull because they’re always watching.

It was unsurprising that Sensei might have connections within the police. Unsurprising, but still enough to make his knees weak, as he clutched the backpack tighter to his chest.

“Th- thank you,” Izuku managed. Kurogiri just gave a nod.

“Sensei has instructed me to inform you that there are a few more gifts, along with what was already there. And also that you should be more careful with it, this time.”

Izuku was already nodding before he even finished the sentence. He didn’t want to be rude, it was just- god, he could sleep for a year. “I, uh. Thanks, Kurogiri.”

The man just nodded in return. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Of course—” he began, but Kurogiri was already gone. Izuku took a few steps back until he collided with the bed, and promptly sank onto the mattress.

The room was far too quiet. Darkness pooled in from the window, and it was as if he could feel the press of eyes from every accusatory wall.

Izuku clutched the backpack tighter, burying his face into the tattered fabric.

“Fuck,” he said aloud to the empty room.

The silence seemed to echo him in bitter sentiment.

Chapter Text

“Confession was active again last night.”

Hizashi nearly fell out of his chair. More out of a sense of dramatics than anything else, Shouta knew, but he still sighed as his husband scrambled to right himself.

“Be quiet,” Shouta muttered, glancing over his shoulder towards the hallway. Akatani hadn’t left his room yet, and while last they’d checked he’d still been asleep…

“Right, right, sorry.” Hizashi adjusted his glasses with a strained grin. “Little listener needs the sleep, huh?”

Shouta just hummed, nodding as he took a sip from his mug. It was pushing noon, and the kid still hadn’t woken up. At this rate he was going to have to push off their meeting with Tsukauchi.

“School starts tomorrow,” he muttered. “He’ll need to wake up early, then.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk,” Hizashi huffed. “You’re still half asleep by the time we make it out the door.”

Shouta gave a wordless grumble, but otherwise did not respond. Hizashi sighed.

“So… Confession, huh? That’s… that’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Shouta gently placed his mug on the table. “That’s weird.”

“Twice in one month.”

“Yeah.”

“Not a good sign.”

“It’s worse than that,” Shouta muttered, ignoring Hizashi’s raised brow and instead glowering at his mug. “The M.O.’s changed.”

Hizashi sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Changed how?”

“Nothing… bad. Not murder,” said Shouta hastily, noting how Hizashi’s shoulders slumped from that painful tension. “It’s just… the guy’s been pretty consistent with his targets, and his methods. You know. Corrupt heroes, taped confession, auxiliary evidence. That’s his thing, it’s the only thing he’s ever done.”

“And now…?”

“Just- he stopped an attempted murder last night. Some guy with a paralytic quirk thought it might be fun to try out being a serial killer. Confession stepped in. Or…” Shouta hesitated, running a finger along the lip of his mug. “Someone calling himself Confession stepped in.”

Hizashi snorted. “What, did he record him to death? I thought Confession had some kinda truth quirk, like compulsion or something.”

“Could just be a copycat.”

“Yeah?” Hizashi leaned onto his elbows with a lazy grin. “But you don’t think so.”

“Rationally,” muttered Shouta, lifting the mug to his lips once more, “a copycat would make the most sense.”

Hizashi just hummed, grin never leaving his face.

“Vigilantes don’t just change like this. Two in one month, that’s not what Confession does. And…” Shouta sighed, dutifully ignoring Hizashi. “Both men said that Confession had some kind of… either light manipulation or… electronics, maybe. He made everything go dark. That’s never been reported before.”

“Mhm.”

“Confession has a compulsion quirk. He has to. That’s one of the only things about him we know.”

“Yep.”

“It has to be a different guy. It’s rational.”

“Okay.” Hizashi paused, curling a strand of loose hair around one finger. “And… what do you think?”

Shouta frowned. Placed his cup on the table with a sigh. “I… Confession isn’t a popular vigilante. Outside of hero circles, no one really knows who he is, it’s just… he isn’t flashy. He doesn’t save people, there’s no footage of him, no fanboards, he… he’s not the kind of guy who gets a copycat.”

“So you think it’s the same guy.”

With a disgruntled huff, Shouta leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Maybe. Possibly. It isn’t—”

“What’s your gut telling you?”

Shouta groaned, slumping further in his chair. “I don’t do intuition, Hizashi. There are the facts, and then there’s how we choose to interpret them. He has a different quirk.”

Hizashi just gave a little shrug. “Maybe it’s a different quirk. Or maybe they’re just remembering wrong. Or maybe it’s the same quirk, but it has another application that no one thought of. Could be a lot of stuff, y’know?”

“I guess,” Shouta grumbled. “Still… either way it’s not good. Either people are starting to follow his example, or…”

“Or he’s starting to go rogue,” finished Hizashi with the slightest downtick of his lips. “Yeah. I get it. Tough call. Kind of shit either way.”

“Confession has ideals. He’s trying to change things through the system, at least in his own way.” Shouta sighed, scratching at his jaw. “What happens when he decides that’s not good enough? Stormwing already got off, even with all of the evidence against him. In Confession’s eyes, the system must have failed.”

“He stopped a serial killer, Shouta. It’s not like he’s murdering heroes in the streets.”

“That’s the next step though, isn’t it? This guy only goes after heroes. Clearly he has a problem with hero society in general, is trying to expose corruption in his own way. But what if exposing it isn’t enough? What if he needs to get rid of it as well?”

“Then… maybe he starts killing,” admitted Hizashi with a frown. “But… he hasn’t, yet. Look, he just went off-script for a night. Maybe that’s all there is to it.”

“I really fucking hope so.”

Izuku was very, very tired.

His head ached, his mouth was sore, and his fingers wouldn’t stop trembling, no matter how often he clenched them to tight fists at his sides.

“You… good there, little listener?”

“Yeah!” Izuku forced a smile across his face, feeling the Spiral flutter strangely beneath his skin. It always prickled more harshly after a meeting with Sensei.

Just like how the Web had grown thick in his throat. He tried to choke down his rice, but it really wasn’t helping matters.

“Sorry,” he muttered, scrubbing the alertness back into his face. “I’m just… kind of tired. Didn’t really sleep well last night.”

Understatement of the century, but Yamada seemed to take it in stride, nodding emphatically and flashing a thumbs up.

“Makes sense! Hard to adjust to a new place, yeah?”

“…yeah.” More of the same, really. Izuku had never adjusted in the first place. He picked at his rice, glancing at the clock with a frown. “It’s… kind of late. You could have woken me up, I wouldn’t…. I wouldn’t mind.”

His dreams were mist and shadow anyway. Tangled up in razor wire. Wandering endless halls as the floor seemed to slope beneath his feet, leading him on, on, on towards something he could not see. Not exactly the most restful of sleep.

Yamada waved him off. “Nah, you needed the sleep. Big day tomorrow, right?”

Right. He’d almost forgotten. First day of UA, the school finally opening back up after the fiasco at the USJ.

The Web tightened around his throat, and Izuku gently laid his chopsticks down before he choked.

Yamada seemed to notice his discomfort, though there was no way he could know the true cause.

“It’s… I know this is a big change for you. But this’ll be good, right? Change is… good.”

Izuku shrugged. Things didn’t change, not for him. Eventually they’d see that.

“Well…” Yamada glanced at Eraserhead, who was nursing what must have been his third cup of coffee while occasionally glancing at his phone. Izuku watched bemusedly as Yamada tried to catch his husband’s eye, the latter of whom was steadfastly avoiding it. At last, Yamada let out a heavy sigh.

“Look, listener, we didn’t want to just… spring anything on you, but it’s been a long few days, and, we didn’t want to stress you out with anything, but there’s still an active investigation going on and—”

“What Hizashi is saying,” cut in Eraserhead, mercifully interrupting Izuku’s rising panic, “is that the detective is coming over here today. To take another statement, before school starts up.”

Oh. Oh, there was the panic again. Wonderful.

Izuku sat stock-still, fingertips pressed against the wood of the table as the Eye fluttered listless against his skull. The detective with the lie-detector quirk. Wow. That sounded. Fantastic.

He… he needed to get out of this. Needed to run, and also to ignore the snapping whine of the Hunt at that thought. Bolting out the window wouldn’t exactly be productive, especially with Sensei’s new task looming over him like a knife suspended by a single, silken thread.

No. This required a more delicate hand. Izuku let those pinprick fractals rise to the surface, felt them swirl across his skin as he twitched his lips downward, drew his brow close, forced a quaver through his voice.

“Oh. I, um. I didn’t realize that I’d be… seeing him. Again.” His fingers began to tremble in earnest, but that was fine. Izuku kept his gaze on the table, downcast, weak. Just a useless little thing, a leaf shaking in the wind. “He, um. I…”

“Kid…” Eraserhead sighed, and Izuku didn’t have to force the hunch that curved into his shoulders. “Tsukauchi isn’t going to hurt you.”

“I- I know. I know.” Soft, fervent, like he was trying to convince himself. And maybe he was. God, maybe he was—what if the detective was mad? What if- what if he was angry about the hospital, or- or their interview, or he didn’t like Izuku’s answers or- or- or-

“Akatani. Breathe.”

Was he not breathing? A shudder in his lungs, and oh, it appeared that he wasn’t. With a strangled wheeze he pressed his head against the table, willing himself not to completely fall apart while still maintaining the hold that the Buried now had on his chest, a crushing pressure that threatened to drown him.

“Akatani.” There was a hand at his back. Izuku felt himself freeze, felt the tension blister through his shoulders, because that was bad. That meant pain, that meant- the itching, crawling agony of Shigaraki’s quirk, handprint scars seared into his back, the doctor grabbing his wrist and forcing it back through a too-tight restraint as he tried in vain to twist away—

He’d lost it. Somewhere along the way he’d lost the thread, and now he was drowning in can’t breathe and fire tingling up his spine. Cobwebs lodged in his throat, soil packed in his lungs, the Desolation threatening to prickle in his palms because everything hurts—

“Kid. Hey. Can you hear me?”

Izuku nodded. It was pretty much the only thing he could do, which tracked, because you never do anything right, and useless, quirkless little—

The Lonely snapped around his throat, and Izuku shuddered as its static filled his ears.

He wouldn’t care, if he knew.

Obviously. The only reason they were giving him this second chance in the first place had to be because of his quirk. He was an intriguing little puzzle—without it, he was just- nothing, he was nothing, and the instant they saw that he’d be nothing yet again—

Someone was rubbing soothing circles against his back. Izuku felt it as if through six feet of musty soil.

The Lonely drowned out all else, and Izuku twisted his fingers in his hair as the roar of crashing waves pounded against the inside of his skull. Still, still the Buried squeezed the breath from his lungs.

Too far, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. Nothing much to be done about anything. Worthless. Weak.

They would see him. That detective would see him, would lay him bare before he could even begin Sensei’s impossible task.

The Buried eased away as the Eye forced itself to the forefront, and for a moment Izuku could feel the hand at his back in almost painful clarity. Grimaced as his skin itched at the contact, and god but he just wanted to be alone—

And he was.

Fuck. Fuck.

Izuku took a breath for what felt like the first time in years, rubbing at his neck with a wince when he brushed against the fingerprint bruises. He’d covered them with concealer from his bag, but… he could still feel them. As if Sensei’s hands had never lifted from his throat.

The mists of the Lonely swirled around his feet, and Izuku kicked idly to watch them dance and shift. He wondered what the heroes were thinking, right then. He wondered if he should care.

It was difficult to care, in the Lonely. Everything just felt so distant through those constant, rippling mists.

With a sigh, Izuku laid his head down on the table, letting the cool wood sink into his forehead as he counted trembling breaths. As his shoulders ceased their fitful trembles, lungs hitching not with earthen soil but the normal stutter of quickened gasps.

The Buried had been unfortunate. So close to Sensei nearly suffocating him, he really should have expected it.

 “I hate this.” The words echoed strangely in the mists, as they always did, and that familiar warped quality of his own voice calling back to him came with a strange sort of comfort. “I really, really hate this.”

Closing his eyes once more, Izuku slumped even further forward onto the table, tapping idly against a mug and watching as the mists consumed it. How must that look, he wondered? Did it disappear, then?

“If you can hear me,” he said with a weak grin, “you should lock me up. You should… god, you should kill me, huh? I’m… I’m worthless to you. I’m just gonna…”

Pinprick tingles up his arm, the Lonely humming gently as it looped around his shoulders. Izuku sighed, reveling in that quiet melancholy.

“I’m just gonna hurt people,” he muttered into his arms. “I’m just gonna hurt you. I… I can’t do this, I’m gonna screw it up and- and I’ll die. Or you’ll die. Or we’ll all die. That’s. That’s just how it goes, y’know?”

He managed a weak laugh, tinged with hazy hysteria at the absurdity of it all. How he couldn’t talk to anyone unless he was consumed in the Lonely’s mists. How the only time he could be honest with himself was when he was totally, utterly alone.

“You can’t save me. You should stop trying.”

Nothing but the rasping silence of the mists, the distant call of crashing waves.

“And I know what you’re gonna say, just the whole- the whole hero schtick, like I get it. But I just don’t know how to- I should tell you, right? That’s what… that’s what a hero would do. A good person, they’d…”

This was stupid. He was stupid. That was why he belonged here, trapped in blissful solace. This was the only place that could stand him.

“I should tell you. But I can’t, because I’m a coward. And- I’m just- I’m worthless. I think you know that, really. I think you… you can say it, you know? Just- you can tell me. Izuku, you’re worthless.”

His own words, warped and alien, echoed back from those rippling mists. Izuku sighed.

“Just that easy. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

Sometimes he wished that he could stay there forever. Wander empty streets and derelict buildings, watching as his movements curled in static fog. Alone.

But he was never that lucky. Eventually the Lonely would thin, and then where would he be? Sensei would find him. The Hunt whining distant, stalking forms pressed against the swirling mists, because Sensei always found him.

“You can’t save me. And I can’t save you.” Izuku stilled, listening to that dreadful echo with a contented sigh. “See? It’s hopeless. Because I’m hopeless. And a useless little waste of space.”

He traced a finger against the table, following the grain of the wood. “This… really sucks, huh? I should’ve died when I was supposed to. Probably would have solved a lot of problems, like… damn. Okay. I’m talking to nothing. This is… not normal.”

Izuku sighed, gathering the Lonely like a tattered cloak. “Well. It’s been fun. Nice talking with you.”

When he threw the mists from his shoulders, Eraserhead was sitting across from him at the table, phone in hand. Yamada… must’ve gone somewhere else, but when Izuku turned to look for him the other hero shifted in his seat, snapping Izuku’s attention back.

“That was almost five minutes,” said Eraserhead softly, carefully, turning his phone to show the stopwatch. “How long did it feel to you?”

Izuku hesitated. He… rarely bothered judging time, in the Lonely. Or at the very least didn’t care to check beyond making sure he didn’t miss one of Sensei’s deadlines.

“Probably… probably the same?” he offered, voice hoarse. He’d already laid his hands flat against the table, but last time Eraserhead hadn’t seemed particularly concerned with those formalities, so… “I’m… I’m sorry—”

“Was it on purpose?”

Izuku paused. Tried to puzzle that out, because… well he’d wanted to be alone, hadn’t he? And that was how he always summoned the Lonely, that dreadful feeling of- of needing silence, everything so loud and overwhelming that it prickled in his skull. Or, alternatively, the drowning knowledge that he didn’t belong. That he’d never belonged. That he would always be alone, and it wasn’t even worth it to try, really, so—

The mists swirled briefly around his ankles before Izuku tossed off the Lonely once more, gritting his teeth as he pressed his hands firm against the table.

“I- I’m sorry—”

“I’m going to take that as a no, then.” Eraserhead sighed, and Izuku couldn’t help but think of how when Sensei sighed, it felt tight around his throat, felt like the Desolation prickling in his palms.

“I’m sorry.”

“Kid. It’s fine. You’re still here.”

“Only because I have to be,” Izuku muttered, the Eye still fizzling behind his skull. Eraserhead snorted.

“Well. As good a reason as any, I guess. Think you can stay here for the detective?”

Izuku stiffened, the Eye hissing in his ears as the Hunt nipped at his ankles, and all the while that awful, strangling hold of the Web around his throat—

But there wasn’t a choice. He could lie, he could beg, he could run and run and run with feet pound silent teeth stained scarlet branches rip and tear—

Nothing mattered. Nothing ever mattered. Still a helpless little thing, at the center of it all.

Izuku nodded, and pressed a smile to his face. “Yeah.”

This was a delicate game, a tightrope walk along that gossamer spider thread that had always stretched out beneath him. He should have known that he wouldn’t be able to squirm out of it. He would play with the hand he had been dealt, always.

Yamada all but slid into the kitchen, hair loose and falling from his messy bun as he clutched his phone in one hand.

“Shouta you gotta text me when you—”

“Quirk.” Eraserhead’s eyes flashed red, and the dishes stopped trembling in the cupboards. Yamada let out a put-upon sigh, mouth twisting before his bright eyes alighted on Izuku.

“Hey, listener! You doing okay?”

“…I’m fine.” There it was, the Eye surging forth again, and Izuku latched onto it for all he was worth. He would need that cold, uncaring gaze if he was going to keep his panic at bay. “Sorry.”

“No problem!” Yamada beamed. “These things happen, it’s all good. So—”

“I was just informing Akatani that the detective would be here soon.” Eraserhead sipped at his mug, seemingly oblivious to Yamada’s sharp look. “Have you updated Tsukauchi?”

“No, I haven’t. But—”

“I’ll text him, then.”

“Shouta—”

“Let’s talk in the other room.” Eraserhead stood with a groan, scratching at the stubble along his jaw as he all but dragged the spluttering Yamada away.

Izuku blinked. Tilted his head. Tapped out ten seconds against the tabletop before he slid silently from his seat and cautiously followed.

An argument, obviously. The Hunt still whined in his veins, senses sharpening as Izuku let the Eye draw him ever closer. When he pressed his hands against a doorframe he saw that his nails had grown longer, resting lightly along the wood. He would have to be careful not to damage anything.

The Eye was buzzing hot in his skull, now, which was good, because despite everything he still had a job here, and any new scrap of information was priceless. Izuku felt his ears prick, nose wrinkling in distaste as he listened at the closed door.

Not quite raised voices, but a shouting match of whispers. It seemed that Yamada did know how to be quiet, despite what his hero persona would imply, although he was certainly more clear than Eraserhead’s low murmur.

“—obviously doesn’t want to meet with him, so I don’t know why you decided to—” hissed Yamada, but Eraserhead cut him off.

“This isn’t about what he wants. That kid is still a villain, and he’s a key witness on this case. Keeping Tsukauchi away from him would amount to obstruction of justice.”

“He’s a child. He’s like a baby. I mean, we don’t even know where his parents are, so if anything having Tsukauchi question him is- isn’t that illegal? Hm?”

“According to the rules of the reform program he’s UA’s ward. And UA has passed responsibility to us. So, that makes us his guardians. Meaning that he can be questioned if we are—”

“Oh we’re his guardians, now, oh, lovely, only when it’s convenient, right? Because that kid just had a fucking panic attack—”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“Too bad! You’re having it right now! It’s already happening!”

“Keep it down,” Eraserhead hissed, and Izuku flattened himself against the wall as he heard the creak of footsteps starting towards the door. Silence, then, and on impulse Izuku blinked—

Eraserhead looked down at the hand currently wrapped around his arm, up at his husband, who stared back with a pained expression.

“I get it, okay?” Strange, to see Yamada’s lips move as if he were not a foot away, but to hear his voice through muffled wood and plaster. “They hurt your kids. I get it.”

Izuku could hear the disdain in Eraserhead’s voice, could watch as his gaze flitted down, away. “That’s not it.”

“The League got away.”

“That’s not it,” hissed Eraserhead. “I’m not- that kid is our only lead. Those villains got into UA, they—”

“They tried to kill your class. Tried to kill you.”

“That’s not it.”

Quiet. Suffocating, the kind of stagnant silence that festered in the lungs, choked sound and thought until the ears were filled with it.

Izuku blinked out of Eraserhead’s sight, rubbing the ache from his temples and forcing the lurking static of the Lonely from overwhelming him. They were fighting. It was his fault, all of it, and- Eraserhead was right. Shigaraki tried to kill a bunch of children, the man was- he was a monster, and Izuku just let it happen, always he just sat back and watched—

But… his ear flicked before he leashed the Hunt more tightly, stepping backwards on light feet until he’d returned to the living room. But he had done something, hadn’t he? Those kids hadn’t died. He’d… he’d actually helped…

And look where it got you? Spider thread and puppet-wire snared around his throat, tangling his limbs in lifeless motion. A tighter leash than ever before. Heroes breathing down his neck, Sensei’s eye blistering upon him… everything was just worse.

Nothing he had ever done could make up for what he was. Worthless, useless, quirkless… whenever he tried to cut the threads that bound him, to pull and twist against his purpose…

A knock on the door. Izuku stiffened, the Eye surging back in full force. He glanced down the hall—nothing. With a grimace, Izuku blinked into Eraserhead’s vision again and—

Immediately blinked out. No. That was. Not what he wanted.

Another knock, more insistent, and what the fuck was he supposed to do? Answer the door? That- he didn’t want to talk to the detective, not now, with Sensei’s voice so fresh in his mind, the phantom pressure of fingers squeezing around his neck—

Izuku reached for the Stranger, the Spiral, the Lonely—anything, but the Eye was still blistering behind his skull and the Buried was creeping up not far behind. It took all of his concentration to keep that musty soil from filling his lungs.

If he attacked the detective, would they send him to prison? Before, Izuku might have considered the option. Now, though, with Sensei’s orders, it was unacceptable.

Fuck. Fuck. Useless. Pinned to the ground by a knock at the door.

“Eraser?” Called the detective, muffled slightly by the wood. A sigh. Then the faint, metallic click of a hand twisting a doorknob. “I’m coming in. Please don’t murder me.”

He was going to be seen. Again Izuku tried for the Stranger, but the Eye just- it was suffocating, drowning in that lidless gaze, the gaping void of a pupil closing in around him. The Eye would not allow that porcelain mask to curl around his jaw. Would not allow the roiling lies of the Spiral, either, defying any sense of rhyme or reason.

God. He was so screwed.

Detective Tsukauchi pushed open the door, pausing in the doorway when he saw Izuku just… standing there. Right. That was probably weird.

Gun tucked beneath his overcoat, fingers twitching towards it. Stubble dusting along his jaw even though Izuku could make out the faint marks of razor burn beneath his chin—long night? Long night into the day? Ink- and graphite-stained fingers—paper files? Strange. His eyes were tired and his stance was worn, but Izuku knew that fatigue just followed some people like a cloud, that it could all mean nothing.

It didn’t, though. The Eye promised that—coffee stains and wrinkled clothes and the slight wince of a tension headache. Long night.

Because of you, and there was the Lonely, hissing static in his ear. It’s your fault.

Izuku dismissed that, the pure rationale of the Eye forcing it aside because where was the proof? There was no way to know what kept the detective up at night, what files he was pouring over as he pushed sleep away with another styrofoam cup of cheap station coffee.

The detective took a cautious step forward, a question furrowing his brow and twitching on his lips, and suddenly Izuku picked out the most important observation, lost to the rest.

Gun, gun, gun.

Right. Izuku was standing in the middle of what looked to be an empty apartment. There were supposed to be two pro heroes here. Izuku was a criminal. Izuku was a criminal, with a powerful quirk, and the detective didn’t know what was going on—

“Where—”

“I didn’t do anything!”

They both paused, staring at each other. Izuku resisted the urge to wince.

“I, uh, that sounded really suspicious, huh? But, um—”

Tsukauchi sighed, and Izuku noted how his hand no longer drifted towards the hidden holster. “Where are Eraser and Mic, kid?”

The Eye pulsed. “I think they’re still making out in their office.”

Tsukauchi blinked at him for a moment. Izuku stared resolutely back—he would not apologize for the truth, not when he was so ravenous for it.

Wait. Wait, he’d just fed the Eye. Why was it scrabbling at the inside of his skull…?

Tsukauchi sighed, hand falling to rest at his side as he closed the door behind him and strode wearily into the apartment proper. The Eye followed his every move. Static clung to him like the Lonely’s mists, only… not. Like the hiss and whine of his tape recorder, sputtering in his hand, in his voice.

Lie detector quirk. It was more difficult to notice last time, with the suppressants, but now Izuku could feel the force of it. The Eye opened wide around this man, all consuming, threat of lies laid bare, nowhere to hide as he dragged truth into the light of his gaze.

“I don’t want to know how you know that,” said Tsukauchi with a sigh, sinking onto the couch as if he’d been here before. “Can’t start questioning you until they’re here, though… would you mind grabbing them?”

“Yes.” He very much would mind.

Tsukauchi groaned, scrubbing at his face. “Great. How are you doing, kid?”

Izuku tilted his head before walking around the couch, taking a seat in an armchair across the room from Tsukauchi. “As well as can be expected.”

“Yeah. Makes sense. Big change, huh?”

His new assignment certainly was a big change. “Yes.”

“Any issues settling in?”

Izuku shrugged, fiddling with his sleeves. “Yeah. A lot.”

“…Oh?”

Another shrug. “I keep disappearing.”

“Uh… huh,” the detective said weakly. “You keep… disappearing.”

“Yes.”

“That’s… quirk problems, then?”

Izuku couldn’t help but bristle, though the Eye soothed much of his indignance. It was the truth. It was being seen, being known for exactly what he was. “Yeah.”

“Great.” Tsukauchi shifted uncomfortably on the couch, glancing towards the hallway. “Uh, where did you say—”

As if on cue, a door slammed open, the patter of feet tearing down the hall before Yamada practically slid into the room. “Hello, the- oh! Tsukauchi! Uh, nice to see you!”

“We had an appointment,” Tsukauchi said dryly.

“Yep! Yep, we totally did! That’s definitely what—”

“I told you to stop letting yourself in.” Eraserhead yawned as he slouched in past Yamada, slumping onto the couch in his best impression of a liquid. “You’re going to get punched. Again.”

“One time,” Tsukauchi muttered. “Besides, that wasn’t my fault. You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I was asleep.”

“At three in the afternoon? On a Wednesday?”

“Yes.” Eraserhead yawned again, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I see you’ve already reintroduced yourself to Akatani.”

“Uh.” Tsukauchi winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually, not really.”

“Great.” Eraserhead waved a hand at Izuku, then at Tsukauchi. “Akatani. Detective Tsukauchi. You met at the hospital.”

Izuku cleared his throat. “I, uh, remember. Sorry. About that.”

“About…” Narrowing his eyes, the detective fumbled for something in his jacket before pulling out a notepad and flipping it open. “Oh, right! The quirk. No worries! Already forgot about it, I guess.”

Damn. Izuku wished he had a lie detecting quirk. Of course, he didn’t really need one to know that was bullshit.

Tsukauchi was playing affable again—with the Eye so prominent Izuku could untangle any little twitch of muscle that might betray the Spiral’s friendly lies.

Fine. Izuku didn’t need honesty, he needed the truth. The Eye crackled through his forehead with a blistering intensity that could not be ignored.

“I just have a few questions for you, if that’s alright!” When Izuku was silent, the detective cleared his throat and flipped to a fresh page in his notepad. “Right to it, then. To confirm your statements of before, you were working for the League of Villains?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what would have happened, had you refused to work for them?”

The Desolation sparked in his palms. “They would have hurt me.”

“I’m sorry.” Tsukauchi frowned, as if this was news to him. “That sounds hard.”

Izuku shrugged. “You get used to it.”

“Right…” Tsukauchi shared a glance with the two heroes, a look of pinched faces and barely stifled sadness. For some reason, it chafed at him, their pity laid out so plainly. Like they would have cared, had they known him before.

Tsukauchi cleared his throat. “Moving on, then. What was it that you were supposed to be doing at the USJ?”

Easy. His fingers twitched for the dry press of paper. “Observation, mostly.”

“Observation? Can you elaborate?”

“Shigaraki instructed me to take notes on any heroes present, as well as the students. Their quirks, their names, their fighting styles. Things like that.”

“Was… there a purpose to this?”

Izuku did not hesitate, the Eye fluttering as he tilted his head. “Shigaraki can be unpredictable. It’s hard, sometimes, to know what he actually wants.”

“Okay…” Tsukauchi seemed frustrated, but not suspicious. “Can you give us any info on Shigaraki?”

Izuku didn’t grin, but it was a close thing. “No, I cannot.” Not if I want my limbs to stay where they are. “Sorry.”

“No, that’s… that’s fine! Just figured I would ask. Hm…” Tapping his pen against the notepad, Tsukauchi shifted slightly in his seat, and Izuku watched with mounting tension for the slip in the mask. The point where he would press.

He didn’t, though that by no means meant it would never happen. Instead Tsukauchi sighed, flipping to a new page as he asked his next question. “Prior to that, you broke into UA.”

“Yes.”

“What was the purpose of this?”

“To find information.” They already knew this, and his skull was starting to buzz with static, because why would they ask something they already knew? Just to pull it from him once again?

“And you brought that information to the League.”

“Yes.”

“Was that the first time you’ve done something like that?”

There it was. Izuku shrunk slightly in the armchair, but the Eye did not let him waver as he might have liked. “No.”

“You broke into places before?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I was instructed to do.”

“No, I- hm.” Tsukauchi hummed, shifting again. “Why were you instructed to do that?”

“Shigaraki is unpredictable. It’s hard to figure out why he does anything.” This was the risk, Izuku supposed, with a lie detecting quirk that lacked the compulsion of the Eye at its peak. Truth upon truth upon truth, but none of it was honesty. None of it would let him be seen.

“So…” Tsukauchi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’re trying to help you, Phobos. You know that, right?”

The Eye flared. How dare he, how dare he lie- Izuku couldn’t help the hot flash of anger, the painful spike of white-hot agony that burst across his skull, just behind his eyes. His fingers dug into the faded fabric of the armrests as he stared, faintest twitch of a scowl curling at his lip while the detective had the audacity to hide from him.

“How late were you working, Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa?”

Tsukauchi blinked, pen stilling on the notepad. “Excuse me?”

“It looks like a late night, is all,” Izuku said simply. “Things are busy at the station?”

“That… isn’t really relevant to your case.”

Snarling, snapping anger, eyes narrowing dangerously because again, again he tried to mask himself in falsehood, took Izuku for a blind fool when his sight was vast and bloodshot.

“I think it is. Isn’t it?” His fingers twitched, eager for a pen, or better still, the muted rasp of a tape recorder in his hold. “A lot of loose ends to tie up, after the USJ. It’s understandable.”

Tsukauchi glanced to the side, towards the heroes, but Izuku did not follow his gaze.

“Understaffed? Or just overworked. Either way, I can’t imagine this was where you pictured yourself. Most officers start out as hero hopefuls, did you know that?”

“Not me,” said Tsukauchi, though his laugh was strained and his posture tense. “Never really had a mind towards heroics. Always wanted to be a detective.”

“Why?”

“Why… did I want to be a detective?”

“Why weren’t you interested in heroics?”

“Well, it’s not like I really have the quirk for it…” Tsukauchi shifted again on the couch, tapping listlessly at his notepad. “But that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Let’s—”

“I don’t think it’s a difficult question.”

“It’s not what we’re here for, though—”

“You’re right, sorry.” Izuku took a breath, feeling the Eye humming in his veins, radio static curling around his ears in soothing melody. “It was a late night for you. But I take it that’s not unusual.”

“This isn’t—”

“Paper files, though, that’s strange. Everything’s digital now. An old case giving you trouble?”

Tsukauchi frowned, brow furrowing. “I- how did you know that?”

“You know, you should really fix your posture when you work, you’re going to throw out your back—”

“How did you know I was looking at an old case?”

“—sitting at a computer all day really can’t be good for you—”

“No. Phobos. How—”

“Why are you really here, detective?”

Silence. Tense, coiled, like a viper ready to strike.

At last, Eraserhead spoke, shattering the quiet with a weary sigh. “Akatani. Why do you think Tsukauchi is here?”

Interesting. But this was a game of information, and Izuku would not give up his so freely. “To ask questions.”

“What questions?”

Izuku hummed, staring thoughtfully at the detective. “Still up for debate.”

“I’m…” Tsukauchi scrubbed a hand across his face, presumably in a vain attempt to regain his alertness. At last, he let out a weary huff of air. “Okay. If I ask you one more question, will you answer it?”

“Maybe. If you answer mine.”

Tsukauchi groaned, slouching in his seat. “Fine. You ask first.”

“Hm.” Delicate, peering through the cracks for something he could feast upon. “What were you looking at, that had you up so late?”

Tsukauchi laughed, a hoarse and weary thing. “Case files. Like you said.”

Damn. It had been worth a shot.

“Have you had any contact with the League since the USJ?”

Careful. The Eye pulsing gently at his temples. “I thought the whole point of this was to get me away from the League.”

Eraserhead sighed. “Kid—”

“You don’t trust me?” Izuku snorted. “Right. Obviously. Because I’m a villain.”

“No one said any of that.”

“But it’s true. You think—”

“Just answer the question, alright? That’s it.”

Izuku forced himself to roll his eyes. To keep his pulse calm, and steady. They see you they see right through you they know what you are—static roiling in his ears with the lurking threat of discovery, but Izuku knew better.

“The next time I see Shigaraki, he’s probably gonna try to kill me. So no, I haven’t talked to him. Thanks for asking.”

Izuku couldn’t help but notice the sharp glance Eraserhead shot towards Tsukauchi, the curt nod he got in return. The relief that slumped through both of their shoulders, and fuck how that burned in his gut, buzzed in his skull, sparked agony in his palms because they knew. They knew, and yet they didn’t.

Because they didn’t want it to be true. Hiding behind ignorance until they could make-believe it was reality.

Tsukauchi left shortly after. Evidently he’d gotten what he came for, although there was a… a hesitance, there. Like there was something else he wasn’t asking, something else he kept hidden.

That was fine. Izuku would unearth it in due time, because that was his purpose—to lie, and wait, and watch. That was all he ever did, digging up the facts and stringing them together in a macabre image of the person they defined.

He could pretend to be something different, but at his core he was this hungry, lidless thing, aching for the next task, the next meal. Prying into the detective’s life like that, poking at his insecurities, it was enough to leave him sated.

They were right to suspect him. His quirk meant that he would never amount to more than a parasite, a shape in the shadows, a monster lurking beneath the bed. Sensei understood that. Plucking at the silver strands of tenuous spider-silk, Sensei understood Izuku’s purpose.

That night, Izuku spent the restless hours flipping through his journals, running his fingers over the familiar kanji as if they might rise from the page and press themselves against his skin. The Eye fluttered in sweet contentment, only grumbling when Izuku finally tucked the journals back into his backpack, and shoved the whole thing as far as he could beneath the bed.

Even then, sleep was difficult to grasp. Try as he might Izuku couldn’t shake the sense of being watched.

Chapter Text

“In your seats.”

The Eye prickled behind his skull as Izuku heard the class scramble for their desks. No one was looking at him yet from where he stood just beyond the doorway, so he had to assume it was a more general fear. Still, it left him anxious, shifting from foot to foot while he waited for Eraserhead to call him in.

This was ridiculous. He didn’t belong here.

The Lonely had been a constant weight across his shoulders all day, and it grew even heavier at this looming threshold. Only when Izuku could hear the faint roar of crashing waves did he pull it back. It probably wouldn’t leave the best impression if he slipped into that space on the first day.

Besides, this was Sensei’s plan. And just like that he eased the fear from his mind, drew the Web forth in its place with the faintest scuttling of legs up his spine. This was Sensei’s plan, and he had to make it work. Be a good student, impress the teachers, weave his own meager tapestry until he could work along the threads towards what he needed.

“Akatani, come in.”

Izuku took a breath and tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of cobwebs in his throat. He stepped into the room.

Immediately the Eye flared, scrabbling up against his forehead as nineteen sets of eyes fixed upon him with awful scrutiny. Izuku hurried towards Eraserhead and tried not to let it show how their curious gazes itched at his skull.

“This is Akatani Izuku. Some of you may recognize him from—”

“Whoa!” one of the students piped up. Red hair, sharp teeth—Izuku didn’t remember him, and his quirk wasn’t immediately apparent. “Isn’t that the guy from the USJ?”

Immediately the air turned thick with tension. Fear, but Izuku suspected there was also doubt, confusion, anger… the Desolation sparked in his palms, and Izuku swiftly raked his eyes over the class, eager to sort the threats from those who could be convinced to, at the very least, ignore him.

He recognized Shinsou. And the frog girl, Asui Tsuyu. Of the two of them the latter had seemed more receptive, but a lot could change. And they both saw him use the Slaughter. Not a great start.

“Quiet, Kirishima,” Eraserhead snapped. The kid—Kirishima—shrank down in his chair. “Yes. As I was going to say, Akatani was present at the USJ. He was there as a hostage. The League intended to use him as leverage, but he managed to break away from the main group. By using his quirk to help a few of you, he has technically violated vigilantism laws, which means that UA has jurisdiction to take him on as a student. We have done so. The purpose of this is to keep him safe from future attacks. Are there any questions?”

Izuku sighed as Eraserhead parroted the same excuse Nedzu had offered up to cover his tracks. He just hoped that they’d talked to Shinsou and Asui about it, because they were the only ones who knew why he was actually at the USJ. Not as a hostage, but as a villain.

Ingenium’s brother shot his hand up into the air, and Eraserhead sighed.

“Iida.”

Iida Tenya. Izuku recognized the name. He’d looked into the Ingenium family briefly, closer to when he’d begun his work as Confession. They seemed an honest sort, despite the trappings of a family dynasty.

“Sir! Is there a reason Akatani-san is in our class? Wouldn’t it be more reasonable to place him in the general course?”

“The vigilante reform program is very specific,” Eraserhead grumbled, as if this were an argument he’d already had and lost. “In order to follow the letter of the law, he has to be placed on the hero track.”

Izuku hummed as he examined the rest of the class. No one seemed particularly threatening… his eyes snared on Todoroki Shouto, one of the few students who needed no introduction. Powerful quirk, and very difficult to read. With the way Todoroki was staring at him, he was definitely one to watch out for.

Scanning further across the room, and- oh.

Oh no.

Oh no.

The Desolation sputtered, and Izuku clenched his fists against its searing heat. He forced his gaze not to snag, tugged it away to hover somewhere around the back wall of the classroom.

The Eye did not abate. Izuku hadn’t recognized him from his cursory glance across the classroom, but there was no mistaking that blistering red glare. The phantom bursts of heat that were the Desolation creeping up his arms.

Bakugou Katsuki had not stopped staring at him. Which meant he knew. He knew, he recognized him—the Eye sputtered behind his skull and the Desolation ate away at the delicate spidersilk crisscrossing his skin because all of this could fall apart in an instant, the moment Bakugou opened his mouth.

He didn’t. Throughout the rest of class he didn’t—Izuku’s stumbling introduction, his race towards the empty desk, a good several hours of mindless lessons while Izuku sat rigid at the edge of his seat, and- and he didn’t say anything.

It had been a long, long while, but Izuku had never known Bakugou to be cautious. To be silent. Always loud, always brash, always pushing towards the next challenge without any regard for what stood in his way. Friend or foe. He didn’t care.

This… this had always been a possibility. Bakugou had talked about being a hero, right? And he had a quirk to suit it… Izuku worried at his lip as he tried to focus on the lesson at hand, but his mind kept wandering towards the face he remembered from childhood. The face so similar to the one in this classroom, but not quite.

Different. Always. The Stranger crept around his jaw because whoever they were then, the children they had been—those kids were dead. This was a different Bakugou. He needed to be careful.

Kacchan. Izuku hastily lifted his hand from his notebook as the Desolation sputtered. God, he thought he had buried those memories. Left them behind the instant this patchwork quirk burrowed beneath his skin.

And yet.

The hours were long and short, stuttering like a needle on a pockmarked record, so that one moment the clock seemed stuck, second hand stalling as Izuku glanced back at the board to find the same equation that had been there what felt like thirty minutes ago—and then in the snap of a rubberband it was time for lunch.

Izuku packed up quickly. Kaccha- Bakugou, this was not the same person, he could not forget that—Bakugou’s eyes seared into Izuku’s skin as he hurriedly shoved the books into his bag and raced towards the hallway. A couple of the other students tried to call him over, to invite the curious newcomer to lunch, but with the Stranger curling around his jaw he easily dodged the advances.

Token effort. No one truly wanted to befriend a quirkless little loser like him, a faceless wooden doll, a Deku—

The Stranger tightened with the cool press of porcelain, and Izuku swiped a thumb across his cheek as he forced himself to remember who he was. Presently, he was Akatani, hero course student, someone who had always had a quirk and had never known the blistering heat of fire. Never choked on the stench of burning flesh. Never cowered in the bathroom in the hopes that he might avoid the dangers lurking in the cafeteria.

Kacchan was not the worst thing he had faced, even when he wasn’t Akatani, even when he wasn’t Phobos. Kacchan was never the worst thing. Bakugou would be the same.

And yet, when Izuku felt fingers tangle in the back of his shirt, yanking him off-balance and pulling his collar taught against his throat, he couldn’t help the fear that bubbled up his throat with a sickly familiarity.

Bakugou dragged him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind them both, throwing Izuku forward in the process.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ah. So he had recognized him. And it seemed that he had learned patience, as well. Wonderful.

Izuku stumbled, staggering into the cool tile of the wall and whirling around to face his assailant.

Not him. Not me. He raised his chin, let indignance spark across his face.

“I could ask you the same question!” Izuku rubbed tentatively at where his shoulder had been jostled and bent his porcelain mask into something like indignance. Shock. Confusion. Maybe a little bit of anger. “Why’d you do that?”

“You know,” Bakugou hissed. Explosions crackled up his arms, and Izuku felt that mask begin to warp. Felt the Desolation spark in dreadful harmony. “Don’t play that fucking shit with me. I don’t know what the hell kind of bullshit you pulled to make them think you have a- a fucking quirk or some shit, but I know who the fuck you are.”

“I… really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fucking- seriously? Seriously?” More bursts of heat. Izuku pressed his back against the wall, all too aware of the damage those hands could do. “How many green-haired fuckers named Izuku do you think there are?”

A crack splintered across the mask, and Izuku flinched. Snarled. Felt shards of porcelain dig red furrows into his flesh as the Desolation flared in his palms.

“That’s not me,” Izuku spat, and for once in his fucking life Bakugou seemed taken aback. Good. Good. Because this wasn’t Kacchan, and he wasn’t fucking Deku. “Whoever you think I am, that’s not me. So fuck off.”

Bakugou snorted, but there was a new wariness to his gaze. “What kind of- you go missing for fucking- are you fucking kidding me? Think I forgot what you look like? They had the posters up for fucking- months.”

“Months.” The Stranger warped his voice into a lifeless echo. “Months. An eight-year-old goes missing. And they look for months.”

“Well- fucking- what the hell were we supposed to do? I—” Bakugou growled, slamming a fist against the counter and taking another step towards Izuku. “No. Stop that shit. What the hell are you doing here, where the fuck were you, how did you even—”

“Bakugou.” Dead, dead, dead—he’d seen the forum posts and the desolate interviews, watched the fucking funeral for two bodies that didn’t fucking exist. One ash, the other less than even that. Burned away to nothing, nothing but heat and smoke and pain. “Stop talking.”

“No,” Bakugou sneered, taking another step into Izuku’s space as fire crackled up his arms, through his veins, raking down Izuku’s back in vicious cruelty as warmth turned to heat turned to inescapable destruction. “No, you don’t get to do that. What the fuck are you doing here- what the fuck were you doing with them, those fucking- what, you a villain now? Huh? Couldn’t handle it when everyone told you the fucking truth—”

“You’re asking a lot of questions.” Izuku’s voice rasped and hissed like damp kindling, palms sparking in white-hot pinpricks. “Not the right ones, though. Fuck off.”

Bakugou’s eyes blazed, and Izuku felt the Desolation surge in kind. “Oh, what, you grow a fucking spine while you fucked off and disappeared? We had to have a fucking assembly because of your ass.”

“Oh no. How hard for you.”

“Fuck you,” Bakugou snarled, taking one more step, nearly brushing against Izuku as he towered overhead. “If you won’t fucking pony up, then I’ll just go to Aizawa. Who the fuck is Akatani anyway, that’s not your fucking name- what, afraid they’d call your old man and he’d tell them how much of a quirkless fucking Deku you are—”

Porcelain melted to sizzling candlewax. Fire danced along his skin, through his veins, boiling liquid pain that curled and blackened every nerve it crossed.

The Desolation crooned with the crackle of flames and Izuku smiled. Gritted teeth, fiery eyes, but still he smiled. Bakugou wavered. Flickered. Took a single step back, and Izuku surged forward with the reckless fury of a wildfire and the manic glee of an arsonist.

He pushed Bakugou back, boxing him in against the counter and reveling in every pop of his quirk, every burst of heat that could never hope to match the inferno raging in his chest.

“Bakugou,” he spat, and it might have been wax that flew from his lips. “Don’t mess with something you don’t understand.”

Even as he wavered, Bakugou burst forward with a newfound brilliance. Stubborn flame. Where he found that fuel Izuku might never know, especially since a certain Deku had long since become unavailable as kindling.

“Are you fucking threatening me—” he nearly roared, but Izuku cut him off by slamming his hand against the countertop, forcing Bakugou to flinch away. The acrid scent of burning plastic curled around them both, and Izuku felt the laminate begin to warp and curl beneath his hand. He paid it no mind.

“I am.” Izuku did not need to shout. He fed the fire until it threatened to consume him, then stoked it ever further. Felt it char his ribs, cook his heart, wrap in searing strands around his tongue until his voice dripped with liquid flame. “That person is dead, Bakugou. He died a long time ago. Whatever you’re looking for: It. Doesn’t. Exist.  It’s ash. Do you understand?”

“You- you don’t have a fucking quirk,” Bakugou sputtered. Creaked, like firewood. “How are you- no. I know who you are, you can’t just- say that. You’re not dead, you’re standing right fucking here and- shit. Shit. Deku—"

“He burned, Bakugou.” Izuku withdrew his hand, bits of molten plastic scattering at the sudden movement. A few drops fell across Bakugou, who cursed before pulling away with a hiss. Izuku just sighed. “I don’t know what you hoped to find. But whatever it is, it’s already been destroyed. Don’t pretend you care—”

“You are such a fucking—”

“And don’t,” Izuku snapped, “interrupt me. God, I should’ve known you’d just be a little bitch about this whole thing—”

“What the hell? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m the bitch, yeah, real fucking smart shit right there. If you’re not fucking dead, then where the hell have you been, huh? Uncle Hisashi was—”

Izuku scoffed, and the flames that festered in his blood were sharp against his scars, curling up his back like wings, like the lash of a molten whip.

“Of course. Of course, you care about Uncle Hisashi. Uncle Dragon, the coolest hero next to maybe All Might. That’s all you ever fucking cared about, wasn’t it? Being just like him.”

That, at last, gave Bakugou pause. Although the confusion that flickered on his face did nothing to cool Izuku’s boiling blood.

“What the fuck are you talking about—”

“What I mean, Kacchan,” Izuku sneered, reveling in the half-aborted flinch that simple name won him, “is that you don’t know shit. That everything you’ve ever worked towards is a fucking lie.”

“Oi, what the—”

“Shut up. I’m talking.”

Explosions crackled up Bakugou’s arms, but Izuku knew them for what they were: sparklers. All light and noise, but when held against the raw fire of the Desolation they were nothing but a nuisance. Whatever threat they once held had long since burned away, just like the rest of his youth.

Fire had taken everything from him. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fucking fair that Bakugou could stand before him and still clutch tightly at the wide-eyed ignorance he’d been forced to leave behind.

Bakugou opened his mouth to speak. Izuku would not let him.

“A hero never loses, right?” he growled, fingers twitching at his sides. “That’s what Hisashi taught you. A hero always wins.”

And what a failure Izuku had been. What a loss. Unconscionable, for a hero who had been winning his whole fucking life. Strong quirk, easy smile, an eye towards tactics… Dragon had it all.

Less than I deserve. Always. Sometimes, when the weather turned foul and the scars itched across his back, Izuku heard that voice. Felt the thread pull tight, where the Web still linked father and son.

Ungrateful. Everyone was always ungrateful. The world, the Commission, the people living under his roof.

“He always liked you better anyway,” Izuku spat. “Did you know that? I mean, obviously you knew that, because what am I? Nothing, right? Who the hell cares what happens to me.”

Again Bakugou wavered, an odd flicker to his eyes. “Did you not watch the fucking interviews? He wouldn’t shut up about—”

“You believed that?” Izuku laughed, and it was like the rustle of dried leaves, all punctuated by the whoosh of kindling swiftly consumed. “Wow. You’re more naïve than I thought, Kacchan. But I guess that is the funny thing about fire. It doesn’t tend to leave much behind.”

Bakugou needed to burn. The memories he held, the childhood wonder as he stared up at the hero he called “uncle”—Izuku needed to crush it between his sputtering hands. To destroy that rosy remnant of his past until it was nothing but soot, just like everything else.

The Desolation boiled at his skin, and for a moment Izuku wondered if the bubbling fat he felt blistering above his veins was visible, or just another figment of his fractured quirk. He didn’t care to check.

“No evidence,” he hissed. “Even then, you know, house fires usually leave more behind. But I guess you would never find that weird, huh? You always did hang on his every fucking word. Of course this wasn’t any different.”

“What the fuck are you getting at.”

It was rapturous, the waver in Bakugou’s voice. Like passing his finger above a flame, knowing he could snuff it out with one swift movement.

Izuku reached up and threaded his fingers through the knot of his tie. The fabric seared beneath his skin, snapping away from his neck before he could loosen it. He stared down at it for a moment, the red smoking in his clutched hand as it slowly curled and blackened. Again, that searing warmth in his chest. Up his back. Splintering through his veins with every white-hot thump of his heart.

He shrugged his blazer off just as easily, letting it fall to the cool tile below. For a moment he considered unbuttoning the front of his shirt as well, but the tie still withering in his hand was enough to stay him for a moment.

“I’m saying that you’re an idiot, Bakugou. I’m saying that the people you knew either never existed, or died a long, long time ago. I’m saying that the hero you based your fucking life around is a lie.”

“Hisashi did more than you ever could,” Bakugou hissed, though his eyes flickered from the burning fabric to the blistering intensity across Izuku’s face. “What, is this some teenage rebellion shit? Just because he told you to be fucking realistic, you’re calling him a liar—”

“He is a liar.” Not about that, never about that. You’ll never be a hero, Izuku, get that through your thick fucking skull, and look how right he was.

But he was still a liar. He was still a murderer.

“If you want to be like him so much, Kacchan, maybe you should know what he really is.”

The Eye, pressing up against his forehead, scorching through his skin and warping the hiss of flames to something more like static. It did nothing to leash the Desolation—only watched, drank in haunting memories and the thrill of painful knowledge as that eternal flame still twitched and writhed in his fingertips.

And suddenly Izuku was wreathed in fire.

Pain became an abstract concept—once every nerve danced with scorching heat it became difficult to tease apart the particulars. It hurt, and that was the point, wasn’t it? It hurt, and it took, and it destroyed. That was fire. That was the Desolation.

It was cruel, it was capricious, and it would never cease to prickle in his palms. To boil in his blood. To itch and writhe and burn across his back where the scars still served as a bitter reminder of everything he’d lost.

He felt it again, that overwhelming agony. Choked on the scent of burning flesh and the memory of searing flames, throat sticky with blood and ash. His back blistered, as if the scars had just been inflicted anew, and distantly Izuku felt his shirt begin to blacken and burn away where his wounds had been most grievous.

None of it mattered. He was fire, within and without—as long as it consumed, as long as it burned bright, he could suffer in that feverish elation that charred his bones and bubbled in his flesh. His skin could slough from him like molten wax and he would not care. He was fueled by it—pain, anger, pointless destruction—and with every flash of unmitigated horror he dragged from Bakugou he felt that flame bloom ever brighter within and around him.

“What…” For once, it seemed that Bakugou was at a loss for words. Izuku grinned. His smile tasted of soot.

“Oh, Kacchan… I think you know what burn scars look like.”

“That’s- what the fuck, Deku, that’s not—”

“What did I say before, about fire? That it doesn’t leave much behind?” Izuku laughed, and the sound was warped by heat, wavering like air above baked asphalt. “Nothing but scars.”

Realization fluttered across Bakugou’s face, still visible behind the squirming panic he was trying—and failing—to suppress. “Hisashi- he- that’s not—”

“It’s the truth, Bakugou,” Izuku snarled, and the Eye burned hot behind his skull, grappling with the fire in his veins. “What, are you afraid of that as well? Afraid you’ve built yourself on a lie?”

“Stop fucking—”

“This is what heroes are. This is what they do.” Gasping, gagging, grey plumes of smoke thick in the air as he scrambled desperately for a way out, a place he could breathe and the heat wouldn’t cook his lungs—

“This is what heroes do,” Izuku repeated, his voice the stuttering rasp of a heat-warped tape. “And this is what you so desperately want to become. Take a good look, Kacchan, because it never gets better than this.”

Ash. Everything was ash—bitter on his tongue and thickening his blood. The fire inside of him sputtered. Died.

And with that, Izuku fumbled to pull on his blazer, snatched his backpack, and practically fled into the now empty hallway.

Back in the bathroom, Bakugou Katsuki stared at the closed door. Tensed his hands with restless energy, eager to burn off the sweat that pooled along his skin but oddly wary of the heat.

“Fucking… fine.” He turned to rest his hands on the counter, pointedly ignoring the warped section where Deku- Izu- Mi- Akatani’s quirk had left a rippling scorch mark. “If that’s how you want to play it. Fine.”

His fingers did not tremble against the cool laminate. His eyes did not sting with sweat, nor with unshed tears. Because that wasn’t fucking Deku.

His Deku was a scrawny little weakling who wouldn’t have dared to so much as speak to Katsuki that way, nonetheless use his freaky quirk like that. His Deku didn’t have a quirk.

And his Deku had a dad who also happened to be an amazing hero, the kind that never backed down from a fight, the kind that offered to teach him hand-to-hand in the backyard of his childhood home. Who kept in touch, even after the son Katsuki’s age, ostensibly the only reason the two families had become entwined in the first place, had long since been lost.

And yet.

Something curdled in Katsuki’s gut with a sickly certainty. Because Akatani was right. He did know what burns looked like. And seeing the blistered skin across his back was enough to remind Katsuki of other little nothings that had seemed so unimportant at the time.

A limp, or a wince, or a bandaged arm. Familiar angry red patches of skin peaking out from over Deku’s collar.

Fuck. Fuck.

Katsuki growled, pressing his forehead against the mirror to rid his ears of that godawful hissing noise that De- Akatani had somehow filled the room with. It was like the sound had lingered, echoing in the space long after the boy had left.

Then, with a start, Katsuki realized that it had a source.

He peeled his forehead from the mirror and ducked beneath the counter, eyes narrowing when they landed on… what the fuck?

The tape recorder hissing merrily away under the sinks was… battered, but whole. When Katsuki reached to fish it out it sputtered out with a last, heaving gasp, as if the tape had run out of space, or perhaps the recorder had died altogether. Either way, it wasn’t as if he’d be using the fucking thing anytime soon.

It must’ve fallen out of the nerd's backpack. As Katsuki examined it, eager to push away the thoughts that threatened to suffocate him, he couldn’t help but think that was absolutely typical—of fucking course the nerd would own something like this.

Well, he thought as he pocketed it with a growl. He’s not fucking getting it back, that’s for sure.

Maybe Akatani fucking owed him one for keeping his mouth shut. And for having the fucking balls to threaten him like that, to fucking talk to him like that after he’d been dead for almost seven fucking years—

Katsuki squared his shoulders, left the room, and tried to ignore how the tape seemed to burn a hole through his pocket.

Chapter Text

For someone who so prided himself on intelligence, Izuku really was an idiot.

The Desolation sputtered. Died. As Izuku hurried down the hall he hardly registered the cold past his pain-dulled nerves. There was an empty space in his chest where the fire had once raged, snuffed out like candleflame and leaving only ash behind. He shivered, curling an arm around his chest. After all this time the Desolation still ripped through him the instant his control faltered.

Stupid. Fucking stupid. To fight fire with fire. Pain with pain.

He was smarter than that, and yet the instant that familiar flame curled in his gut he’d stoked it eagerly, consumed by the fervent zeal that blistered in his veins.

His mouth felt dry, and sticky with soot. All the more bitter because he knew that Bakugou would not be dissuaded by this. The fact that his childhood friend hadn’t followed, had backed off at all was a warning, a threat of worse to come. Bakugou might not go to Aizawa, but Izuku shuddered to think what kind of damage he could do if he set his mind to it.

In the biting chill of the after Izuku knew he had made an inexcusable error. Had the Spiral been swirling in his veins, or the Stranger, or fuck even the Lonely because then at least he might have avoided the conversation altogether instead of facing it head on like some kind of idiot—any one of those aspects would have been a better pick. The Spiral especially. If he had drawn Bakugou down a careful maze of sugar-spun deception, then the boy would have surely followed.

Pointless, to drown in these what-ifs. But Izuku’s life often felt pointless, so perhaps it was fitting.

Fine. It was fine. He could make this work, had to make this work because there had never been another option. Izuku wearily trudged towards the cafeteria, following the signs and dutifully ignoring the cold ball of cinders that sat heavy in his chest.

At the very least, he could count on Bakugou’s stubbornness. That might lend him some time, a stopgap before he could come up with a real solution. Unwittingly, in his fitful bid to tear down what Bakugou strived for, Izuku had laid out some breadcrumbs. He wouldn’t go to a teacher for that—both of them knew that teachers were useless.

He just couldn’t get cornered again. With so much cowardice at his disposal, that couldn’t be too difficult.

At least he’d had the forethought to shrug off his blazer before that frankly embarrassing stunt. Both his undershirt and his tie were ruined—and wouldn’t that be fun to explain to the heroes—but the shirt had only burned through the back, where the scars were most prominent, and with his blazer buttoned no one would be able to see the extent of the damage.

Trust the Desolation to have a flare for the dramatic. The old burns stung, groaning their discontent whenever they brushed against the harsh fabric of the blazer. Everything felt fresh, and achy, and burdened with a festering discomfort.

Izuku sighed, wincing when he entered the wall of sound that was the cafeteria. Oh, wonderful, he hadn’t been forced to worry about something like this since elementary school… a grimace wormed its way onto his face as he quickly grabbed a tray and some food. He didn’t know anyone here, and there was no way he’d be able to find an empty table this late into the lunch period. Maybe he could just find a different bathroom? One not occupied by his furious childhood friend?

“Oh, hey! Akatani-kun, is that you!”

Someone. Was talking. To him.

Izuku blinked for a moment, unable to help the wide-eyed stare that snapped towards the offending table. The girl who’d called out didn’t seem fazed, waving at him with a bright smile that was almost blinding, even from where he stood.

“Um,” Izuku said, though she was still halfway across the room and almost certainly couldn’t hear him. “Me?”

Predictably, she didn’t answer, though she did stand up and jump in the air a couple times. “Hey! Come sit with us!”

“…okay?” There wasn’t a way out of this, not without looking like a major asshole, which… no. Izuku needed allies. He’d already pissed off two members of the class beyond any return, and he really needed to stop before he went three for three.

“Awesome, I thought you couldn’t hear me for a second!” The girl beamed as he came closer, short brown hair swaying lightly when she plopped back down and patted the seat next to her. “I don’t think we really met, I mean you left so quickly after class--I’m Uraraka Ochako!”

“Uh. Nice to meet you.” Izuku carefully maneuvered past a few crowded tables, breaking through to find Uraraka sitting with the Ingenium kid—Iida? Iida Tenya? That was a name to remember—as well as the frog girl Asui and… oh.

“Guess you’re finally back from wherever you snuck off to,” said Shinsou, because the universe had never shied away from kicking him when he was down.

Wonderful. Well, the Desolation was firmly under wraps, still smoldering in his palms, and the Lonely was just starting to settle on his shoulders while the Eye pressed against his skull. At least he could remain in control, this time around.

Izuku sighed as he took his seat next to Uraraka. “It’s nice to meet you. Hello again, Shinsou.”

“Shinsou-san!” Iida actually shouted, nearly rising from his seat with the force of his gestures. “That is no way to talk to a new classmate!”

Shinsou huffed, though Izuku did catch the slightest hunch of his shoulders. Interesting. Not much time to dwell on it though, because Iida’s sharp gaze quickly snapped to him.

“Although, Akatani-san, I must admit that it is rather unprofessional behavior to leave class like that without properly introducing yourself! And where is your tie? According to the UA student dress-code, a missing tie counts as a minor infraction!”

Izuku paused, blinking, and Uraraka seized upon his silence with a frown.

“Aw, come on, guys. Stop being mean!”

“Wha- I wasn’t!” Iida sputtered, hand still chopping through the air to punctuate his point. “I was just pointing out that etiquette--”

“So, Akatani-kun,” cut in Asui, and Izuku struggled to ease the Lonely’s death-grip from his throat as he turned to her. She stared back, unblinking. “How are you adjusting to our class?”

“It’s, uh. A lot?”

“That’s fair, kero. Everyone’s pretty loud.”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Oh!” Uraraka leaned forward onto the table with a smile. “If you’re having any trouble with like, schoolwork and stuff, you should join our study group!”

“Um.”

“Yes!” said Iida. “It’s imperative that we uphold UA’s high standards of academics!”

“That’s- really not necessary, but, uh, thank you—”

“Yeah,” Shinsou snorted, glaring down at his lunch. “Because I bet they already taught you everything you need to know at villain school.”

“Shinsou.” Asui did not snap, but her voice took on the steely quality of someone well-versed in dealing with children. Shinsou wilted once more, and Uraraka tilted her head with a puzzled expression.

“Um…” She puffed out her cheeks, glancing between Shinsou and Izuku. “Are you two… okay?”

“Yes,” Izuku said hastily.

“Absolutely not,” grumbled Shinsou, ignoring Asui’s pointed stare.

“O… kay.” Uraraka hummed. “Shinsou-kun, maybe we should invite everyone over to the apartment sometime! You know, let Akatani meet the rest of the class—”

“That’s not—” hissed Shinsou, but Asui was already nodding thoughtfully.

“That’s a good idea Ochako. I think after the USJ everyone could use a breather, kero.”

“Apartment?” The Eye fluttered behind Izuku’s skull. “You two… live together?”

“Yep!” Uraraka said cheerfully. “UA’s like, super cool about housing. If you live too far away or something, they have all of these apartments that are like, really close to campus! Me and Shinsou-kun were in the same group for exams, so we’re basically best friends now.”

Shinsou sighed, cupping the back of his neck with a grimace. “That’s… one way of putting it.”

“I didn’t know UA offered something like that.” Izuku’s hands twitched for his notebooks, but he pushed the urge down. “Do a lot of people live off campus?”

“Hm, I think it’s in the pamphlet, but I guess it’s not super advertised…” Uraraka tapped a finger against her chin, then let it fall with a shrug. “And no idea! I think they keep us pretty spread out? Probably like… a security thing.”

“That makes sense.” Izuku thought back to the USJ with a wince. “Wouldn’t want to make one building a target.”

Shinsou narrowed his eyes. “Right. We wouldn’t want that.”

This is going well. Izuku coughed and picked at his food.

“Um…” Uraraka fidgeted for a moment. “So. We have hero training next, right?”

Asui nodded. “We’ll probably do some kind of training exercise today, kero.”

“Is that wise?” asked Iida with a frown. “If we have a new student—”

“I’m sure Akatani can take care of himself,” Shinsou grumbled, jabbing at his rice. “Besides, we need to prepare for the Sports Festival.”

“Right!” Uraraka pumped a fist into the air. “We gotta train! And besides, I’m sure whatever we do will be really fun! You’ll love it, Akatani-kun.”

“Uh. Sure.” Historically, training exercises hadn’t been a stellar experience for him. But Izuku assumed that UA had drastically different practices than what he was used to, so it probably wouldn’t be a huge disaster.

Shinsou was still glaring at him, and Izuku sighed as he finished his lunch. Probably. Maybe if he did well in this “exercise”, he could solidify his relationship with some of the teachers. Get in close. Grab whatever intel he could before they inevitably discovered his betrayal.

The conversation drifted by without him, and though it was no great loss it did prickle oddly at his shoulders, prompting him to reach up and smooth his fingers along his blazer every so often as if to settle the Lonely. Luckily, it was feeding well. Not just from his own inadequacy, but the concerns of everyone around him as well. If he squinted, he could watch the wisps of static curl lazily throughout that sprawling cafeteria, ghosting around the chairs of others and clinging loosely to their skin like a fine mist. Buzzing anxiety was thick in the air, if he cared to look.

Evidently high school was a very lonely place.

Soon enough they were picking up their trays, packing up their lunch, tossing any leftovers and garbage before making their way back to class. It was strange, Izuku decided, to see some throw away their excess food so willingly. He’d spent enough nights awake with gnawing hunger to know better. Just because the heroes fed him now didn’t mean they would never withhold that privilege later.

Although, given his running list of transgressions, he did have to wonder when that point might be. Izuku hummed as they walked, feigning interest in whatever conversation was bouncing around—something about an upcoming movie, or show, or game, he honestly didn’t know—and tugging listlessly at the strap of his backpack.

He’d already used his quirk without permission. Something like that he might be able to get away with around Shigaraki and Kurogiri, but never Sensei or the doctor. And even then… with Shigaraki, the Desolation was typically fine, but slipping away mid-conversation with the Lonely… that might spark a tantrum. Sometimes Shigaraki found it funny, even, when Izuku might accidentally melt a knife, or burn one of his journals, or leave fingerprint scorch marks on the bar. Perhaps he felt a sense of solidarity. Or, more likely, he enjoyed seeing Izuku struggle.

Anything else, that was an inexcusable failure. Sensei would call it a deficiency, the doctor might call it a defect. A glitch. Something to be ironed out through rigorous testing.

A sharp pain lanced through Izuku’s fingers, and he forced his iron-grip on the strap to loosen. These thoughts were unhelpful. Izuku would not fail. He would not need to be fixed.

The heroes seemed nice enough, and they hadn’t punished him for quirk mishaps—yet, because there was always a yet, and he would need to be careful lest he stumble right into it. Izuku had no idea what could set them off. The rules were different, here, but he had no doubt that they still existed.

Quirk slips were fine. Talking back seemed fine as well, although he wouldn’t press that too far. Even his little, useless ramblings seemed permitted, where back at base they would have Shigaraki slamming his hand against the bartop and screaming at him to just shut the fuck up for once, do you ever stop fucking talking—

They were a lot like Kurogiri, actually. Kurogiri never minded, even if Izuku tried to keep it to a minimum for fear of finally overstaying his welcome.

Now that he thought of it, Kurogiri was similar to the heroes in many regards. He never shouted. He was… kind, in his way. The worst Izuku ever got from him was a disappointed sigh and a firm scolding—at least, when Sensei wasn’t involved.

Strange. He… kind of missed Kurogiri.

Izuku gave himself a brisk shake of the head. Maybe the heroes were similar, maybe they weren’t—but it didn’t matter, did it? Asking the wrong questions yet again, useless little thing, because whatever the heroes might or might not do to him meant nothing when it came to Sensei’s orders.

As long as he wasn’t pulled from UA, everything else was secondary. And that was enough to have the Eye fluttering in his skull, because would they do that? Expel him? Izuku wasn’t familiar with the particulars of the vigilante reform program, but he assumed there was an exit clause. If he didn’t perform satisfactorily, would they remove him from the program?

No one had warned him of the possibility, but Izuku knew that meant nothing. Wolf’s smile, a too-tight handshake, bones popping in his wrist as he was tugged to pain and dark and cages. There was rarely a warning, unless the threat was inevitable. The Eye pressing up against his forehead, forcing him to know, to watch with rapt fascination for the thing that would hurt him.

A raucous bout of laughter pierced through his thoughts, and Izuku hastily pressed a smile to his face as whoever had just told a joke—Iida, it seemed, though by his flustered movements it might have been accidental—led them towards the classroom door.

Well, he thought as they stepped inside, greeted by the boundless energy of the rest of 1-A. At least I shouldn’t have to worry about my grades. Even if it had been… a while, since he’d attended a brick and mortar school, Sensei had insisted that he receive some kind of education. Something about a weak mind leading to a weak body.

Knowledge is the forebearer of fear.

Izuku frowned, stretching faint wisps of the Dark from his fingertips. Not always, but he would never dare say that to the man’s face. Never dare think it, not in his presence.

Sensei spoke the truth, always. To suggest otherwise was madness.

Again, Izuku shook his head, although this time it was to rid himself of the Web’s clinging strands. Fear just ran rampant through this school, little worries snapped up by his ravenous quirk. It was likely, the more rational side of Izuku’s mind contended, that he was simply unused to being around so many people for so great a period of time. That anywhere would feel like this, like drowning in a crowd.

Still. He could not silence that childish voice that welled up in his chest, twisting his guts into knots like faceless sneers in long hallways. Like clutching his backpack tight for fear that someone might rip it from his hands. Like trembling when a teacher called upon him because, though he knew the answer, he also knew with dreadful certainty that it would not be enough.

That he would not be enough.

That child’s voice cried out, it’s this place. Home of heroes and his peers, two groups who had never looked kindly upon him. It’s this place, that reeked of fear and misery.

The Desolation prickled in his palms, and Izuku looked up to find Bakugou stomping into the room. The boy barely cast him a glance before sinking into his seat, arms crossed, and glaring straight ahead. One of the others—Kirishima—joined him, prattling on in a very one-sided conversation.

Though it still burned, the Desolation had simmered. It was not quite so unmanageable, not bursting tongues of flame to wrestle back down with blistered palms. Perhaps… perhaps he had burned Bakugou, then. Forced him back, and worn him down. Perhaps that would not be as big of a threat as he had feared.

Well. Maybe this wouldn’t be too hard. His academics wouldn’t be easy, not with Sensei’s insistence that he would have to continue his duties elsewhere, but it was certainly manageable. The only item of concern was the more practical classes, like hero training.

Izuku hummed beneath his breath, worrying at his lower lip as his fingers twitched for a pen.  This would be a good test, then. Whatever this “training exercise” was, he was going to nail it, prove that he belonged here, even if every fear that swirled beneath his skin insisted that he didn’t.

The Flesh gnawed at his stomach, and for a moment Izuku assumed it had snuck up on him amidst his fears of failure, and the doctor. But the feeling only intensified, tugging at his organs until he felt sick with that roiling nausea, that sickly sense of wrongness that accompanied dissection and gruesome injury.

Shortly after came the Eye, blistering in his skull, tugging at his fingertips as radio static filled his ears. Gooseflesh prickled up his arms with the burning scrutiny of cameras, upturned faces, reverence dancing on a tightrope wire with dreadful resentment stretching up from either side. And always, always, always, the they will see me, they will know me, they will grasp the truth and find it to be lacking.

And then, trailing slowly but resolutely behind, there was the cold press of the End. Icy fingers clutching at his heart because life was short and time was cruel and every step was shadowed by the dread that it might be the last. But… more than that, even. Not just one life. Not just one thread cut short. The awful burden of a legacy, the bitter knowledge that the golden future might not ever come. That this too will End. And it will have been for nothing.

Izuku nearly choked, nearly failed to notice as the door burst open and everyone rushed to their seats.

The Eye, though, forced his gaze up. As always, lidless and eager to know, Izuku snapped into awareness to find that All Might was now standing at the front of their classroom.

Static filled his ears, drowning out all else. The Flesh still twisted in his gut, and beneath it all the End squeezed tightly around the frantic patter of his heart.

All Might. That. That was All Might. And the fact that he should have known, should have been able to put those pieces together rather than drown in blissful ignorance, was lost to the next shuddering realization.

Because that was All Might. The number one hero. The man who Sensei hated, who Shigaraki wanted dead, who stood as a pillar of hope amongst a rotten institution. The man who saved people with a smile, because if he was still smiling, that meant everything would be okay.

Unshakeable. Untouchable. Unattainable.

And yet, when Izuku looked at All Might, he couldn’t breathe for the fear that festered thick throughout the room.

Because All Might was afraid.

Chapter Text

Toshinori thought the exercise was simple enough. A little derivative, but that didn’t really matter at the end of the day, did it? The more complex, the more things could go wrong.

He was… rather tired of things going wrong, if he was being honest.

As he explained the activity to class 1-A, he couldn’t help but feel that familiar exhaustion sap at his smile, the same, ever-present weariness that lingered in the space between his bones whenever he used One for All these days.

Naomasa’s words echoed in his mind. He’s alive, Toshi.

Toshinori did not shudder. He was more than accustomed to smiling around blood and gritted teeth. If… if All for One was truly alive, then he would face him as he always did—with a laugh and a clenched fist.

That did not bother him. (It did. It very much did. Nana’s voice piercing through his dreams in twisted agony and it did--)

That did not bother him. More pressing was the green-haired boy who they’d apparently fished from the League’s clutches.

Naomasa didn’t trust him, had made that point very clear when storming into his office after the last interview.

“He’s not giving me shit. I know that he has to be lying through his goddamn teeth but I can’t fucking pin him down.”

Toshinori had rarely ever seen him so worked up. And over a fifteen-year-old, no less. So Naomasa didn’t trust him, and seemed of the strong opinion that the boy knew far more than he was letting on.

Honestly, Toshinori agreed. Not for… quite the same reasons, but he could imagine countless scenarios in which a recently rescued child would be hesitant to divulge everything that had once kept him safe. Naomasa might call him naïve, but at the end of the day Toshinori was an optimist. Or, used to be. Lately it was becoming far more difficult to keep his head above water on that front.

All for One did not play fair. He would not hesitate to use a child if it might satisfy his own goals, and Toshinori understood with weary resignation that this boy might be yet another in a seemingly endless line of pawns. As mindless as the Noumu. All for One had a way of twisting words, and people. He did not need something so base as quirks to force his will upon another.

He didn’t want to believe it, which meant he probably should. The twinge of his old wounds was enough to remind him of the stakes.

So he would just… give the boy a push. Naomasa might have scoffed at it, but Toshinori thought it was a pretty simple plan. It wouldn’t confirm anything, of course, but how better to find the extent of All for One’s influence than to create a situation where it might thrive? Like samples on a petri dish. Then, at least, he could begin to diagnose the situation.

The class would be split into three groups—two groups of seven, and one group of six. One team would complete the exercise while the other two watched from the observation room, after which they would, of course, rotate to the next group. Similar to the battle trials of the first day.

Each group would have a set number of objectives. They would be working through one of the mock office buildings in Ground Beta, and would need to rescue hostages, restore power, and reach an extraction point on the roof before the time ran out.

Simple enough, and young Iida was quick to point that out as Toshinori muddled his way through the explanation. He bit back a sigh, smiling through the last, key aspect.

There would be one traitor within each group. Their identity was a mystery to everyone but the traitor themselves. The traitor’s goal would be to hinder their teammates without arousing suspicion. Same rules as the initial battle trials applied—if someone was apprehended with capture tape, they were effectively out.

Toshinori made sure to caution against acting too hastily. Incapacitating a suspected traitor might very well make the real traitor’s job that much easier, after all. He eyed Bakugou in particular, though for once the boy wasn’t bursting with barely concealed anticipation, instead staring out the window with cross arms, a scowl tugging at his lip. Odd.

Akatani was also acting strangely, finger tapping restlessly against his notebook as he… stared at Toshinori, with a ruthless intensity that reminded him of whirring camera lenses, the cold eyes of a million onlookers.

It was the kind of gaze that raked across his skin. Left the bitter taste of blood on his tongue, and even when Toshinori sent the students off towards the changing rooms it persisted, buzzing in his ears and squirming through his chest.

Toshinori liked to consider himself an optimist. To him, that was the essence of being a hero—to stare into the yawning abyss and say, No. It was an act of violence. A rebellion against the bitter realization that life was often unfair, taking hold of the mechanisms by which the world turned and wrenching them into shape.

Toshinori liked to consider himself an optimist, just as he would have liked the trains to run on time, the law to function as it should, the good to get their due and the evil to pay proper penance. Just as he would have liked the full function of his lungs, his stomach, his power and inheritance. Just as he would have liked Nana to live and stand beside him, guide him where he stumbled with a smile and a joyous laugh, hand ghosting along his shoulder before he remembered that she was gone.

Just as he would have liked All for One to stay dead.

That strange, awful scrutiny faded, and Toshinori let out a shaky sigh as he leaned against the desk and tried to ignore how every part of him ached.

It was simple, and maybe Naomasa would consider it childish. But Toshinori was a man of action. He had always wished to see the proof of what would kill him with his own eyes.

He wanted to see how Akatani fared as a traitor. If, when he spoke, he could hear All for One’s lilting voice beneath it.

The assignments were meant to be random. But All for One did not play fair, and if Toshinori could ever hope to beat him (again, again, and how long were they meant to play out this charade?) then sacrifices would have to be made.

Lancing pain through his side, and Toshinori repressed a wince on instinct, even though there was no one here to see him falter. He took a breath. Then another.

As he made his way to the observation room, he wondered how many pieces of himself he would have to lose before this war was finally over.

If, by the end, he would even be able to recognize himself.

Kaminari was wheezing, almost incomprehensible as they made their way to the changing rooms.

“It’s-“ he gasped, before doubling over again with breathless laughter. “Guys, it’s- oh my- shit—”

“Language, Kaminari.”

Sero shook his head with a sigh. “Iida, my man, you gotta let him get this out of his system.”

“It’s fucking- it’s- hah, do you th- think it’s- guys—”

“Take your time, buddy.”

“Is he… okay?” asked Uraraka hesitantly, wavering where the two groups were supposed to split off to their separate locker rooms. Ashido looped her arm through Uraraka’s elbow and began to pull her away.

“He’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“Guys, do you think it’s- pretty- it’s pretty—”

“I can feel myself aging as we speak,” deadpanned Shinsou. “It’s truly incredible.”

“Sus!” Kaminari nearly shouted, before collapsing into a fit of laughter once more. “Holy shit- I- I saw Sero vent—”

“Dude, that’s like, slander.”

“I saw Sero vent and- guys do you- do you think there’s a- a- holy fuck holy shit guys do you think he knows? Do you think All Might knows?”

“Get it the fuck together fusebox,” grumbled Bakugou, shoving past Kaminari through the locker room door.

“B- but. But how can you be so- fuck- so calm, B- Bakugou,” Kaminari wheezed as he followed, still clutching his side. “When there’s a- an- an imposter among us.”

He nearly toppled over with gasping laughter, Sero and Kirishima seemingly unable to help but join him. Across the room, Tokoyami snorted.

“Perhaps the true imposter was inside of us all along,” he mused. Kaminari made a frankly inhuman noise. Izuku should know.

“Holy shit. I’m actually dying. Guys, I can’t take this seriously, this is- oh my god.”

Shinsou rolled his eyes, setting his briefcase down with a huff. “My apologies to whoever is on your team.”

“Aw, come on, dude, that’s so mean! I’m just messing.”

Izuku quietly retrieved his gym clothes from his locker, trying to ignore the tremors in his hands, the aftershocks of All Might’s presence. He retreated to a bathroom stall in order to change—better not to let anyone else see his scars, or the sorry state of his shirt. More trouble than it was worth, probably.

Shinsou’s suspicious gaze tracked him all the way. The Eye flickered, but its presence was not as heavy as it might have been.

Because the Spiral was ravenous.

When Izuku shut the stall door behind him, he rested his hands upon the plastic and let his eyes fall shut, squinting against color and sound, the fractal shapes that teased along his arms.

It’s fine now. Why? Because I am here.

Screen flickering in the darkness, flashing color that pressed against his eyes. The sound hissed and crackled with fractured memory.

All Might was afraid. So very, very afraid. It twisted Izuku’s guts to knots, left bile festering on his tongue, tugged his sight towards incandescent. The lie tasted like the shattered glass of a kaleidoscope.

The bathroom door thrummed beneath his hand. A door that was not a door opening to hallways that were not hallways because walls did not bend and shift like that, did not rise and fall with every breath.

Izuku closed his eyes tight. He clenched his hands to fists and forced himself to focus on the pain of nails biting into his skin. It prickled, popped, like firecrackers—

No. It was sharp. It left lines in his skin, traced color up his arms, around his throat, bones shifting to follow—

No. Izuku gasped, tugging those writhing, shapeless lines back beneath his skin. When he opened his eyes, the door was just a door.

So. All Might was a lie. That was… fine.

His fingers twitched. The bone did not like its shape. It would rather take another.

Another breath, and Izuku hastily changed into his gym clothes. Wherever the fabric brushed against his skin he could hear that fucking video, All Might’s voice distorted by time and distance and the memory of a memory of a memory. The screen was shattered. The jagged lines reminded him of spider thread.

Izuku tugged at the hem of his shirt and knocked a fist against his head in the vain hope of regaining any kind of sense. That was not how it had happened. The screen was unbroken, and he had watched the video from the safety of a chair. He… had loved that video. Right?

All Might, saving everyone with a smile.

Lie. Not everyone. But Izuku already knew that, didn’t he?

Just as he knew that heroes were afraid. Everyone was afraid, their doubts and dreads clinging at their shoulders, their ankles, wrapped around their necks. Izuku could not always pick apart the threads, but he knew that heroes were afraid.

For some reason, All Might had always seemed… above that.

High, high, high above, choking on the clouds. Blinking at sunlight and feeling the tears prickle in his lungs—would he eventually climb so high that he might reach up a hand and find it bursting through soft earth, fingers clawing up onto the surface?

There was dirt beneath his fingernails. Or blood. The difference was trivial, as small as the world itself.

Izuku banged his head against the door, gritting his teeth at the pain that lanced through his skull. Only when he was sure that he would not stumble into endless hallways did he tug it open, taking a few, steadying breaths before he reentered the locker room.

He really, really hated the Spiral. It left him dizzy and tasting colors. Made his bones do… odd things, so that when it finally dissipated he was achy, like his body had been stretched into a different shape.

Although… perhaps this wasn’t all bad. He had managed to follow All Might’s explanation, even distracted as he was, and the card he had been handed burned heavy in his pocket. The bold-font proudly spelling out Traitor across stock paper.

It was not ideal. That was for certain. This assignment seemed a little rigged towards the hero side of things, if he was being perfectly honest—the traitor would have to overcome every single member of their team, whereas the rest of the heroes would only have to worry about one person. Plus, everyone had a commlink, so it would be easy to identify the culprit once the first victim sounded the alarm. And for Izuku, especially, who had not had the time to build up a rapport, the suspicion would be agonizing.

Izuku sighed, and tried not to think about how it swelled between his joints. This was a mind game. Not a thing of brute force.

Kirishima called him over with a smile, and Izuku answered in kind. It was knife-sharp. It bled neon. It did not bleed at all.

Iida Tenya was not one to question the wisdom of his teachers, but he had to admit that he found this exercise a little distasteful.

He liked his friends. He did not wish to doubt them.

And… these were his friends, correct? Save for Akatani, he had known them for several weeks. They had spoken over lunch, they had gossiped over homework, they had… they had suffered through the USJ.

Or had they? Tenya certainly had not. He had fled, as no leader ought to do. Even if it was… right, the correct course of action, it still sat heavy on his chest.

Were they his friends? Did they resent him for that, for running away, for escaping the hardship they had all been forced to bear?

Tenya blinked, resettling his glasses on his nose as he led his group to Ground Beta. This was not the first time such a fear had assailed him, but it had never been so… potent, before. So persuasive. Because it was as Uraraka had said, wasn’t it? You saved us. You got help. How could we be angry at you for that, silly?

Use your quirk to help others. Thirteen. Broken and bleeding chaos on the fractured floor.

“Are you alright?” asked Akatani softly. Tenya jumped. He had not noticed the boy walk up.

Akatani was wearing the UA gym uniform as opposed to a proper hero costume—which, Tenya supposed, did make sense. He had just joined their class after all. Tenya frowned slightly and straightened his shoulders. What a terrible impression he was making! As class vice-president, he had a responsibility to make Akatani feel safe, and welcome. And here he was, barely having spoken to him.

“I’m fine, thank you!” answered Tenya with a stern nod. “But what about you, Akatani-san? You must let me know if you are having any difficulties settling in, and I will do my utmost to solve them!”

There. That was more like it. Now Akatani could be assured in the knowledge that he was welcome in this classroom. And if he wasn’t, Tenya would make him feel welcome.

Akatani laughed, a gentle thing. It was soft. It was nice. When he smiled it was with a quiet hesitance. “I appreciate that, Iida-kun. I’ll definitely come to you if I feel a little lost.”

“I’d suggest a map! UA has a complex layout, but there are a number of resources that make it much easier to navigate.”

Another laugh. Sharper, this time. Balancing on the knife’s edge of with and at. But still Akatani smiled, and it was a nice smile. “Thank you, Iida-kun. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Tenya nodded, and his mind couldn’t help but wander back to their exercise.

Their team consisted of himself, Akatani, Shinsou, Uraraka, Asui, Sero, and Arakawa. A well-rounded group, all things considered. Asui was level-headed, and Arakawa had a keen mind. Most of them had quirks useful for single-combat and capture.

Tenya paused. He turned to Akatani once more. “What is your quirk, Akatani-san? It would be better to fully compile our strengths and weaknesses to prepare for this assignment.”

Akatani frowned, slightly. It seemed almost involuntary, as was the way he tilted his head to the side, and Tenya felt a spike of fear through his chest. Had he said something wrong? Something foolish? Had he somehow offended?

Then the boy’s face split into that radiant smile, and the panic eased away. It did not disappear.

“Iida-kun,” said Akatani, voice teasing, “I’m not just gonna tell you my quirk. What if you’re the traitor?”

Tenya spluttered, arms waving about for a moment. Him? The traitor? How ridiculous.

“But I’m not the traitor!” he insisted.

When Akatani spoke, it was still teasing. But there was a bite beneath it that left Tenya anxious.

“Of course, Iida-kun! None of us is a traitor, obviously.” He winked. Tenya felt his eyes begin to water, but he did not know why. He hastily blinked the feeling away as Akatani laughed anew. “But seriously! I should probably keep it a secret. That way we have an edge whenever the traitor decides to act.”

That- that made sense, right? It sounded smart. Tenya didn’t want to look like a fool.

“Good thinking, Akatani-san!”

Akatani beamed, and Tenya felt as if he had made the right decision.

This wasn’t the Web. This wasn’t careful threads of manipulation, weaving a tapestry to make the pattern pleasing.

There was no pattern. No point.

Maybe that was the point.

Izuku smiled pleasantly up at Iida and watched as fractals swirled above his skin.

“Should we start planning from now?”

Iida startled, glasses askew as he glanced back at their classmates. “Oh! Yes! Everyone, let’s discuss our strategy!”

“Okay!” Sero bounded forward with a grin. “Traitorsayswhat?”

Silence. No one laughed. Izuku bit back a grin and found that it tasted of barbed wire.

“Geez, tough crowd,” Sero muttered, rubbing awkwardly at his arm, and at last Uraraka let out a nervous giggle.

“Sorry, Sero, I think this whole exercise just has us a little spooked, y’know?”

Izuku nodded. His lips twisted to something saccharine. “I thought it was a funny joke.”

Sero winced, and Izuku knew that he did not know why. “Oh. Uh. Thanks, Akatani.”

They were already approaching the testing grounds, the office building they had been assigned to looming in the distance. Once they took up position in front of the doors, a buzzer would sound and the exercise would officially begin. As would the clock.

“We should probably stay in pairs, right?” suggested Ashido. “Like, buddy system.”

Izuku frowned. “What if someone’s partner is the traitor, though?”

Ashido paled. “I- uh. Shoot, I didn’t really think of that, huh…”

“Ooh,” teased Sero. Izuku’s fingers were sharp as he snatched the thread of his words from the air, as he twisted the meaning. “Everyone watch out, sounds like Ashido’s trying to snatch someone up. Very sus.”

“It’s not,” Ashido snapped. Glee bubbled honey-gold in Izuku’s chest, and he warped the sound in frightful echoes, bouncing down endless corridors. “Stop being mean, I was just throwing out ideas, like, god.”

“I’m- sorry? I was just joking—”

“It wasn’t funny. I’m not the traitor or whatever, at least I was suggesting something. Like, I’m not stupid.”

“Hey, I never said that. And look, I am suggesting stuff! You don’t have to be so sensitive—”

“Oh, I’m sensitive, am I?” Ashido seethed, and Izuku softened the edges so his voice might break through.

“H- hey! Look, we shouldn’t, um. We shouldn’t fight each other, right? We- we don’t know who the traitor is, and, um, if we attack each other like this, it just makes it… you know… easier? For them?”

“Yeah, Akatani-kun is right!” Uraraka flashed a smile. Izuku bent the edges into something sharp. “Come on, guys, let’s work together! We have no way to know who the traitor is, so we shouldn’t be attacking anyone.”

Shinsou huffed. Izuku felt some notes turn sour, fingers slipping from the keys. “It’s probably Akatani.”

Asui sighed. “Shinsou.”

“It would be on brand.”

“The assignments were random, kero. There’s an equal likelihood of it being any one of us.”

How logical. Lucky, then, that Izuku had transcended logic.

“Well,” Shinsou grumbled. “It’s not me.”

Izuku snorted, shrinking away from Shinsou’s glare with a sheepish smile. “S- sorry. It’s just- I mean, wouldn’t the traitor say that?”

“Shut up.”

“Shinsou,” Uraraka scolded, one hand on her hip. “Stop being so mean to Akatani! What did he ever do to you?”

“What did he- are you joking?” Shinsou snapped, and there. The Web, skittering up his arms, crisscrossed threads all snapping towards sound. Izuku blinked, fractals dancing before his eyes as the Spiral rumbled at the intrusion.

“We should focus on the task at hand!” called Iida. They were almost upon their assigned building, a towering thing of 20 stories or more—although Izuku admitted that it was difficult to track with the numbers swirling around as they did.

Near the back of the group, Arakawa hummed thoughtfully. She tugged at the lapels of her jacket before running a hand over the hilt of her rapier.

“Is there any reason we shouldn’t stick together?” she asked. “The more of us there are in one place, the harder it is for the traitor.”

Izuku frowned, swaying the ground beneath his feet. “We probably have to split up, right? I mean- if we could complete all the tasks within the time limit and stick together, then it would be pretty impossible for the traitor. So, um, we probably… can’t? Do that?”

Iida nodded slowly. “That does make sense.”

“No it doesn’t,” snapped Shinsou. His hair was so purple, and Izuku wondered if he had to do something to make it puff out like that. He smiled, wrapping a stray thread around his finger as he listened. “We have ten minutes. That’s plenty of time, we can—”

The buzzer sounded, shrill and harsh. It hummed in Izuku’s bones. Rattled bits of his skull loose. He wanted to wrap his fingers around that noise and squeeze—

“Holy shit- what the fuck is that?”

Izuku’s gaze snapped up at Sero’s shout, as did the others. He was pointing at… at the window? Eyes wide, hand shaking, and Izuku felt his fingers tremble in kind.

“Dude it was- it was so weird. I swear, there was this- thing. In the window. It- it’s hands were like- I don’t know what it was. Like- a ghost?”

“A… reflection?” suggested Arakawa, and Sero scowled.

“No, I know what a reflection looks like, I’m not stupid.”

Ashido huffed. “Ya sure?”

“Look, I said I was sorry.”

“Whatever.”

This was wonderful. This was twisting something lovely in his veins.

Izuku cleared his throat. “Um, guys? We should… probably head in, right?”

Silence, for just a moment. Izuku reveled in that deafening quiet.

“Right!” declared Iida at last. “Everyone, follow me! We can divvy up our tasks when we enter the building.”

They filed through the doors, and it was an effort to keep the hallways from splintering out before them, but Izuku managed. Could sate himself with the festering silence between Sero and Ashido, the anxious twitch of Iida’s fingers, how Shinsou shot him blistering glares and seemed not to notice that Asui did notice.

Wonderful. Pinwheels dancing in the breeze and there was nothing Izuku had to do but dance and smile and laugh as the world around him unraveled into color and sound.

Chapter Text

There was a certain sense of wrongness in the observation room. An unease that twisted in the gut, tugged the screens a hair’s breadth out of place and left Toshinori feeling that vague sense of disquiet that always settled on a room that was not as it should have been.

He shook it off easily enough, as he stepped before the flickering screens. Had felt it before—fights that almost matched another, step by precarious step until one foot slipped out of place and sent the whole thing crashing into discordant melody. The familiar overwritten by something that wore the same face but was different, somehow, in a thousand minute ways that he could never hope to place.

Strange, to feel it here. Nothing was off, really, save the usual discomfort of One for All pulsing too hot through his veins, the strain of holding his form. The eyes as well, when the rest of class 1-A filed into the room behind him, ready to watch the coming exercise; but Toshinori was more than accustomed to the itching heat of scrutiny. It should not have unsettled him.

It seemed that they had reached the observation room just as the first team reached their designated building. Fortuitous timing, though Toshinori did wish he could’ve listened in on their conversation beforehand as well. As it was, he had barely picked up his earpiece before the buzzer rang out, and the clock began its steady countdown.

“The teams were random?”

Toshinori did not jump, but it was a close thing. He pulled his gaze away from the screens to see Aizawa slinking up beside him, tired eyes peering at the monitors before lazily drifting back.

“Ah!” Toshinori cleared his throat. “Aizawa-kun! I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us today.”

“You clearly need the help. It’s already irrational, letting you take on this class without any sort of official training.”

His tone was blunt and brooked no argument, but Toshinori tried not to let it worm beneath his skin. Aizawa talked to everyone like that, he knew. It would… just take some getting used to.

So instead he laughed, bright and easy, and tried to ignore the distasteful curl of Aizawa’s lip as he brought his focus back to the monitors. “Well, thank you! I’m glad to have someone as qualified as you to guide me.”

Aizawa huffed, but couldn’t seem to find any fault with that. Instead he crossed his arms and followed Toshinori’s gaze.

“Akatani’s the odd one out, then?” When Toshinori nodded, Aizawa let out an exasperated sigh. “That puts him at a severe disadvantage. He isn’t as well-established in the class, and hasn’t had the time to make friends… any suspicion would logically fall upon him. You should have redrawn the lots so that he wasn’t assigned as a traitor.”

Toshinori chuckled nervously. “Ah, but… that wouldn’t exactly be fair, would it?”

Aizawa didn’t blink. “Life isn’t fair.”

“Ah… that it isn’t.” Drumming his fingers against the control board, Toshinori couldn’t help but be struck again by that sense of wrongness. It danced along his veins and prickled at the wound in his side. He choked back a bloody cough, instead offering Aizawa a strained smile. “Though… isn’t that reason enough to let Akatani work through this, even at such a disadvantage?”

Aizawa hummed, and though his frown did not abate he also didn’t press further. Toshinori nearly let out a sigh of relief.

Instead the two of them focused on the students. Aizawa had already fixed his own earpiece in place, and Toshinori was quick to follow, resettling the device and tapping it once to let the audio filter through.

They seemed to be… arguing amongst themselves. Odd, as it was still quite early in the exercise—and yet they were already snapping at each other, hurling accusations, fracturing even as they walked through the front doors. And while Toshinori was sure to keep a careful eye on Akatani, the boy honestly seemed quite soft-spoken. Offering timid, stumbling suggestions to the others, paired with a shy smile or two. Nothing malicious, certainly, and nothing close to the treacherous venom that so often dripped from All for One’s lips.

In fact, Toshinori was starting to feel a little guilty. Maybe Aizawa was right, maybe it wasn’t fair to place this on Akatani, especially so soon after joining the class. He was still just a child, after all, and this wouldn’t exactly be a useful exercise for anyone if he was too hesitant to fulfill his role as Traitor.

Toshinori sighed. What’s done is done. Judging by their ceaseless bickering, at this rate the team might just tear itself apart, no outside influence required.

Next to him, Aizawa huffed.

“Children,” he muttered beneath his breath, and Toshinori was inclined to agree. Perhaps this mission wasn’t life or death, but it would do all of the students good to learn when to keep their egos in check. When to prioritize saving lives over pointless personal squabbles.

Iida, at least, seemed to be keeping his head. He called the group to order, and they quickly decided upon splitting up. One team would make their way to the basement to turn the power back on and, as Toshinori had put it in the briefing, “override the security lockdown”. The other would comb through the upper levels and secure the civilians scattered throughout the office building. After, they agreed to meet up on the roof of the building for “extraction”.

A solid plan, all things considered. Not complicated by any means, but it didn’t need to be. Immediately, Akatani volunteered to accompany the basement crew, claiming vaguely that he… knew something about computers. Toshinori wrinkled his nose. He’d never suggested that kind of knowledge would be useful, but then again there was no reason to think that it wouldn’t be.

They divided themselves up neatly enough, beyond that. Shinsou, Asui, and Sero joined Akatani, while the rest resolved to search for civilians.

On the surface, that should have been… fine.

But there was something beneath it. Again, the underlying current of… wrong.

Aizawa sighed, crossing his arms. “Ashido and Sero are at each other’s throats… what happened?”

Toshinori could only give a helpless shrug. “I assume they had some sort of fight on the walk over, but…”

“Neither of them are prone to conflict.” Aizawa hummed, scratching thoughtfully at his jaw. “Shinsou’s already suspicious of Akatani. It’s… odd, that Akatani would agree to be in a group with him. Although I guess he doesn’t have much of a choice.”

Toshinori tilted his head with a slight wince. “Ah… it would be suspicious if he refused, I suppose.”

Aizawa nodded, narrowing his eyes. “I need to talk to Shinsou after this,” he muttered, almost to himself. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“Is there… a reason, that Shinsou-kun is so suspicious of Akatani?”

Aizawa gave a noncommittal hum. “Either way, this isn’t a great situation for Akatani. He’s with someone who’s incredibly suspicious of him, and two students who specialize in capture. Shinsou’s quirk also isn’t something that’s easy to work around… he can’t fight them directly.”

Behind them, someone let out a soft cough. “Um. Sensei?”

Toshinori looked over his shoulder with an easy smile. “Yes, Yaoyorozu-san!”

“Well… could that be deliberate on Akatani’s part? Since he’s new to the class, he doesn’t know our quirks. Asui and Sero have visible mutations.”

Aizawa hummed, nodding thoughtfully. “Good assessment. This way, the only person whose quirk he doesn’t know is Shinsou’s. And he likely wouldn’t be able to get away from Shinsou in the first place.”

Yaoyorozu beamed, although she tried to stifle it with a solemn nod. “Thank you, sensei.”

Children. They were still children. Toshinori sighed as he began to turn back to the monitors.

Aizawa stiffened. He sucked a breath through his teeth, and Toshinori almost asked what was wrong before he lifted his gaze towards the screens once more.

Akatani Izuku stared back at him. Noise fuzzed the edges of the monitor, the screen tearing in spiraling patterns as his earpiece began to sputter and whine. Biting back nausea, Toshinori hastily pulled it from his ear and winced when the lingering strands of feedback rattled in his teeth.

There was… there was something wrong with his hands. He couldn’t- focus, eyes slipping from them like oil-slicked fingers, but- they curled most unnaturally. Past the hum of fractured video Toshinori swore that they curved to warped, pointed angles. That the bones should not have bent that way, and that there certainly should not have been so many of them.

He blinked, and it was gone. No static. No high-pitched screech. Akatani was facing away from the camera feed, offering his teammates a shy smile as they split off towards the basement.

Next to him, Aizawa let out a quiet huff of laughter. Toshinori almost jumped at the sudden noise.

“Maybe this won’t be as one-sided as I thought.”

Lovely, lovely, lovely.

The daggers Shinsou glared into his back tickled something awful, twisting in his veins with what do you hide and what do you know and who can I trust. Izuku’s voice was honey-sweet, all sugar-coated strawberries, almost sickly as they clung to the throat.

Stuttering, stammering, stilted stops and starts that slid along that endless spiral. He spoke in fractured fragments, and more than that he just couldn’t stop swaying, the world tilting beneath his feet with every fuzzy footstep, outstretched hand so wreathed in sharp-edged fractals that it took a concentrated effort not to open any door to endless hallways.

He kept the hallways inside, though. Let them shudder in the space between his bones, his words, every endless quiet between heartbeats. He spoke that labyrinth into being and watched with neon glee as those around him drowned in it.

Shinsou was staring at him again. Izuku ducked his head, grin jagged across the inside of his cheek as Asui stepped between the two of them.

“Shinsou, kero. Maybe you should focus on the exercise.”

Izuku snatched the words—so soft, so gentle. He riddled them with razor blades.

Shinsou bristled. “I am. I’m not an idiot. Quit acting like I’m going to strangle him or something.”

“Then stop glaring at him. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Hah. Lie, lie, lie. Izuku didn’t even have to bend that one—it already tasted of shattered glass.

“Seriously?” Shinsou snapped, spiderweb tangling geometric around his limbs as he whirled around. “He- what is it with you? I can’t believe you can just- forget about it, all of it, like it never happened—”

“Hey.” Sero’s turn. Shouldering between them with the faintest hint of a scowl. “Stop shouting at her. That’s not helping anything.”

“I’m not—” Shinsou snarled, before Izuku pressed his own words harsh and loud against his ears and his jaw shut with a snap. He tried again, softer but no less strained. “I’m not shouting. I just… I’m keeping an eye on him. That’s all.”

Eyes. Izuku’s fingers twisted beneath the skin. As if that lidless watcher could even bear to track these endless corridors. He was not a thing of Beholding, not a thing of catalogue and comprehension. There was nothing to watch.

Still, Izuku smiled. “Th- that’s okay, Shinsou-kun. I know you d- don’t trust me. It’s fine!”

Oh, that glare. That glare was precious. Such an angry thing, to look upon that which it did not understand.

“You’re up to something, Akatani.”

A name that was not his name. How wonderful. And there, beneath the cannot trust, all at once there was the do not know.

I do not know you.

Bits of porcelain prickled at his jaw, and Izuku let the cold, lifeless shards of the Stranger press itself against the Spiral’s nonsense fractals. They had always meshed well, a tangled weave of thread and plastic.

They made it to the “control room”, yet another fabrication stumbling into place, and Izuku was unsurprised to find that “restoring power” would have nothing to do with engineering, or technical skill. This was a game of falsehood, a game of fear. When Shinsou let out a short, irritated huff of air, Izuku felt it swell in his own lungs.

“Great. So bringing Akatani down here was pointless.”

Oh? Oh, yes, he had almost forgotten. Fingers sharp and unnatural as the lie fell from his throat like bursts of will o’ the wisps.

“Well, I guess it was better safe than sorry,” offered Izuku with a shaky smile, ribs curling gleefully as Shinsou glared, as Asui frowned, as Sero crossed his arms with a weary sigh.

“Dude, I don’t know why you’re hating on Akatani so much. It’s obviously Ashido.”

Izuku blinked, wide-eyed, doll-eyed, and oh, he needed to pull back a bit before the bits of thread unraveled before their time. “Wh- why do you think that?”

Sero scoffed. “I mean, she was being super sus. Like, why would she get so defensive? I literally didn’t even say anything, and suddenly she was down my throat about it.”

“It’s not Ashido,” muttered Shinsou darkly. Sero actually rolled his eyes, shooting Izuku a sympathetic wince that blistered in the air and left it thick with unspoken tension.

Careful, careful. The Stranger crooned that sweet melody as the Spiral tugged it to something sour and dissonant.

Izuku cleared his throat. It tasted of sawdust and melted polyester. “Let’s uh. Maybe restore the power?”

Of course, Asui took charge. So mature, so level-headed—and Izuku made sure that Shinsou noticed. Let the simple motion fester to something more.

“It looks like we just need to pull two emergency levers, kero.” Asui tapped a finger against her chin as she stared up at the security monitors. “They need to be activated at the same time… so we should probably split up into two groups.”

“I’ll go with Akatani.” Shinsou spoke firmly, and though his tone brooked no argument, Izuku twisted it to one that did.

Groaning, Sero dragged a hand across his face. “Come on, man, just give it a rest already—”

“No!” said Izuku, too eager. Too bright. No stutter, now, as he smiled too wide at Shinsou. “That sounds great, Shinsou-kun!”

He could feel the hesitation, how it pattered against the inside of his ribs with a lovely sort of dread.

“I…” Shinsou’s brow furrowed. He winced, as if his head hurt—but what nonsense was that? Izuku had done nothing but breathe life into what already lay simmering beneath the surface. This was a true reality, the frightful honesty of a world that would never sit still.

“Fine,” said Shinsou at last. “I’ll go with Asui.”

Izuku tilted his head, working hard to make the motions human. “Oh? I guess I can go with Sero, then… are- you sure?”

“Yes,” and this time Izuku let him be unyielding.

“Alright, then, kero. We should get going—there’s probably not that much time left.”

They split off, leaving the control room and heading down the hall in opposite directions. Izuku made sure to smile back at them with a cheerful wave of his hand.

“Don’t forget to stay in touch!” he called, tapping on the earpiece.

Shinsou didn’t turn. Asui only nodded, and though her face was as inscrutable as ever Izuku could hear the silence settling between them. Wonderful.

He turned back to Sero, not bothering to unstitch the smile from his face as they rounded a corner.

“Hey, man…” Sero sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry about him. He’s… usually not like this, I swear.”

“It’s fine!” The room was close. Izuku’s fingers twitched, bones sharp and biting. “I’m sure we’ll be great friends, soon.”

“Hah, yeah. Here’s hoping.”

“Why is he being such a dick?”

Tenya sighed, settling his glasses on his nose as they cleared the last room. “This floor is secure, we should move on to the next one—”

“It’s like- what the hell? I literally didn’t do anything, and he starts just- attacking me like that—”

“Ashido.” God, he didn’t want to do this. This was a thing of gentle words and careful tact, and Tenya was self-aware enough to know that he had never been good at such things. Still, he turned to his fuming classmate, catching Uraraka’s sympathetic wince as Ashido looked at him questioningly.

“What?”

“I… understand that you’re upset,” he tried, “but maybe this… isn’t the best time to be airing such grievances.”

To his horror, Ashido’s face twisted into a scowl. “Right. Yeah. Whatever. Guess I’m just overreacting.”

“Hey, Iida didn’t say that!” cut in Uraraka, mercifully. “He’s just saying we should focus on the exercise, y’know? Maybe that’ll help you take your mind off it.”

“I… guess.” Ashido sighed, shoulders slumping somewhat as she trailed after them towards the stairs. “God. Sorry, guys, I don’t…” Her nose wrinkled. “Wow. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I- I’m kind of being a downer, aren’t I—”

All at once, their comms crackled into life.

“Sero- it’s Sero!” Akatani’s breathless, desperate voice filtered through, and the three of them stiffened. “He- ah, he’s attacking me! I need back-up!”

Ashido’s eyes gleamed with a newfound venom that was downright unnatural on her, and as her lip curled into a snarl Tenya couldn’t help but waver at the ferocity of it all.

“I knew it,” she hissed. “I fucking knew it, and- but no one ever takes me seriously, no, of course not—”

Again, Akatani’s voice came through their comms, and Tenya flinched at the rising volume. “Can someone please help? I- I don’t think I can hold him off—”

And Ashido was gone, acid pooling at her feet as she raced for the stairs.

“Wait- Ashido, that’s- a hazard, you’re going to… fall.” Tenya sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose as Uraraka patted his shoulder consolingly.

“You tried,” she offered with a weak smile. “Look, if it’s Sero, then I’m sure she can handle it. She’s got Asui and Shinsou to back her up too!”

“Yes, that’s…” Tenya groaned. Why couldn’t everyone just stick to the plan? Was it that difficult? “I suppose we should continue searching for civilians.”

Arakawa hummed her assent, fiddling absently with what looked like a piece of chalk. Probably procured from one of her many, many pockets. “Agreed. We’ll run out of time if we go down there.”

“Yeah.” Uraraka hesitated, then tapped on her own comm. “Hey, Sero? Come in, buddy? Got anything to say, or…”

Silence. Then Ashido’s voice crackled through, ragged and out of breath. “He’s not gonna say anything—probably knows he’s been caught. I’m almost there, Akatani!”

“Th- thanks! Please hurry!”

“Akatani’s holding out for longer than I expected,” muttered Arakawa. She began walking towards the stairs, careful to avoid the slick puddles of acid that sizzled against the tile. “Especially considering that Sero’s whole thing is capture.”

“Maybe it’s harder in an enclosed space?” Uraraka trailed behind, wincing when she caught the edge of a puddle with her boot. “Or… I dunno, I mean, we don’t know Akatani’s quirk. Maybe it’s something really useful!”

“It won’t do to speculate,” Tenya said decisively. “We should focus on our own tasks.”

Arakawa huffed. She tucked the chalk back into her pocket and instead pulled out what looked like a metal ball formed from densely packed, interlocking chains. “Speculation is what this exercise is about, but I see your point. I still think we should be prepared for anything.”

Uraraka nodded, a determined set to her jaw. “Yeah! Okay, let’s go, Iida!”

“Right.” Tenya set off after them, and tried to ignore the twisting unease that had settled in his gut.

Sero’s earpiece burned heavy in his pocket, from where he’d been convinced to spitefully toss it aside. Izuku hummed a tune that would reach no conclusion, tapping out the uneven seconds before he might rejoin Sero and draw him into a fight.

Delicate, in the sense that silk was delicate. Easy to snag but difficult to tear.

Time went fuzzy for a stretch, but it didn’t really matter—this part would be simple. The pieces had already been led into place.

Izuku attacked Sero, Sero defended himself, Ashido rushed into the room just in time to melt those winding strands of tape and land a solid knock to Sero’s temple.

Hush, hush, hush of panted breaths and bitter thoughts, all underscored by that ceaseless circus melody that curled in Izuku’s palms.

Shinsou and Asui arrived shortly after. The simmering fury that followed was, while expected, lovely to behold.

“It’s him. It’s obviously him.”

There were lumps of wire and sawdust beneath his skin, and Izuku rubbed absentmindedly at his arms to smooth them out. A little ways away, Ashido leaned against the wall, scowling bitterly at her own shoes.

For the first time, Asui’s eyes narrowed to something past a simple exasperation, bordering on anger. “That’s enough. Shinsou-kun, you really need to stop. You can’t just blame Akatani-kun for everything.”

“I can,” Shinsou hissed, crossing his arms. “Especially when it’s his fault.”

Asui’s voice croaked more violently, forehead slick with a sickly sheen as frustration bubbled in her chest. “You’re being a jerk, kero, not just to Akatani but to everyone. It’s unproductive, it’s- unhelpful, I don’t know what you want us to do when you’re just- acting so unreasonable—”

“I’m the only reasonable person here. I’m- I’m the only one who- if you can’t see how obvious it is, then I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then stop saying anything.”

Now that. That was a thing of beauty. Fractal fractures crackling up that smooth façade, and Izuku twisted his eager grin to something somber, something saccharine.

“Hey, um…” Shinsou’s glare burned, slithered, writhed in his bones and sliced his skin with bits of porcelain. When Izuku winced, the tightening of Asui’s fingers against her own crossed arms was dizzying. “Maybe we should… give each other some space? Just- separate for a bit, to cool off—”

“Oh, you would say that,” Shinsou practically snarled. “You’re the fucking traitor, of course you’d want us to separate—”

“Sero was the traitor,” Ashido snapped, gaze sharp and narrowed. “And I dealt with that, so it’s fine. Seriously, there isn’t any reason to be, like, weird about it anymore. I captured Sero, I did it. Mission accomplished or whatever.”

Trapped, cornered, surrounded on all sides. Izuku pulled the threads taught around Shinsou, barbed wire that cut and bled no matter where he turned.

Shinsou opened his mouth, as if to retort—but he saw that there was no one there who would listen. Bitter agony of smiling faces that did not understand.

I do not know you. Mistrust and the unfamiliar tangling into something painful.

Scowling, Shinsou turned on his heel and stormed away.

Quiet, quiet, quiet, and it sang with strident melody.

“That…” Ashido winced, hugging her arms to her chest. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, of course not!” Izuku was quick to reassure. Too quick. Something hidden, there, and she though she could feel the uneven weight of those words she was unable to glean what lay buried in soft platitudes.

“I… I should talk to him. Right?”

Izuku frowned. Twisted his lip in wordless agreement. Or perhaps even something so acrid as judgement? Surely not. She had done nothing wrong, after all.

Ashido’s eyes were watery as she gave a firm nod, then set off after Shinsou.

Then it was just Asui. The hardest one to crack, surely, but Izuku had already teased the fractals beneath her skin. She was off center, unbalanced, and as Izuku wordlessly followed her to the control room he could taste that sweet uncertainty.

Still. At her core, she was solid as the salt-frothed waves. She would bend, but she would not break. Would not shatter. Not in such short a time.

No matter. They entered the control room. Izuku shut the door behind him as Asui stared up at the screen, reaching out to press the button that would turn off the emergency shutdown.

Izuku grabbed her wrist. She stiffened in his grasp, as if she could feel how the bones creaked and swelled beneath his skin. Grip sharp enough to bruise, Izuku deftly wound the capture tape around her arms and swept her feet from under her, leaving her to blink bemusedly up at him as she tried to comprehend what had just occurred.

Foolish, pointless, lovely. He was not a thing of comprehension. He was twisting hallways and garish doors, colors so vibrant that they burst in brilliant hues upon his tongue. He was something different, something other, something almost human but not quite.

And somehow, it was the not quite that made all the difference.

Fractals traced along his jaw, chased by plastic and cold, lifeless porcelain. Izuku leaned forward and tapped the wide-eyed Asui on her nose.

“This is mine, now.”

The fear that etched itself in her expression was a rapturous elation, stitching joy into his mouth until, when he smiled, it was with her face.

Asui passed out. Izuku tutted, fixing the mask tight enough to bruise, but he did not blame her. It was an awful thing, he knew, to see yourself so plainly. To lose yourself so utterly.

Doll’s eyes and deceit were writhing in his chest, prickling his skin with crackling gooseflesh as he stepped out into the hallway with Asui’s face fixed tight across his own.

It was easy, to peel Ashido away from Shinsou’s side.

“Hey, can you come help us? There’s this control panel we need to get through, and I think you could melt through it with your acid.”

A simple enough lie, and he was Asui now. Shinsou turned away, mouth pressed into a bitter frown, and though Ashido cast him a worried look she still followed. Trailed helpless through the twisting corridors.

When Izuku closed the door behind them, he let the Stranger fall away for just a moment. Just enough to see the seams, the stitching, where the porcelain cracked and faded into a pale mockery of human.

She didn’t even have a chance to move before Izuku wound the tape around her wrists. Could only stare up at the wrongness of it all, and Izuku reveled in that sweet horror.

He left her, slumped and wide-eyed against a wall. Stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

One more mask. And though this one would be an effort, he was so sated as to be eager for the challenge, the thrill of taking and twisting and tearing what was from what wasn’t until nothing remained.

The air shimmered above his skin as he walked down that hallway, like asphalt in a hot summer. Behind him, his shadow warped and stretched unnaturally, and where he stepped the floor seemed to shrink away for just a moment before snapping back to meet his foot.

The melody was deafening, every sour note or slipped finger clashing wonderfully in his ears. Izuku wondered if Shinsou could hear it.

No matter. He pieced together bits of porcelain, pulled the mask tight as he rounded the corner—

When Shinsou looked up, it was as if he knew what he would see. Unease melting into pure, nauseous horror as his own face stared back at him. He paled. Shuddered. Ran, footsteps echoing in time to the lovely tune that snapped and trembled in Izuku’s bones.

Izuku grinned, and it was sharp. It was not his own. It had never been another’s.

Tenya was “securing” the last civilian when the lights flickered on, the soft hum of electricity almost deafening after its long absence. He straightened, glancing at the others.

“It seems that they were successful!”

Uraraka nodded with a grin. “Yep! And we’re done up here, so… I guess we did it?”

“We still have to meet up at the roof,” said Arakawa, stepping out into the hallway with a stifled yawn. “Sorry. Didn’t sleep enough, I guess.”

Tenya whirled around in a flurry, ready to do his duty as class president. “Arakawa-san! A healthy sleep schedule is paramount if we are to uphold the high standards of this institution!”

Arakawa blinked owlishly at him from behind her round glasses as Uraraka struggled to hold back a snort.

“Iida,” Uraraka managed at last. “I think you’re probably the only one who sleeps more than six hours. Like, seriously.”

Tenya was horrified, but hopefully he managed to keep it from showing on his face. Instead he turned away with a huff, settling his glasses and taking off down the hall at a brisk pace.

“Sleep is important,” he muttered before giving up with a sigh. It was pointless, he knew. He could try to hammer home the dangers of sleep deprivation after they completed this exercise.

“So, should we meet up with the others?” Arakawa stretched her arms above her head with a sigh. “Ugh. Stairs. Maybe they should just meet us here.”

“We should all join up in the middle!” Tenya swung his hand through the air to punctuate his point. “That’s only fair.”

“It’s not, though. We’d still have to walk up more stairs than them.”

“Well- that’s beside the point!”

“That… was the point…”

Any further argument was cut off by the sound of rapid footsteps, and all three looked up to find Shinsou practically flinging himself up the stairs and into the hallway. He looked panicked, breathless, strands of hair slicked to his face by sweat as he barreled past them without so much as a glance.

Uraraka squeaked, nearly knocked off her feet, before catching herself. “Wh- Shinsou-kun, wait!”

Arakawa threw out her arm to keep her from following, eyes narrowed. “Hold on. Something’s… something’s wrong.”

For a moment, Tenya wasn’t sure what she meant. Sure, Shinsou had looked frightened enough, but didn’t that mean they should go help him?

Then he felt it. That… unease, curling in his gut like nausea but… dizzier. Like every time he blinked the world took just an instant too long to settle.

A few, uneven steps announced the presence of someone new to their floor. In that odd, creeping anxiety, the three of them whirled around to meet the stranger—

Shinsou. It was… Shinsou.

Tenya felt an ache press against his temples.

“What…” began Uraraka, breathless, though she couldn’t seem to finish the thought. Fine, that was- fine. Tenya was supposed to be the leader.

“Shinsou!” he called, wincing at how his voice cracked. “Ah, how did you… get there?”

Shinsou paused. His brow furrowed in confusion as he ran a hand through already tangled hair.

For some reason, Tenya couldn’t help but note how green it was. Dark and vivid, arranged in messy curls. How had he never noticed that before?

“What are you talking about?” he asked, walking towards them with the slightest frown. “I… took the stairs?”

“You just ran past us.” Arakawa pinched the bridge of her nose. “You… were just here. You went that way, and now… it’s literally impossible for you to be here.”

Tenya watched in equal parts dread and fascination as Shinsou’s face morphed into one of abject horror.

“Guys… we don’t know Akatani’s quirk, right? What if it’s- shapeshifting, or something? We need to track him down, he could look like anyone—”

“Wait.” Arakawa looked pained. Tenya wondered if she had a headache as well, because this situation was certainly giving him one. “Wait. What about the others?”

Shinsou winced, scuffing a sheepish boot against the ground. For a moment, Tenya wondered where his hero costume had gone, why he was in his gym clothes… focus. That wasn’t important, right now.

“I, uh… I kind of got separated,” Shinsou muttered, slouching into a sigh. “It’s- we thought Sero was the traitor, so I guess we kind of figured it was fine? But… I haven’t seen Asui or Ashido lately.”

Tenya felt an ugly vertigo reach slender fingers up his throat. He tapped at his comm. “Asui? Ashido? Come in—”

A deafening screech greeted him, jolting in his teeth and prompting him to rip the device from his ear. When he looked up he found that the others had done the same.

Arakawa was staring down at her sputtering comm with a strange intensity. “That’s… not normal.”

“Did he jam the signal, somehow?” There was a sickly fear simmering beneath Shinsou’s tone. “Can he do that?”

“I- I don’t know.” Tenya could feel the panic rising in his gut, trembling in his fingers, humming in the motors of his legs with restless energy. “We- you’re right, Shinsou. We need to find Akatani—he must be the traitor.”

“Yeah!” Uraraka pumped a fist into the air, teeth bared into a smile. “Let’s do this!”

“I…” With some hesitation, Arakawa nodded. She stared at her earpiece for a short while before tucking it into a pocket, then pulled out that same, wrought-iron sphere as before. “I think my quirk will probably be the most useful, here, assuming Akatani already knows Shinsou’s. I’ve been working on this one for a while, and it should work—I can use Alchemy to release the chains and wrap them around a target. The circle should be set and ready to go.”

Tenya offered her a brisk nod, and the four of them set off through thick tension towards where Akatani had fled. He paused when Shinsou stopped suddenly, looking back with concern.

“Shinsou…?”

“Uh.” It was… odd. When Shinsou spoke, he- there were pale scars curling up around his jaw, intersecting the scattered freckles. Every word tugged strangely at the old injuries, and the motion was almost… hypnotic. Ragged patterns that twisted nonsense shapes through his skin.

Shinsou continued, and Tenya scolded himself for being so distracted. Whatever scars Shinsou had, that was none of his business.

“I should probably hang back. Akatani might not suspect that we know his quirk, so I’ll try to stay out of sight, at least in the beginning.”

Tenya nodded. That was smart, that was reasonable. That was something I should’ve thought of, but he pushed the ugly doubt aside.

“That’s a good plan, Shinsou!”

Shinsou smiled. It was soft, but for some reason there was the briefest, panicked moment where Tenya could’ve sworn it belonged to someone else. A blink, and it was gone.

There were two Shinsous.

Toshinori sighed, rubbing at his temples and wincing when the harsh screech of the earpiece still spiraled up from where he’d dropped it on the console.

There were. Two Shinsous. And his mind seemed adamant that he should do a recount, just to be sure. Because it was impossible for there to be two Shinsous, and yet. There. There just were.

Next to him, Aizawa sighed. His fellow teacher pinched the bridge of his nose as he squinted up at the screen, although how the man could see anything past the static and the fractured artifacting Toshinori couldn’t hope to guess. The monitors had gone haywire the instant Shins- Akatani, that was- it had to be Akatani but it didn’t- it wasn’t Akatani, it just wasn’t, skull squeezing around his mind as he struggled to find the edge of that mobius strip and—

Not-Shinsou had stepped out of the room, and suddenly everything was chaos. There had been the odd technical issue before—a strange graininess to the feed, the slightest tearing of the screen. But now it was just… incomprehensible.

“I get what Nedzu meant, now,” Aizawa muttered. It took an embarrassingly long amount of time for Toshinori to figure out what he was talking about, although the piercing headache and that awful, relentless whine like the worst kind of audio feedback certainly weren’t helping matters.

Back at the conference room, with the Present Mic who was Not Present Mic. The one who they all agreed must not be Present Mic, even though it- it hurt. To think about.

Ah. So this was the same quirk, then. Or at least the same aspect of his quirk—in truth the full extent of Akatani’s abilities remained much of a mystery to him. All he knew was what Tsukauchi had passed on—that it was somehow based in “fear manifestation”, whatever that meant, and that the kid had one quirk. Or… believed that he had one quirk.

The distinction was important. Toshinori couldn’t forget that.

Still, it was clear that he was not the only one confused. A faint shuffle of feet behind them was the first sign, followed by a quiet clearing of the throat.

“Uh. Sensei?” Kaminari raised a shaky hand, pointedly avoiding the screens in favor of staring at the floor between his shoes. “What’s Akatani’s quirk?”

Aizawa tore his gaze away from the screen, resting his eyes for a moment before facing his students.

“Akatani calls his quirk Phobia. He describes it as fear manifestation—he is able to use different abilities depending on the fear he’s using.”

“So…” Kaminari coughed, glancing nervously to either side before Todoroki cut in with a soft huff.

“What fear is that?”

Aizawa did not waver, but he did frown. “I’m not sure. His quirk has a lot of moving parts.”

“Dude, that’s freaky as hell,” whispered Kaminari at what he must have thought was a low volume. “Like, that’s some creepypasta—”

“Kaminari. Focus on the exercise.”

“Right! Right, sorry Aizawa-sensei.”

Aizawa turned, and Toshinori could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes as he returned his attention to the monitors.

Before Toshinori turned back, he noted that, while tension was thick throughout the room, it settled particularly heavy around Bakugou. The boy was uncharacteristically silent, jaw clenched as he glared up at the screens and hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

Toshinori recalled yet another useful tidbit of information from Tsukauchi. That Bakugou had recognized Akatani, somehow.

He sighed, and looked towards the camera feed. A lot of moving parts, indeed. Toshinori was struck with the distinct sense that Aizawa himself had nothing but the most basic understanding of Akatani’s quirk, and how it might manifest.

That was worrying. As was the quirk itself, obviously—but he had to be careful not fall too deeply down that rabbit hole. Plenty of “villainous” quirks belonged to people with good hearts. Shinsou himself was proof of that.

But it couldn’t be denied that such a power left its mark. There was a reason, after all, why so many villains fit that stereotypical conception of a “villain’s quirk”. The pressures of society were very real, and it was always a possibility that Akatani himself had been forced down that path.

The boy was sly, and manipulative. He’d proven that much before nearly destroying their recording equipment, and continued to do so as he chased Shinsou up the stairs and towards the remaining students. It was easier to watch, now, with the two of them split between separate screens—Toshinori could almost pretend that they were different feeds, transmitted at different times. Less of a headache, that way.

The screens themselves appeared to be of a similar mind. The static had died down, and as Toshinori tracked Aka—he winced, pain spiking through his head and lancing up his injured side. Right. As he tracked Not-Shinsou up the stairs, he couldn’t help but note the smile that curled across the boy’s face.

He recognized that smile. It twisted in his gut and dug sharp fingers through his flesh, bile rising at the back of his throat because he recognized that smile—

The earpiece creaked in Toshinori’s hand. He released it in one, hasty motion, and it clattered to the floor.

It could have been nothing. It could have been coincidence.

In the back of his mind, a cruel voice whispered that there was no such thing as coincidence.

He tried to shake it off. To at least keep it together until the end of this exercise. Not much longer now, anyway—Not-Shinsou hung back as the other three students surged forward, racing towards where Shinsou had fled. They cornered him easily enough, and after that things moved quickly.

Shinsou seemed shaken, trembling far too much for a real struggle, and even before Arakawa hurled her weapon Toshinori could see the fight was over. The metal sphere flashed with light as it left her palm, then split into grasping chains that wound themselves tight around Shinsou, knocking him to the ground.

Captured. Toshinori sighed, resting his eyes for a moment against that pulsing headache. He did have to wonder what Akatani’s plan would be from here—the remaining students had powerful quirks, and he had little hope of taking them all on at once.

He opened his eyes when Aizawa let out another, weary sigh.

“Shinsou’s still talking,” he muttered. “He’s supposed to be out.”

Toshinori looked up to find that yes, Shinsou did appear to be saying something. The screen was becoming corrupted again as Not-Shinsou edged into the frame, so Toshinori didn’t dare try for the earpiece again, but it was clear that Shinsou was struggling against the binds, shouting at his teammates with a frantic desperation that set him on edge.

This was just an exercise. There was no reason for him to be so agitated—he almost looked in pain, the closer his doppelganger approached.

The screen stuttered, torn through by a fractured distortion that brought to mind the fractal patterns of a kaleidoscope.

Through that ragged pixilation, Shinsou spoke.

His twin stranger replied.

And the screen went dark.

Chapter Text

There was something about another self that twitched and trembled where it met the self he used to be, frayed edges of a face he no longer recognized because it was wrong, it was cracked, threatening to shatter if he did not scramble for another.

A pitch, he thought, or perhaps the whole tuneless melody. Round, and round, and round without a chance to stop and stand and stare at the thing he no longer was so that he might remember why he used to be.

Izuku, Izuku, that was certainly a name. Was it his? He did not know.

Shinsou stared at him from across the room. What was a room? A place, surely, four walls and a floor that- but what was a wall? What was a floor, to feet that bled with chasing after dreams along such spindly tightrope wire.

He… he did not- Shinsou? Shinsou, that- that was a name as well. Was it his?

It felt like his. Or, rather, like it could be. Shinsou, that was a name—but what was a name?

Words, sound, meaningless noise to hold the self together. Maybe he could be Shinsou, as much as he could be anything.

Izuku-Shinsou wanted to laugh. It bubbled in his chest, but when it dribbled up his throat he found that it had nowhere it could go. His jaw was wooden, and by the time he worked it open the laugh had faded into the manic whine of that constant, frenzied tune that blared around him.

Past the strands of music he heard Shinsou speak. Words, words, words, all pointless, pressing meaning into that which was so beautiful when it meant nothing at all.

So much effort, so much noise, all to say he was afraid.

Fear. So thick that he might swim in it. That he could understand.

It was funny, because he was Shinsou, but the Shinsou in front of him refused to see it. Clung to his face as if that might hold himself together.

Izuku- was he Izuku? It did not fit, but nothing ever did.

Izuku walked towards what was still so desperately trying to be Shinsou with a painted smile and a voice that was not quite human.

“Come on, Akatani,” he grinned, sickly sweet with hollow sympathy. “Give it up already, we know it’s you.”

Shinsou reeked of fear. It clung to him like dust, like blood, like strands of dizzy music.

He shouted something desperate, not at Izuku but past him, towards the others—which really was quite silly, because they knew he was a fake. Just another smiling mask, and Izuku would make sure that Shinsou knew it too.

He knelt in close so that Shinsou might see the stitches that held him together. The plastic stiffness to his face, the eyes that did not spark with life.

There was nothing beneath the porcelain but dust and stuffing and beads of rotting Styrofoam. It ached, inside of him, that emptiness where a person should be.

Maybe- maybe he could be, again. Izuku didn’t fit but- maybe Shinsou would, and he could- so easy, he could just- what was a self?

A self. Selfish. Shinsou had one and he did not, and that was selfish.

Izuku smiled too wide as he reached a hand towards Shinsou’s fear-stricken face, the movement jerky and unnatural like the fixed articulation of a doll’s joints.

“You’re going to give this to me,” he whispered, shouted, breathless with the air that swelled against his empty ribs. “Okay?”

Shinsou flinched away from the cool plastic of his touch, jaw unclenching to hiss out a single, wonderful question.

“What- what are you?”

Oh. Oh, what a pointless thing to ask when nothing meant anything anymore. The thing that might have been Izuku laughed, and laughed, and laughed¸ though no sound escaped his lips.

“I am not—” and he felt the hook catch.

There were no words to describe the pain of an unmaking.

Izuku might have screamed, would have screamed, if his mouth wasn’t stitched shut by spider-silk.

There were no words. To revel in the unknown and then be ripped from masks, from hallways, splitting him to tear the fractals from his veins.

It hurt. Like nothing he had ever known it hurt, but he could not scream.

The Spiral was not a thing of plan, of intention. And the Stranger was by nature something that could not be known.

The Web. The Web was nothing but intention, feeling every tremble along its sprawling strands, and Izuku choked on it, on spiders and cobwebs and the agony of his own helplessness.

The threads were razor sharp, biting red furrows into his skin, and Izuku could see the Mother of Puppets, the Spider at the center of it all. Huge, and bulbous, and playing idly at the threads beneath its twitching limbs. Izuku felt his body lurch in time to its deceptively gentle ministrations.

It was as if all the fear that he had reaped for the Spiral and the Stranger had been snatched in those eager jaws, and the Web was fat with it, fangs glistening with venom as Izuku felt that he might gag on the countless legs that scuttled through his lungs.

He didn’t, though. Couldn’t.

Never before had he experienced a helplessness so complete. At least in bindings he could tug and tear his wrists bloody against the unyielding leather—at least in cages he could grip soft bruises into his own arms—at least with Sensei he- he could think, past this fuzzy numbness in his skull.

With Sensei, he could stumble. And that would be his fault.

Here, not even that was left to him.

Never before, save in dreams, had his limbs been jerked about as if on puppet strings, had he been so utterly lost to whatever cruel intentions the Mother had for him.

Izuku stood, wrapped in crisscrossed spiderthread, and was afraid. Could feel himself being tugged ever closer to that Spider’s waiting jaws.

He closed his eyes and he was eight years old and stumbling from his childhood home.

He closed his eyes and he was four, feet swinging idly as the doctor showed his x-rays on the wall.

He closed his eyes and he did not know how old he was, time stripped from him along with everything else as he could feel the wires tightening around his limbs and knew with ugly certainty that there was nothing he could do about it.

Izuku opened his eyes. He choked on spit and spiders when Sensei sat before him, threads wrapped loosely around one hand.

No, no, no, no, he- he couldn’t, not right- he couldn’t do this again, not here, in this space between dreams where he couldn’t so much as take a breath of his own volition, it- he- he couldn’t, he- wouldn’t—

In a fit of nauseous desperation Izuku tore at the wire-thin strands. He did not feel the sting where they bit into his flesh—could only tell by the hot, heavy drops of blood beading at his fingertips that they had broken the skin at all.

Not here.

Somehow, Izuku managed to twist his trembling fingers around the strands that bound him. Somehow, he grasped them tight, ignoring how they cut into his palms as he tugged—

Something snapped. Clicked. His vision cleared with a few, dizzy blinks, and Izuku was standing in that room again.

He felt… odd. It took him a few moments to realize that it was a nice sort of odd, like the hissing crackle of the Eye when he took a Confession, or the tender ache of the Lonely when he drew those mists around another.

It was power. Fuzzy and intoxicating.

That was an altogether alien sensation, for the Web.

A few more moments and Izuku realized that the room was stiflingly silent. It only breathed when he did, single, wheezing breaths that pierced the quiet before falling into stillness once more. He looked around and found that his new classmates hadn’t moved.

They… hadn’t moved at all.

Izuku breathed. Their chests swelled with air.

He twitched a finger, and watched them twitch in time.

He still hurt but it was… distant, now. Muffled by cobweb and the heady thrill of absolute power—and it occurred to him that this was perhaps the first time in his life that he had ever been in control.

The wire still dug into his flesh. When Izuku looked down he could see the threads, same as any other time he summoned forth the Web. His palms blistered where he tugged them close, and his arms trembled with the effort of holding the weight of his puppets, but…

When Izuku swept a hand before him, he watched in sick fascination as the threads tightened around his classmates and they stepped to his design. His chest gurgled with rippling legs, back tingling as they scuttled up his spine but for once it filled him not with dread but with the purest sense of joy.

For once he stood atop the spiderweb, balanced on its threads instead of tangled in its subtle designs. For once he looked down, and he could see that pleasing pattern.

Why had he ever hated the Web? How could he hate something so intoxicating as this? Perfect little puppets, all under his steady hand—and wasn’t it better that way?

He twitched his fingers. They swayed. Izuku grinned, and it tasted of blood and venom and the scuttling of a thousand legs.

I wonder if this is how Sensei feels.

Bile, harsh and acrid at the back of his throat, and Izuku choked. The threads trembled, tightening around his arms, blood welling up beneath the crisscrossed strands and clinging to the webs like gossamer dew.

Izuku clenched his hands, swallowing against the newfound dryness of his mouth. This- this wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like that, he didn’t…

Another shuddering breath, deafening as it rippled through the room, and Izuku screamed when the threads all snapped at once, lashing red across his skin as he bruised his knees against the unyielding floor.

When darkness swam in his vision, he could only hope that his sleep might be dreamless.

The frayed edges of cobweb that still brushed against him trembled, as if in chitinous laughter.

When Izuku awoke he felt sore and jittery, like a junky strung-out after a bad trip.

It was not an unfamiliar feeling. Nor was the featherlight brush of cobwebs up his arms, the scuttling legs of spiders down his back in shuddering chills. Addiction was an ugly word, and withdrawal even worse—but Izuku had been living with this long enough to vouch for its accuracy.

The Web thrived on helplessness, manipulation, the idea that nothing was truly under you control. Addiction was perhaps the purest form of a body acting on its own, and so it was unsurprising that spiders always seemed to itch beneath his skin whenever he indulged the rush of power that came with a fear manifesting to its fullest.

What did shock him was the severity of it. Cobwebs were dry and thick in his throat, and every time he breathed his lungs felt rough and scratchy, like they were filled with spiders. Periodically he could feel a faint tickling up his arms, or his legs, or beneath his shirt—and without thinking Izuku would rub a hand against the phantom legs.

The first time he did so, Izuku opened his eyes to the stark white of an infirmary. Again, not unexpected, given that he had apparently lost consciousness. He could still feel the starved bite of the Spiral at the back of his mind, cutting his thoughts with harsh angles as it writhed nonsense patterns through his veins. The Stranger struggled against it, grappling for dominance with shattered shards of porcelain—and tangled around them both was, of course, the constant twitching of the Web.

Izuku itched. Spiders, fractals, the rubbery sensation of fake skin. He was wax and web and impossible shapes, all fizzling across him like sparks of static, starved and ravenous for what little scraps of fear remained.

He fisted a hand in his hair, tugging at the roots and letting the physical pain ground him. A bone-deep exhaustion burned in the space between his joints, but Izuku could not allow himself to fall asleep again. Not with the fears like this.

He took a single, chattering breath. Brushed spider-legs from his arms. And forced himself to look.

Outside of the grasping influence of the Spiral the facts were simple and their sequence unwavering. He had been assigned as Traitor in an exercise, the Spiral already snapping in his veins when he’d read the slip of paper. From there things were relatively straightforward—lie, manipulate, tug his teammates in dizzying directions until they couldn’t trust the words that fell from their own mouths, never mind those of another.

Izuku’s fingers twitched for a pen and the dry press of paper. Inside of him, the Spiral shuddered, but the Eye seared away those endless hallways with rigid scrutiny.

Good. He wasn’t trembling so much now, as if he might shake apart at any moment. And the lights weren’t so bright, swirling before him in bursts of sight and sound. Izuku took another, trembling breath, and tried to ignore how it scuttled.

Think it through. Step by tedious step.

Shinsou’s suspicions had fueled the Spiral far beyond his expectations, that much was certain. And that, along with the fake nature of the exercise and his own identity, lent strength to the Stranger as well.

Izuku winced at the memory, rubbing knuckles against his temple. Whenever two aspects mixed like that, the results were always… difficult to catalog. In most recent memory what came to mind was the mingling of the Eye and the Lonely at the USJ, allowing him to pluck out the frightened students from the sprawling facility, fueling the desolate mists with their terror.

Izuku blinked. The Eye pulsed against his skull, driving the wisps of fractals and porcelain further back. Ah, so it was a battery, then. The Eye had simply allowed him to harvest it.

Focus. Izuku hummed, glancing around the empty infirmary and dearly wishing that he had his tape recorder. The whir of spooling mechanisms would be a comfort.

So the Spiral and the Stranger had both manifested, and both manifested vigorously. By the time he had stolen Shinsou’s face things got… hazy, and difficult to piece together—but the Eye opened wide behind his forehead, and Izuku snatched the scraps of memory to weave them into something comprehensible.

He’d stolen Asui’s face. Izuku’s mouth twisted at that—Shinsou already hated him, while Asui had been nothing but kind. Not that Shinsou deserved it of course, but… in the cool, logical press of the Eye, Izuku had to admit it had been nice to have someone in his corner. She would have been a useful asset, but now…

Izuku sighed. It tasted dry, and musty. There were still spiders in his lungs, tickling up his throat and begging him to cough.

Shinsou ran, Izuku had followed, and… things were blurry, but by his best estimates the Stranger had manifested in its entirety. Izuku soured at the thought, rubbing the heel of his palm against his jaw as if to assure himself that it was still flesh. The Stranger had always been tricky, same as the Spiral. And he had… lost himself, somewhat, to that brash circus tune.

He had also traumatized Shinsou. Of this, he was certain—watching your own face stitch itself onto another, it… it did things to you, and Izuku should never have let it get that far. He was better than that, had a tighter leash on the horrors inside of him, he should’ve—

Focus, and the Eye blistered in his skull. His fingers twitched. Finish the record.

Izuku blinked once more, head tilting slightly. Was… this a statement? All whirring through his own head?

Either way it was feeding the Eye, which had been the goal. The other fears had almost entirely faded, leaving only the faint brush of cobwebs behind. The Web, he knew, would take longer to dissipate in its entirety—but he could live with that.

The Web. Izuku shuddered, fingers digging into his arms. The Web, it had…

Shinsou’s quirk was clearly some sort of- hypnosis? Brainwashing? He’d only activated it after Izuku spoke, although… no. After Izuku answered.

Oh, now he desperately wished for his notebooks—but they were out of reach. He’d have to write it all down later, already eager for the chance to record his thoughts in their entirety, to revel in the cramp of his fingers and how the ink might stain his hands.

Shinsou asked, Izuku answered, and suddenly everything fell apart.

Because now it was painfully obvious why Izuku always seemed to sense cobwebs drifting around Shinsou whenever he spoke. He reeked of the Web, and anyone snared by his quirk would do so as well.

Unbidden, Izuku was reminded of the Noumu’s lifeless gaze. The wires so tightly wrapped around its limbs that they bit into the flesh.

He looked down at his own bandaged arms.

Fuck. He didn’t want to think about this, didn’t want to know, but the Eye was already snapping for more.

When Shinsou had snared him in that quirk, Izuku had been wrenched from the height of the Stranger’s power to the harsh, unrelenting helplessness of the Web. And he had never… never in his life had he ever felt so…

Puppet, doll, Deku, just a lifeless thing that danced upon command.

There was so much fear, both the Spiral and the Stranger had feasted on it, but with such an abrupt, unnatural transition it was the Web that reaped the benefits.

By its own design, he thought, unbidden. Again he felt the phantom prickle of spider-legs across his chest, curling up around his neck.

Maybe, maybe not—either way the result was the same.

He’d never fed the Web like that, never watched it grow so fat. With the other fears—notably the Eye, the Spiral, and most recently the Lonely—he knew that they could manifest more powerfully the more he fed them. With the Web… that kind of thing had always seemed beyond his grasp.

He’d felt it, though. The power thrumming through his veins, the thrill of watching the others twitch to his command.

The memory churned in his gut, but the Eye would not let him forget it.

Izuku scrubbed a weary hand across his face. They… wouldn’t forgive him for this. His actions with the Spiral and the Stranger were already pushing it, but the Web… there was no way that could have been pleasant. The Web would want them to revel in their helplessness so that it might feast upon their fear. And Izuku had no doubt that the experience was… well. Terrifying.

Great. Izuku sighed, drawing up his knees and hugging them tight to his chest. He played with a loose thread in the blanket and willed the Eye to stay with him for longer, to grant him that cool impassivity so that he might not wallow in the guilt and shame of it all.

He heard the footsteps before they reached the door. Knew by their softness and gentle, steady cadence that they must have been Eraserhead’s.

That didn’t stop his shoulders from jolting the moment the door opened. Izuku worried at the inside of his cheek and forced himself to still. God, he was a mess. Too jittery for his own good.

A fervent glance to the side revealed Eraserhead just… standing there, blinking at him as if in surprise, though as always it was difficult to read anything in his face.

“You’re awake,” he said at last, approaching the bed. Izuku shrugged, unsure if speaking would just have him choking on cobwebs once more.

A moment of quiet fell between them, during which Izuku had to brush the spiders from his arms twice. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, blinking hard in a futile attempt to draw himself back into reality. At last, Eraserhead sighed, and settled down in a nearby chair.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice softer than Izuku might have expected.

Another shrug, because it didn’t really matter, did it? He felt like shit, but that wasn’t exactly anything new.

“Kid. I’m gonna need you to work with me a bit, here.”

Izuku sighed. It didn’t taste quite as strongly of web, so he figured talking might be safe.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, scratching idly at his neck. “Is… everyone else, are they—”

“They’re fine as well. They were in the infirmary for a bit, but no one was seriously injured. Maybe a little shaken up, but…” Eraserhead let the sentence trail off expectantly, and Izuku winced as the Eye pulsed against his skull.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out with a grimace, fingers tangling in the sheets. “I- that wasn’t supposed to happen, it’s- I’ve never done that before, with the- the Web, it doesn’t usually work like that, something got messed up with- Shinsou’s quirk, I think it did something, then I was- that, and I’m sorry—”

“Slow down. Take a breath.”

Izuku shut his mouth with a snap, the Eye desperately untangling his racing thoughts into some sense of order. Take a breath. What a ridiculous suggestion, when legs skittered through his ribs.

“We’re going to have a conversation about that,” said Eraserhead, so gentle that for the life of him Izuku couldn’t find the threat that must have been buried there. “We don’t have to now, though. Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

Izuku must have pulled an odd face, because Eraserhead let out a little huff.

“You passed out, kid,” he continued with a wry smile. “I think that’s cause for concern. You were also injured, somehow. Your arms feel okay?”

Frankly, with the myriad of other aches plaguing him, Izuku hadn’t bothered with his arms. They hurt, but it was more stinging than anything else. Like old scrapes.

“They’re fine. I’m… fine.” Izuku flexed his hands and tried to remember what it had felt like, the threads digging so tightly into his skin. “I’m not lying. The Web’s never done that before.”

“I never said you were lying.”

“I- didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

Tension rippled through Izuku’s shoulders, and his nausea intensified. Was this an issue of uselessness, then? Deficiency, ineptitude, a flaw that would need to be ironed out?

With the Eye so prominent, Izuku remembered in crystal clarity the last time such a thing had occurred. The doctor, and the table—and though he knew, he knew that such a thing was unlikely to happen in the midst of these heroes, it was- he felt sick, the Flesh churning in his gut at the memory of mangled flesh and wrists rubbed raw against restraints—

“Breathe. Akatani, I need you to breathe.”

Right. Izuku clung to the Eye as he took a deep, spider-bitten breath.

“S- sorry,” he managed, rubbing at his bandaged arms. “I’m just… trying to sort it out.”

Eraserhead nodded, settling back in his chair. “I’m glad. This is a school, and ostensibly you’re here to learn. The circumstances were… unfortunate, but it’s admirable that you’re trying to take a lesson from it.”

It didn’t feel admirable. Izuku felt more hollowed out than anything else. Still, he shrugged, absently picking at the bandages.

“I apologize for what happened,” Eraserhead murmured, and Izuku’s gaze shot up, wide and unblinking. The hero’s mouth twisted into the faintest scowl as he glared down at his hands. “We should have ended the exercise when the equipment started to malfunction. I assumed that it was just a normal aspect of your quirk, but clearly something was going wrong. With incomplete information, we should have erred on the side of caution. My oversight meant we intervened far too late, and all of you faced the consequences for that.”

When he looked up to find Izuku blinking bemusedly back at him in stunned silence, Eraserhead’s mouth pressed into a thin line, almost a humorless smile.

“I’m saying that it’s not your fault, Akatani. You’re a student, and we know that your quirk is more difficult to control than most. This should have been a safe environment to learn that control, but instead…” He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, seemingly oblivious to Izuku’s frozen panic. “I think that, in the future, we should train separately in order to learn how to manage your quirk. But I don’t want you to see that as a punishment, or because of something you did. It’s what we should’ve been doing in the first place.”

“I…” This was certainly… a lot. Izuku pressed his fingers together with the slightest frown. He winced, the objections dying on his tongue. It would be unwise to look such a gift horse in the mouth, however suspicious. So instead he simply dipped his head into a shallow nod. “Thank you, Eraserhead-sensei.”

Eraserhead snorted. “Don’t thank me yet. You never really answered the question—how are you feeling?”

“I- I did, I said I was fine.”

Eraserhead remained silent, only raising a brow, and Izuku sighed.

Why did it even matter? He was functional. Mission-ready, he would say. But Eraserhead clearly wasn’t going to take that for an answer, so Izuku let the Eye flutter forth to deliver the information as impersonally as possible.

“I’m tired,” he admitted, mouth twisting distastefully. “My head hurts, mostly a tension headache at this point. My lungs…” Izuku paused, nose wrinkling as the countless legs rustled once more. “…hurt? Kind of, it’s- hard to explain. My throat is dry, my jaw is sore, and my fingers feel… wrong. But that’s normal, it’s- the Spiral just does that, sometimes. And my arms still hurt a little bit from the threads, but it’s nothing major.”

When Izuku looked up, there was the slightest furrow in Eraserhead’s brow. The hero spoke slowly, as if still processing the information. “The… Spiral.”

Right. Right. The Eye pulsed at the opportunity to share this knowledge, even as Izuku wrestled to restrain it to the bare minimum.

“Fear of lies, deception, that your mind is lying to you…” Izuku hummed, pressing his fingers together again and remembering how the bones had twisted, sharp and grasping, though the flesh. “The fear that others are lying to you as well. Warped perception. Things that- shouldn’t be, impossible spaces and- getting lost? Kind of?”

He glanced up at Eraserhead again, but the man just watched him with a gentle, inobtrusive interest. Nothing like the spitting impatience of Shigaraki or the dangerous expectation of Sensei.

“It’s…” continued Izuku hesitantly, coughing some of the dry cobwebs away. “Well. It does weird things to me, sometimes. Like… really weird. Shifts bones and stuff, especially in my hands… and it can make my head kind of… fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy?” prompted Eraserhead, and Izuku winced.

“Ah- it’s, really hard to… the Spiral is a fear of madness, and a reality that doesn’t make any sense, and…” He sighed, running a hand through his hair and wincing when it caught on tangles. “I guess it’s easy to get caught up in that. Nothing feels real. My perception gets all shifted around but I can still- I can function, I know what’s going on, it’s just- looking back on it, I’m not sure how. Everything was wrong.”

Eraserhead nodded, even though Izuku knew that none of that made sense. That he didn’t actually know, could never understand what it was like for the fractals to flow so freely in his veins, for the maze of hallways to twist through the space between his bones.

The Spiral simmered, snapped, and Izuku hastily focused on the tangible. Forced the Eye to the forefront and let it press eagerly against his skull.

“So you were using the Spiral?” When Izuku nodded, Eraserhead hummed thoughtfully. “Was that how you looked like Shinsou?”

Izuku bit back a dry laugh. He didn’t look like Shinsou, he was- but that was getting ahead of himself. “No. That was the Stranger, the Spiral is more… I made the words sharp.”

Eraserhead’s brow furrowed. “You… made the words sharp.”

God, this was infuriating. By its nature the Spiral bucked any kind of rational explanation. Like mapping an impossible space with simple pen and paper—you just ended up with a tangled mess of lines.

Still, if anyone was equipped for the task, it was Izuku bolstered by the hot scrutiny of the Eye.

“It’s the fear that something is lying to you—your mind, or your eyes, or the world… or just- other people. It can- twist the perception, just enough to make people doubt, you know? Like, if someone says, uh, ‘that’s a great idea’, or something like that—I could take it and make it more- sarcastic? I guess? Make it feel disingenuous. And if you just keep doing that, over a long period of time it- compounds, kind of, and eventually you don’t even have to tug the words anymore, you can just- they’re already paranoid.” Izuku hummed, twisting a loose thread around his finger. “I guess that’s the short answer. It makes people paranoid.”

“That’s…” Eraserhead sighed, then snorted, running hand through his hair with a pained smile. “I suppose that makes you uniquely suited for this kind of exercise.”

“Yeah. And then when you throw the Stranger in, it just gets…” Izuku grimaced, the thread snapping in his grip. “Messy.”

“And the Stranger is- fear of the unknown?”

“The uncanny. Unknown, too, but- that’s more the Dark, I think. Obviously there’s some overlap—”

“Uncanny, then.” Though he spoke carefully, so carefully, Izuku couldn’t help the way his shoulders hunched. Focus.

“I- yeah. Yeah, so like- dolls and mannequins and stuff. But also just- generally that sense of, uh, wrong. You know? When you’re looking at something and it’s… it’s almost right, but- something’s off. It’s, um, well, it’s a stranger, I guess. Someone you don’t know, and you can’t know, um… I mean I guess it is the unknown, but it’s not the, uh, lurking kind of unknown, you know? It’s what you can see, not what you can’t. It just- refuses to make sense.”

“And that’s…” Eraserhead sighed. “Different from the Spiral.”

“Yes and no.” Izuku gave a short laugh, rubbing a hand across his face. “They’re- they have similarities. Overlaps, and- well. That’s why I could manifest them both, you know? Where they intersected, I could…” He frowned, meshing his fingers together before letting them fall to his lap with a sigh. “Anyway, yeah. That’s how I stole Shinsou’s face.”

Eraserhead tensed. Almost imperceptible, but nothing was hidden from the Eye’s lidless gaze. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

“Sorry. I know it’s not- it doesn’t sound very nice, huh? But, um, it isn’t nice, so…”

“No, it’s- it’s fine.” Eraserhead almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Izuku watched him, unblinking, as he wrestled the emotion from his face. “Does it… hurt?”

“Not physically. Or- what’s the difference, I guess, after a certain point…” Izuku hummed, before catching himself with a brisk shake of his head. “Sorry. Yes, it hurts. For both of us, it isn’t- you aren’t supposed to see yourself, like that. It messes with your head. That’s, um…” He trailed off into a hoarse whisper. “That’s why Shinsou was so scared.”

Eraserhead paused, and in that dreadful silence Izuku was sure that he had said too much, pushed too far, allowed himself an undeserved assurance in the hero’s understanding. At last, Eraserhead took a long, steady breath.

“What about you, Akatani?”

Izuku blinked. “What- me? I- well, with the Stranger it’s- it doesn’t hurt, really. I mean, it feels wrong, and I- it’s my own fault. I leaned too far into it, I knew things would get weird if I did that but I wasn’t really thinking- not that that’s an excuse, I- I mean, it just…”

“Did it hurt you?” asked Eraserhead gently. Still, Izuku winced.

“I, uh. Not physically. With the Stranger it’s always, um, hard. To keep myself together. It’s a- loss of identity, I guess? And that kind of hurts, but it’s more of an empty feeling, like the absence of… self…” Izuku sighed, rubbing at his arms and half expecting to feel cold hard plastic beneath the bandages. A spark of pain reminded him why the bandages were there in the first place, and he drew back with a hiss.

“Akatani…” Eraserhead frowned when Izuku looked up, likely noting the too wide set to his eyes. “You were hurt physically as well, correct? With the… threads.”

“Um. Yeah. But that wasn’t really- it was fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“But it still happened.”

“I… guess?” Izuku repressed a wince when his voice cracked, watching Eraserhead carefully for any unexpected movement.

The hero only sighed, slumping further in his chair. “I apologize again. This shouldn’t have happened. Will there be lasting damage, for any of you?”

Izuku scrambled to get his thoughts in order around that emotional whiplash. “I. Um. Don’t know.”

“For you, then.”

“I- I don’t—”

“In the past,” said Eraserhead slowly, as if explaining to a child, “has using your quirk in this fashion caused you any lasting repercussions.”

He never stopped using his quirk. The fear was a constant, heavy presence at the back of his mind, or wrapped around his throat, or twitching in his fingertips. The effects might ebb and flow, sure, but they were never truly gone.

Still. Izuku flashed a strained smile. “Yeah, it all goes away eventually. The, um, headache and stuff.”

This jittery ache of withdrawal, maybe. But the Eye would always crackle in his skull, press against his temples, hiss and stutter in his ears—

Eraserhead seemed satisfied by that, at least. He nodded once, firmly, then stood with a wince and the creak of his joints. “Do you think you can walk? Or do you need to rest a little more—”

“I can walk!” said Izuku hastily, swinging his legs over the side of the cot and pressing them against the floor. Staying in this crisp white medical bed, the fluorescents humming overhead and the faint smell of antiseptic burning in his nose—all of it was dredging up bad memories. “I’m fine.”

Eraserhead eyed him doubtfully before shoving his hands in his pockets with a sigh. “Alright, then. School’s over for the day, so we can head home.”

Izuku stopped, staring wide-eyed at where Eraserhead stood in the doorway. “I- it is? It’s… I’ve been here the whole time?”

“Yes.” The hero paused, and the faintest concern twitched at his brow when he looked back. “Don’t worry about it—you aren’t the first hero student to miss a day in the infirmary, and you won’t be the last. I’m sure some of your classmates will be able to lend you their notes.”

An ugly revulsion at even the thought of interacting with his classmates burned acrid in his throat, but Izuku nodded with another strained smile and followed Eraserhead out into the hallway. He hadn’t even thought about his missed classes—mostly the idea of him lying there for so long, unconscious on a medical cot, was enough to give him silkspun hives.

He didn’t have long to dwell on it, however, as the moment he left the infirmary he was stopped cold by the sight of several 1-A students, all scrambling forward to meet him.

“Akatani! Are you okay—”

“Dude that was so crazy, your quirk is like a straight-up horror show—”

“Oh my god what happened to your arms, I didn’t see them get hurt, did you get scraped up or something—”

“Everyone be quiet.” Eraserhead sighed as the gaggle of students instantly fell silent, all eyes snapping towards him. “One at a time. Don’t crowd Akatani.”

“Of course!” said Iida, shoulders pulling back so that he stood even more stiffly than before. “I apologize, Akatani! We should have been more considerate!”

This… this wasn’t right. Izuku stared at them, the Eye wide and straining for the secrets that must have been buried in their actions.

Iida and Uraraka were the biggest surprise, considering his stunt with the Web. And Asui, well, she’d passed out because of what he did to her with the Stranger. Ashido and Sero as well… and then there was Kaminari and Kirishima. He hadn’t personally scarred those two, of course, but they must have seen what happened from the observation room.

And yet they stood here, anxious, in the hallway outside of the infirmary. Obviously waiting for him, from the way they sprang to attention the moment he entered their view.

The Eye throbbed, and Izuku realized that they were staring at him.

“I, uh…” he stammered, desperately grasping for whatever it was that had been said—but thankfully Kirishima dove in to save him.

“Hey man, we just wanted to make sure you were okay, you know? You arms were a little messed up…”

Izuku nodded, holding up his bandaged arms as if to prove that they were still there. “It’s fine! I’m… fine. I think Recover Girl mostly fixed them up.”

Kirishima nodded, flashing two thumbs up as Kaminari leaned heavily on his side.

“Dude. Dude, what is your quirk, like—”

Ashido smacked him lightly along the back of his head. “Stop harassing him! He’s obviously tired.”

“Shit- sorry! I didn’t mean to like, pressure you or anything.”

“No, it’s- fine.” There. At the mention of his quirk, Iida and Uraraka had both visibly tensed. Ashido’s smile was strained, Sero’s shoulders hunched ever so slightly, and though Asui was as difficult to read as always Izuku couldn’t miss the way her fingers twitched.

So they were upset, then. Why hide it? Why bother to extend this charade? Where the Spiral might have reveled, the Eye burned with bitter indignance at the audacity of it all, of attempting to hide such things from him.

Izuku took a breath, rubbing at one temple as he tried to keep that smile fixed to his face. “You guys didn’t have to wait for me or anything.”

“Nah, dude!” Kirishima grinned. “That would be like, super unmanly of us. We’re classmates! Gotta make sure our bro is okay, right?”

“…right.” Was this an obligation, then? It certainly seemed that way, though several students were missing—Shinsou and Arakawa’s absences in particular felt noteworthy, considering what he had done to them. What he had done to… Izuku winced, glancing towards the students who’d been on his team. “I’m- sorry. I know what it’s like to… I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry.”

Uraraka waved a hand in cheerful dismissal, though her face still looked slightly ashen even as she smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I mean, we all make mistakes, right? We’re not gonna like, hold it against you or anything. And, um, you’re still welcome to come over, y’know? To our apartment?”

Izuku grimaced. “I, uh… don’t think Shinsou-san would be…”

Her face fell to match his own. “Oh. Um. I mean- I’m sure he’ll…” She cut herself off with a defeated sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“That’s a very immature sentiment!” chided Iida, though the target of his scolding wasn’t even present. “Akatani-san didn’t mean any harm!”

Hadn’t he, though? Izuku had summoned the Spiral, then the Stranger in turn. And even in the helpless grasp of the Web… he had wrapped his hands around the strands and tugged. That was his choice. His intention.

Whenever he moved too quickly, the Eye made sure he noticed the faintest flinch that ran through Iida and Uraraka. Like their bodies could still remember what it felt like to be tangled in his puppet strings.

Izuku stuffed his hands into his pockets and mustered up a sheepish smile. “Thanks, guys. I, uh… appreciate you waiting…”

“Are we done here?” asked Eraserhead gruffly. Kaminari jumped, static buzzing in his fingertips and nearly shocking Kirishima before the boy hastily hardened his skin.

“I totally forgot he was even there—”

“Akatani, um, I just- had a quick question?” One of Ashido’s hands snaked around her stomach, grasping tightly at her other arm. “If- that’s okay. I don’t wanna, like, bother you or anything. But like… that thing with Sero? That- that was you, right?”

She sounded almost desperate. Izuku forced himself not to tilt his head, and tried to rein in his expression to something less wide-eyed and unsettling.

“I was using my quirk,” he said with a careful smile. “It was affecting you, yeah.”

All true. The Eye hummed its satisfaction, and Ashido’s shoulders slumped with a relieved sigh.

“Oh. Okay, that’s- thanks.”

“Let’s go,” muttered Eraserhead, weary gaze drifting over the gathered students. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow. On time.”

“Yes, Aizawa-sensei!” they chorused.

Izuku felt their eyes sear into his back as he walked down the hall. Next to him, Eraserhead sighed.

“Interesting choice of words,” he said after a short while. Izuku’s mouth twisted.

“I- what?”

“She asked if you were the reason she acted that way in the exercise, and you didn’t say ‘yes’. You just said you were using your quirk, and that it was affecting her.”

“I- I was using my quirk, and it was…”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Eraserhead huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as they stepped out into the sunlight.

“…right.” Why point it out, then? Just to prove that he had noticed? The Eye fluttered restlessly as Izuku wrung his hands.

It wasn’t a lie. It was just… selective truth.

The Spiral played upon perception, yes, but it was Ashido who acted upon what she heard. He may have pushed, prodded, filled her head with prickling paranoia—but this wasn’t the Web. This wasn’t dragging her forward against her will.

The lines were blurry, he thought, between choice and compulsion. As wire-thin as the threads that bound him.

Another weary groan from Eraserhead snapped him out of such thoughts, and Izuku looked up to see a figure a little ways ahead of them, shrouded in the shadow of a tree.

“The school day’s over,” he muttered beneath his breath. Izuku wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear it. “They’re not paying me for this.”

The figure turned, and Izuku saw by that distinctive silhouette that it was his bird-headed classmate—Tokoyami? And the boy was… the only word for it was brooding. Standing in the shade with a distant contemplation, feathers ruffling slightly when he saw them approach.

“Ah, Akatani—”

“You!” Izuku nearly jumped when a shadow burst from Tokoyami’s chest in a flurry of feathers and darkness. “It’s you! Fumi wants to talk to you!”

Behind him, Eraserhead let out another, aching sigh. “I’m going to go pull the car around. Will you two be good here?”

“Oh, um, of course!”

Tokoyami dipped his head into a somber nod. “We shall maintain this quiet respite from the malignant forces beyond these walls.”

“…great.”

Eraserhead left, and Izuku tentatively settled into the shade next to Tokoyami, wincing when the Eye prickled distastefully. The Dark was… unusually strong, here, and the two of them did not play nice together.

You’ve had enough, thought Izuku as sternly as one could manage when scolding an eldritch manifestation of fear beyond any mortal reckoning. Give someone else a turn.

The Dark was a biting chill at his fingertips and the sweet-salt-gritty taste of brackish water. With a great deal of reluctance, the Eye faded away to a dull throb behind his head, and Izuku noted with interest how the Dark swelled, shadows swirling at his feet and almost stretching out towards Tokoyami.

His quirk, probably. That strange, bird-like creature now draped around the boy’s neck did seem to be formed from shadows, so it made sense.

They stood in an… uncomfortable silence, for a little while, Tokoyami eyeing him in a manner that was most unsettling as Izuku struggled to think of something to say. At last, the shadow creature at Tokoyami’s shoulders slid off with a dramatic sigh.

“Fumi! Fumi, this is boring, and weird.”

Tokoyami closed his eyes for a moment, as if collecting his patience. “I am simply gathering my thoughts.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re being weird again—”

“Um, it’s- fine,” said Izuku hastily, stuffing his hands in his pockets as if that might chase away the chill. “It’s not weird.”

“It is,” the shadow creature groaned. “He hasn’t even introduced himself—”

“Names are bound by powerful forces,” Tokoyami muttered. “You would open a conversation with such a pact?”

“We, uh. Already know each other’s names though, don’t we? I’m Akatani, and you’re, um… Tokoyami?”

“And I’m Dark Shadow!” the creature chirped, darting forward to press uncomfortably into Izuku’s space. The darkness crackled at his feet. “And you’re what’s making that growling noise!”

Tokoyami sighed, as if this were an argument he was already tired of having. “There is no such noise. It is a figment of your overactive imagination.”

“It’s real! I can hear it! And it’s super loud, now!”

“Ah.” Izuku blinked, eyes naturally inclined to slide from the creature’s roiling form—but he was used to the Still and Lightless Beast. That thing of gnashing teeth and glinting claws, all flowing unseen. In comparison, Dark Shadow was quite easy to look at. “It’s nice to meet you?”

“You too!” Dark Shadow chirped. It pulled back, hovering excitedly around Tokoyami. “He’s so nice! Polite! I like him!”

Tokoyami let out another sigh. “I apologize for their… antics. They are a creature of pure, unbridled chaos. Mischief and revelry in the dark.”

“Fumi’s sayin’ that we’re weird. But you’re weird, too! So! We should be friends.”

“What they mean to say,” Tokoyami ground out with a ruffling of feathers. “Is that we sense a kinship in you. You, too, are wrestling with those malevolent forces that twitch in the corner of our eyes.”

That silence, again, and Izuku choked back a cough at the thick feeling of mud in his chest. The Still and Lightless Beast lay restless, now, eager to claw from the shadows, and it was an effort to keep it at bay.

At last, Tokoyami’s shoulders hunched. He ducked his chin slightly, a foot scuffing the ground as he muttered, “I… that is, if you… I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“N- no!” Izuku spluttered. “No, that’s- I mean, it’s not inaccurate, I guess, it’s just… why?”

Tokoyami blinked, though his shoulders relaxed from that awkward tension. “Why… do I seek you out?”

“I mean, I guess? I’m not really… you saw the exercise, right?”

At his shoulders, Dark Shadow snorted. An impressive feat, considering that the thing likely didn’t have any lungs. “Oh, come on. Fumi did worse in grade school. Hey, remember that time—”

“Enough, Dark Shadow.” Tokoyami sighed heavily before returning his level gaze to Izuku. “He does speak from truth, though. We know the bitter hardship of a darkness within you, a control so thin it might snap at any moment…” He hummed, tilting his head. “It would be unfair of us, I think, to judge you so harshly.”

Well this was… nice? Was this nice? It felt warm, certainly, a strange sort of acceptance he hadn’t anticipated from any of his classmates. Even the others who had waited for him, though they were certainly kind they were also… wary.

He didn’t fault them for that. But Izuku could see it in Tokoyami, how the Dark coiled around the boy’s feet and stuck like shimmering oil to his feathers. How Dark Shadow, while placid and playful enough right now, practically oozed destructive power, a barely contained force that snapped and strained inside of him like the groan of rusted scaffolding.

Behind Izuku, the Still and Lightless Beast stirred. He bit back a curse as the shadows deepened, turning inky black around his feet and rippling with eyes, claws, teeth that teased against the skin, ripping tearing twisting where it could not be seen—

It growled, low and deep in Izuku’s chest, before he managed to shove it back down like a firm hand pressed against its head. Only when he could see the swaying grass through the shadows did he look up again.

Tokoyami stared back pensively—though Izuku was quickly coming to learn that that was his default expression. Dark Shadow dropped from his shoulders with a soft snicker.

“Oh, that’s what it was? I can take ‘em.”

“Dark Shadow…” Tokoyami tutted.

“What? I can.”

“I apologize for their impudence.” Tokoyami dipped into a neat bow, ignoring Izuku’s spluttered protests before straightening once more. “But it does seem I was correct in my assessment. Perhaps… those ill portents spoke to much more than I had previously imagined.”

Izuku coughed, throat still a little scratchy from the grit that always seemed to accompany the Beast. “Uh. Thank… you?”

“You are most welcome.” Silence, again, though it was far less uncomfortable than the last.

Dark Shadow settled on top of Tokoyami’s head with a series of chirps. “You should come over some time!”

Oh sweet god. “I—”

“Patience is a virtue,” muttered Tokoyami reproachfully, glaring up at his companion. Dark Shadow just shrugged.

“Why? We’re friends now. He should come over. We could play Mario Kart!”

Tokoyami sighed. “I do not want to play Mario Kart again.”

“Oh, because you always lose?”

“You cheat.”

“Lies! Lies and slander!”

“Covering the screen is cheating.”

“Jail! Jail for Fumi!”

Another, weary sigh, and though it was difficult to tell with his avian features, Izuku could’ve sworn he caught the faintest crease of a smile in Tokoyami’s eyes.

“You are welcome to our abode, if you wish. It is a place of quiet retrospection, cleansed by—”

“I’m gonna wrestle that thing, and I’m gonna win.”

“Dark Shadow.”

“Can you bring it out again? I wanna fight.”

“Please.”

“You should hear it, Fumi, it’s insulting us. All growly and mean, gotta teach it some manners!”

“You are the last one who should be teaching manners.”

“Nuh-uh, just means I’m perfect for the job! Gotta get a thief to catch a thief!”

“That’s- gods, I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch that film.”

“But you like Hitchcock! I thought it was a compromise!”

“I like peace and quiet—”

Izuku couldn’t help it; he laughed. It startled him as much as it evidently startled them, a burst of warmth bubbling up his chest that chased away the Dark’s chill, somewhat. It wasn’t a great, booming thing—it chattered like a brook and ached in his cheeks and left an odd, satisfying sort of tremble in his lungs.

Almost as soon as it had begun he clapped a hand over his mouth, flushing with embarrassment. They had been so nice to him, and here he was laughing at them? God, he was the worst.

“Ah- sorry!” he stammered. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to- be rude, or anything—”

“You have a nice laugh,” said Dark Shadow simply. Izuku blinked, and Tokoyami threw back his head with a longsuffering groan.

“You have no need to apologize,” he said at last, after shooting Dark Shadow an acrid glare. “It is important to find what mirth we can amidst the darkness.”

Oh. That was actually… an interesting point. Huh.

Movement in the distance caught his eye, and Izuku glanced up to see Eraserhead returning through the UA gates, car keys presumably in hand.

“Oh! Oh, um, I think I have to go, but…” This was a terrible idea. He was supposed to be a spy, for fuck’s sake, not socializing with his peers over sage and a game of Mario Kart, apparently.

But fuck was he tired. And everyone seemed to hate him, now—or at the very least was understandable unsettled by his presence. Tokoyami was so nice, and surprisingly easy to talk to.

Maybe he was right. Maybe they were kindred spirits in a way, and that was why they could even begin to understand each other.

Izuku shook away such a foolish thought. They might have been similar, but Tokoyami was still a normal child, still had a family and a quirk that was, while volatile, naturally suited to him. Izuku was a different breed entirely—patchwork and agonizingly artificial, a tangled mess of fears masquerading as a person.

Still. It was an itch beneath his skin that he could not reach. And against his better judgement, Izuku felt a smile stretch across his face.

“I’d, um… if the offer’s still open, I mean, I’d like to come over some time.”

He was, as always, difficult to read. But Izuku imagined that the ruffling of feathers around his neck was pleased.

“Of course,” Tokoyami said, dipping his head into a nod. “We are fellow beings plagued by darkness. I shall prepare a ritual for your arrival.”

Dark Shadow nodded fervently, flashing two thumbs up in Izuku’s direction before darting towards Tokoyami. “Can the ritual have popcorn?”

“No.”

“Please, Fumi, can the ritual have—”

“You’ve lost your popcorn privileges.”

Dark Shadow melted through the floor with an agonized whine while Tokoyami simply huffed, rolling his eyes and shooting a pained glance in Izuku’s direction.

Izuku snorted. That grin wouldn’t leave him, even when it began to hurt, and he offered a little wave before heading off towards where Eraserhead waited, expectant.

“You done?” the hero asked unnecessarily. Obviously he was done, otherwise he wouldn’t have come over here. Izuku nodded anyway, the smile melting from his face as he remembered why, exactly, Eraserhead was driving him home in the first place.

“Thanks, um. For waiting.”

“No problem, kid.” Eraserhead sighed, glancing up and over Izuku’s shoulder. When he turned, Izuku saw Tokoyami standing much as they’d met him, staring off into the middle-distance as the shadows dappled his solemn form.

A ripple in the darkness beneath him, and Dark Shadow burst out with bared claws. It tackled his back and sent them both tumbling onto the dirt with an undignified squawk that carried over the school grounds.

That startled yet another laugh out of Izuku, shaky grin returning as he made to follow Eraserhead—but the hero had stopped, staring oddly back at him.

With that scrutiny came the prickling discomfort of the Eye, pressing against his forehead, and when Izuku returned his gaze he was sure that it was too wide, too unblinking.

At last, Eraserhead turned away, shaking his head with a dry huff.

“Come on, kid. Let’s get you back to the apartment.”

Izuku nodded, more to settle his own nerves than anything else, and set off after him.

Chapter Text

“Hey kiddo! How was your first day?”

Behind Izuku, still taking off his shoes in the entryway, Eraserhead sighed. “All Might decided to run another brilliant exercise for Hero Basic Training today.”

Izuku walked into the living room just in time to see Yamada wince. “Oof… that great, huh?”

“The man’s a menace.”

“Aw, Shou, he’s not that bad. Actually, he’s super sweet! You should talk to him more—”

“I talk to him enough. More than enough. I don’t need him invading my personal life and my place of work.”

“Well someone’s grumpy today,” muttered Yamada, rolling his eyes and grinning at Izuku. “So? Make any friends?”

“Uh.” Izuku winced, the memory of spindly lacerations still prickling beneath his bandaged arms. “I… maybe?”

“Sweet! Who was it? Ooh, wait, let me guess… Kaminari’s pretty friendly, and so’s Ashido and Kirishima—oh! But Uraraka’s also super sweet, and that Asui—”

“Hizashi.” Eraserhead’s voice was much closer than it was last, and Izuku took a few hasty steps forward, jolted out of that ugly, scuttling sensation of legs across every patch of skin. In the unexpected silence, Izuku caught the way Yamada’s eyes flickered down, the faintest twitches of expression in his face.

He didn’t need to turn to know that Eraserhead was signing something out behind his back. Probably explaining the disaster that was today’s training exercise.

Izuku sighed, carefully skirting around Yamada on his way towards the hall. “I’m going to get started on my homework.”

“What? Wait, hey, hold up!” A blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and Izuku instinctively drew back, the Desolation sparking in his palms with the memory of grasping fingers, ash flaking away beneath their touch—

Yamada pulled back his hand with a wince. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you like that, kiddo.”

“It’s fine. It’s um- I didn’t mean to jump like that.” The hero hadn’t even grabbed him. Probably never intended to—just a naturally expressive person. “Sorry.”

“No, I- don’t apologize! It’s my bad, I mean, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“I’m ending this now.” Eraserhead set his bag down on the coffee table with a sigh. “Everyone’s sorry. It’s no one’s fault. Kid.”

Izuku’s hand tightened around his backpack strap. “Yeah?”

“How are you feeling?”

“I- what?” Izuku had to restrain himself from physically reeling back. “I’m. Fine?”

“You sure?”

“Am I- yes?”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“That’s- I mean—”

“Aw, Shouta, don’t grill him like that. Little listener’s had a long day, right? First day of school is always a rough ride.” Yamada grinned at Izuku, shooting him two thumbs up. “It’ll get better! Promise!”

“Thanks.” Things did not ‘get better’, not for something like Izuku—but he appreciated the sentiment all the same. He tugged on his backpack strap again, glancing past Yamada towards the hall. “Um. Can I go put my bag down?”

“Of course! Oh, and uh, Shouta? Got a dinner invite from the Arakawas.”

Eraserhead collapsed onto the battered couch with a groan. “Pass.”

“Hm. I, uh. Already said yes?”

Another groan, louder than the last, though muffled by the faded purple fabric. “Why would you do that?”

“They cornered me! They’re so nice!”

“They’re insufferable.”

“And they were, well, a little put out that they didn’t learn about a certain little listener until today, seeing as how he’s in their daughter’s class—”

“That wasn’t their business.”

“I know! I get that! Aw, come on, Shou…”

This conversation didn’t seem important enough to eavesdrop on, so Izuku quietly slipped into his room, setting his bag down on his bed and rolling out the ache in his shoulders. Of course, there was the Eye’s familiar thrum, an urge to press the day’s events into writing, especially his new revelations about the Web—but that could wait.

He needed to channel this restlessness into something useful, anyway. There probably wasn’t sensitive information hidden somewhere in his room, but Izuku was more familiar than most with how things that seemed unimportant could add another brush stroke to the bigger picture.

His head pounded, and he wanted a nap—but these were distractions he was well-accustomed to pushing past.

Unfortunately, the room was just a room. Probably a spare they’d hastily converted into a bedroom, given the pile of books tucked in the back corner of the closet, the thin layer of dust in a few hard-to-reach places, faint impressions in the carpet where furniture had been dragged. The books were useless fluff, childhood fantasy and a few old textbooks. The dust did not speak to anything strange or hidden. And Izuku could read the carpet lines directly towards where the bed and the desk now sat.

Nothing strange. He could watch all he wanted, but that didn’t always mean there was something to see.

With a sharp exhale that did nothing to settle the spiders in his lungs, Izuku peeked out into the hallway. Faint strains of conversation filtered past, but nothing to indicate that they had noticed him.

Izuku tapped his fingers against the doorframe in a steady rhythm. Bedroom, bathroom, office, bedroom. All scattered along this hallway. He could just slip the Lonely over his shoulders, always just a matter of reaching out for it—but even though the thought was soothing pins and needles against his skin, Izuku dismissed the idea out of hand.

Time had a habit of passing him by, in the Lonely. And this was not a place where he could afford to go missing.

Case in point, Yamada was already shuffling towards the hallway, and Izuku hastily arranged himself so that it seemed like he was just leaving his room when the man rounded the corner.

“Hey! Ready to join the party?”

There was nothing in this apartment that Izuku would consider a party, especially considering how he could still hear Eraserhead somewhere in the kitchen. Izuku nodded regardless, rewarded by two thumbs up and a blinding grin.

“Yeah! Alright! ‘Cause if it’s good with you, we’re gonna have a little field trip on over to have dinner with a couple friends of ours—”

“Friends is pushing it.”

“Shouta.” Yamada rolled his eyes, glaring at where Eraserhead presumably sat out of view. “The Arakawas are nice.”

“You think everyone is nice.”

“Not true!”

“Um.” Izuku winced as the two heroes feel silent, as if cutting themselves off in an eagerness to let him speak. “Arakawa, isn’t that… um. She’s in our class?”

“Yep!” Yamada grinned, then turned back to Eraserhead. “Which means we have to go. Right? The two of them are in the same class, Shouta, come on, they’re gonna get to know each other anyway—”

Eraserhead groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”

“Yeah—”

Eraserhead’s eyes flashed red. “Quirk.”

Yamada fell silent, shooting Izuku a sheepish smile and pumping a fist into the air with a much more reserved, almost stage-whispered, “Yeah!”

“…yeah.” Izuku’s answering smile felt more like a grimace, but Yamada’s grin widened all the same.

Arakawa. Quirk unknown, though her surname did seem familiar. Izuku tried to remember everything he could of her from the training exercise, but particulars were still a blur, sound and color lost to the Stranger’s dizzying dance.

She had been part of the exercise, though. One of the students snared in the Web’s thrall. And… she hadn’t been present, when his classmates came to “check in” on him outside of the infirmary.

The most likely reason was that she hated him, same as Shinsou. Which would certainly put a damper on their dinner, now that he thought of it.

Izuku sighed, scuffing a shoe against the ground as he trailed through the front door of the apartment after Eraserhead and Yamada. They didn’t walk far—just down the hall, passing a few doors before coming to a stop.

Maybe the Lonely isn’t such a bad idea after all, he thought grimly as Yamada gave the door a few sharp knocks. Any punishment seemed small in the face of this.

The Flesh quivering through his gut, and Izuku choked back nausea. No, no, of course. He could bear one awkward dinner. Just overreacting again, cowardice prickling at his shoulders with the sweet promise of solitude. Of escape.

Instead Izuku centered the Eye, let it pulse behind his skull as he heard the metallic rasp of locks sliding open, a chain pulled free, before the door swung inward to reveal a woman grinning wildly at the three of them. Izuku’s gaze flitted about the colorful tattoos curling around her arms, disappearing beneath her shirt only to crawl up her neck with thin, artful lines.

“Look who it is!” She laughed, practically tugging Eraserhead inside and clapping him on the back as she did. “What an unexpected surprise!”

“You invited us,” Eraserhead grumbled, not quite managing to duck the blow.

The woman snorted. “Still unexpected. I swear, you get more antisocial every day. Hey, Hizashi! How’s it going? Everything good at the station?”

Yamada strolled into the apartment with an easy laugh, and Izuku followed close behind, eyes darting about as he removed his shoes.

“Things are good! Managed to snag an interview with Jeanist, he’s always a good catch.”

“Ugh. I guess. Maybe you should interview someone underground for a change.”

Eraserhead shot her a scathing glare. “That would defeat the purpose of an underground hero.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The woman waved him off with a toothy grin. “Geez, you have gotten worse, huh.”

“So have you.”

“Hey! Is that any way to talk to your elders?” She chuckled at Shouta’s irritable grumble, turning to face Yamada again. “Seriously, no manners. And after everything I’ve done.”

Yamada shook his head mournfully. “I’ve tried my best, but he’s a lost cause.”

“Aw, Hizashi, I know. There, there. Only so much you can do.”

“I am standing right here.”

The woman tilted her head. “Did you hear something?”

Yamada struggled to hold back a smile. “Just the wind, I think.”

Eraserhead only sighed, tucking his chin into his scarf as they walked into what appeared to be a living room. Whatever he might’ve been about to say was cut off by a new, familiar voice, fierce and heated, engaged in serious conversation with a second—softer, though no less passionate about the topic at hand.

“No, that’s not- he doesn’t make things into bombs, that’s so stupid.”

“He definitely does. They say it in the anime.”

“No they don’t. Dad, I literally studied this, it’s an imbalance of energy, it’s not like this- this chemistry thing, you’re bringing science into it when it has nothing to do with—”

The second voice took on a more teasing tone. “Oh, really? It has nothing to do with science, little miss ‘alchemy is the root of modern chemistry’?”

“Look- that’s not the same thing.”

“It definitely is.”

“It’s not—”

“Hey.” The tattooed woman stepped forward with a scowl, though Izuku caught the slightest uptick of her lip, as if she were fighting back a smile. “We have guests.”

Two heads perked up from the couch—Izuku recognized the younger Arakawa from class, though she looked much different out of uniform. Average height, dark skin, curly hair loose around her head instead of pulled back and up into two puffs as it had been at school. She was still wearing her glasses, though—round and rimless, perched precariously upon her nose as she flopped over the back of the couch with a scowl.

“Mom. Dad’s being stupid, again.”

The woman tutted softly, shaking her head. “He does that a lot.”

“Harsh.” The man turned around as well, not bothering to mask his grin. “Hey Hizashi. Shouta. Nice to see you.”

Eraserhead sighed, hands stuffed in his pockets, while Yamada shot a couple finger guns. “You too! Sorry, we’ve been a little busy—”

“Yeah, yeah, too famous to talk to us lowly peasants, I get it.” The woman waved him off before turning back to her family. “What were you two nerds arguing about anyway?”

Arakawa rolled her eyes. “Dad thinks that Kimblee’s alchemy transmutes the chemical composition of things into explosives, which is dumb, because I know his symbols and they don’t do that. Sun and moon, water and fire, gold and silver—he claps them together to make an energy imbalance, it has nothing to do with chemistry—”

“Okay. Okay, I got it.” The woman sighed, snorting a little as she crossed her arms.

Oh my god, will you just shut up already. Izuku shrank back, picking at the sleeves of his sweater as the Eye prickled against his temples. Fucking Deku.

But Arakawa didn’t wilt. Didn’t seem to regret her outburst, how the words rolled off her tongue with no care to who might hear them. She only waited, expectant, one brow raising as she stared at her mother.

At last, the tattooed woman gave another sigh, walking forward to lightly knock both of them on the tops of their heads. “You’re both wrong. Kimblee’s alchemy makes things unstable in Brotherhood, and changes the chemical makeup of things in the 2003 anime. So it’s both.”

Arakawa groaned, slumping against the couch. “That’s stupid. You’re stupid.”

“Aw.” The woman grinned, ruffling her daughter’s hair. “I’m also right.”

The tension eased from Izuku’s shoulders, Eye blistering in its place as he allowed his gaze to roam.

The apartment was cozy, if a little messy. A few books were scattered across the coffee table, a couple of the titles in another language that was… almost English, though even with his cursory knowledge, Izuku had trouble deciphering them.

Around the living room were a few trinkets, knickknacks, even some figurines that he assumed were from some anime or another. He’d never really had time for that sort of thing.

His eyes drifted to the plants on the windowsill, wild and overgrown though clearly well cared for if their deep, pleasant green was anything to go by. When he looked back at Arakawa’s parents he caught the faintest hint of dirt beneath her father’s nails, as well as a few calluses that had nothing to do with the plants.

Those were from fighting—weapon-fighting specifically. Both the mother and the father sported them.

Right. Right, this building was full of pros, most of them underground. And come to think of it… there was a buzzing in Izuku’s skull as he followed the lines of those tattoos, untangling them into the shape of stylized blades and intricate hilts, the odd curve of a bow or a staff mingling with the rest. And on the father’s skin he could just make out a few marks hidden amidst pale scars, the flesh raised in a facsimile of stitchwork.

The Eye throbbed, shivering through him with the dusty rasp of a tape recorder.

“Arakawa Ayano,” Izuku breathed, eyes wide and unblinking as they lingered on the woman. “Hero name, Horishi. Quirk, Solid Ink. Ability to manifest simple, nonmechanical, nonorganic objects from tattoos, using materials from within her own body. Niece of   Yaoyorozu Takeshi, also formerly known as pro hero Vanguard. Underground hero.”

And his gaze snapped to the man. “Arakawa Kyou. Hero name, Patchwork. Quirk, Mend. Ability to repair both organic and inorganic objects, depending on the severity. Underground hero.”

He blinked. “Married. One daughter.”

Silence. Eyes on him, searing scrutiny past his skin, and Izuku winced. “I’m- uh, sorry, I didn’t—”

“That’s a neat trick!” The woman—Horishi, that was- she was an underground hero, there was no way she actually appreciated him spitting out her identity like that—

Behind him, Eraserhead sighed. “Is this going to be a pattern?”

“I- um. S- sorry, it’s my- I’m sorry.”

“Hey, seriously, don’t sweat it.” Horishi’s brow wrinkled, glancing up at Yamada and Eraserhead before her gaze returned to Izuku with a sheepish tilt of her head. “We should’ve introduced ourselves anyway, honestly. Kinda rude of us. Guest and all.”

“But- you’re underground, and I—”

“Yep! Impressed you’ve heard of us!” Horishi leaned back with a laugh, shooting a grin over her shoulder. “Hear that, Kyou? You’re famous.”

Pro hero Patchwork, who- Arakawa seriously had two pro hero parents? That- that didn’t seem fair at all, that sounded hellish, and she still wanted to go to UA?

Focus. Patchwork wrinkled his nose. “Pass. Hate the press.”

Arakawa snorted, leaning over to shove her hand in front of Patchwork’s face, as if miming a microphone. “Patchwork! Patchwork! Do you have any comments about the recent events concerning your embarrassing defeat at the hands of—”

“Betrayed, by my own flesh and blood,” Patchwork deadpanned. “How could you turn on me like this.”

“Present Mic!” Arakawa flailed as she scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over herself to rush towards Yamada, fist outstretched. “What are your thoughts on the Duck Incident?”

Instantly Yamada flashed a wide, plastic smile, shooting finger guns towards an imaginary camera crew as he leaned towards the “mic”.

“Yo, that’s a great question, listener! Can’t say I’ve heard of it through the grapevine yet, but I’m sure it’s something killer if it took out a hero like Patchwork.”

Arakawa matched his grin. “You’d think!”

“Why,” Patchwork groaned, covering his face with an arm. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Yamada leaned in to give Arakawa a conspiratorial wink. “What say you give this DJ the inside scoop.”

“Oh of course—”

“Ducks. The scoop is ducks. A lot of them. We can move on, now.”

To Izuku’s shock, Eraserhead let out a quiet snort. When he walked further into the apartment his scarf was already unwound and resting in his hands, and he draped it artlessly over the back of the couch. “I’ve never heard of a duck-based villain.”

“Technically,” Patchwork grumbled into his arm, “I think his quirk was based around waterfowl in general.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“They’re demon creatures, Shouta. You don’t even know. Their quacks still haunt my nightmares.”

“That must be so hard for you.” How Eraserhead kept a straight face when Yamada was cackling in the background, Izuku might never know.

“I kept finding feathers in my hair for weeks.”

“Stop- stop!” gasped Yamada, hunched over with one hand pressed against the wall. “Oh- my god, did you actually get attacked by ducks? I- where did they even come from--”

“You know what? Actually? This is classified information.”

Eraserhead raised a brow. “Is it, now?”

Horishi snorted. “No. It’s definitely not. Come on, Kyou, at least it’s not as bad as—”

“No.” Patchwork shot up, whirling around to jab an accusatory finger at his wife. “No, no, no. Not unless you want me to spill about that whole mess with the dandelions.”

Horishi pressed a hand to her chest with a dramatic gasp. “You wouldn’t. You swore an oath of secrecy!”

“I swore no such thing.”

“You did.”

“Nope—”

“Okay,” Arakawa cut in with a sigh, shooting an exasperated look towards Eraserhead and Yamada. “Aren’t we supposed to be eating dinner?”

“Sh- I mean- f- uh.” Patchwork darted into the next room, followed close behind by an equally frantic Horishi. Arakawa rolled her eyes.

“Hope you like burned food,” she huffed, and Yamada strode forward with a laugh.

“Can’t be worse than Shouta’s cooking.”

“Hey. I can cook.”

“Instant ramen doesn’t count.”

Eraserhead grumbled something beneath his breath, but did not dispute it.

As it turned out, dinner hadn’t been burned, just gotten dangerously close to that point. Izuku picked at his curry and glanced nervously to the side, where Arakawa was seated with one elbow casually resting on the table. When her hand shifted in the light, Izuku could catch the faint outline of a scar against the back of it, pale and spindly, with intricate patterns and symbols lining the inside of a neat circle.

The Eye burned with the need to know, to understand, but Izuku held his tongue. Thankfully Arakawa didn’t seem to notice his staring, instead listening in on her parents’ conversation before glancing at Izuku.

“Hey, so, are you okay? I meant to ask earlier after that exercise and everything.”

Izuku blinked, fingers twisting in the fabric of his pants. “I- uh- what?”

“Um.” Arakawa tilted her head with a snort. “Are. You. Okay. ‘Cause like, I know a bunch of people came to check on you after school. Sorry, by the way. I wanted to stay too, but I had to run home and make sure these idiots remembered to make dinner. Otherwise they might not have realized until midnight.”

“I resent that,” called Patchwork breezily, before diving back into a heated discussion about- Izuku wasn’t quite sure. It seemed like an old argument, something to do with patrol routes, interference, maybe miscommunication—

“Yeah, so,” Arakawa continued, and thankfully the way she picked at her food meant that she didn’t see how Izuku’s attention snapped back, gaze a little too wide before he managed to rein the Eye in. “Just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. I mean, you look a lot better now, but your arms were kind of bleeding, and then you passed out, and…”

She trailed off expectantly with an upwards glance, and Izuku scrambled to pick up the thread. “I, uh- yeah? Yeah, I mean, I’m fine. Are… are you…?”

Arakawa shrugged. “I mean, it wasn’t great, but like, it’s a pretty cool quirk? And I mean, it’s not like it’s any worse than Shinsou’s…” She winced, scratching lightly at her arms as if warding off invisible, skittering legs. “No, scratch that. Definitely felt worse, but like, it wasn’t long term or anything. Your quirk’s super weird.”

Izuku’s shoulders hunched. “Hah. Um. Yeah.”

“Not a bad thing,” said Arakawa hastily, waving her hand. “Like- how does it work? Do you know? I mean, you have that whole shapeshifting thing going on, and then boom. Mind control. Or is it more like… perception? Is that it?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, it’s kind of like- perception is a good word I think, it’s- um.” Izuku worried at his lower lip, fingers tapping against the table as he sought out any ill intent in Arakawa’s expression, but… she seemed earnest enough. “Are you- are you sure? That you, um, want to talk about it? It’s… kind of boring.”

She huffed, pushing up her glasses as she rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You’re quirk’s insane. How could that be boring?”

“I- I mean, I can kind of ramble a bit—”

“That’s literally what I’m asking you to do.”

“Well it’s- uh.” Izuku took a breath, trying to settle himself in the Eye. “It’s fear manipulation, kind of. It manifests in- um, in different ways, so that’s why- with the, uh, inconsistencies…” Izuku coughed, shuffling in his seat. “It’s just a bit unpredictable, I guess.”

“Oh, wow. That’s pretty metal. So like, the power depends on the fear? Is it your fear or everyone else’s?”

Izuku blinked, taken aback by her enthusiasm. “I, um, well. Both? And uh, yeah, the power depends on the fear… kind of. I can sort of- guide it, if I try.”

Arakawa nodded thoughtfully, tapping her chin. “So in the exercise, what was that? Did you guide it? Or did it just- jump out?”

“Uh… a little of both, honestly. I was guiding it, but I think it, um… got a little… out of hand.” He trailed off with a wince, gaze darting to the side.

“What fears?”

Izuku’s eyes snapped up. He hesitated for a moment—but there was no malice in her face, no hidden intention. Only genuine, burning curiosity. The Eye pulsed.

He gave her a brief rundown, listing the fears he had used in the exercise and their manifestations. Her obvious enthusiasm buzzed in his veins with an infectious excitement, and soon enough Izuku caught himself in the middle of a tangent about the similarities between certain aspects, how the Stranger and the Spiral could mesh and tangle in odd and unpredictable ways—before he suddenly realized just how long he had been rambling.

“Oh, I- sorry! Sorry, I’ve just been talking about me, and I didn’t- what’s your quirk?”

“It’s fine, seriously. You apologize too much.”

“Sorry- I, uh—”

Arakawa snorted, leaning forward to tap him lightly on the nose and laughing in earnest when he recoiled with a wordless splutter. “My quirk’s called Alchemy. You ever seen Full Metal Alchemist?”

When Izuku shook his head, Arakawa reared back with a gasp. “Oh my god, I gotta show you. You have to come over and watch it, it’s like, the best show- wait. Wait, off topic. Okay, well, my quirk’s not exactly like that, but it’s similar… deconstruction and reconstruction of matter, basically.”

“Whoa,” Izuku breathed, fingers twitching for his notebook as the Eye hummed against his skull. “That’s- so much, you could do so much with that, it’s- are there limitations?”

“Yeah, a bunch. Mostly it’s just that I have to use circles, you know? I can’t just clap my hands and start transmuting—well, probably. I’m not stupid enough to try human transmutation, and my quirk probably doesn’t work like that anyway…” she trailed off with a wistful sigh and a brisk shake of her head. “The circles are a conduit, basically, and the symbols I use can channel the energy in different ways.”

The Eye fluttered, and Izuku tilted his head. The words rolled off his tongue before he could check them. “Oh! Is that what the scar on your hand is for?”

Wrong. Wrong, souring the air and tangling in his gut as Arakawa stiffened, face twisting with a painful silence. The Lonely tingled at Izuku’s shoulders as the Eye snapped and snarled for more, for him to dig and pry and tear the knowledge from her—and Izuku felt sick with the effort of forcing it back.

At last, Arakawa’s expression cleared somewhat. “Yeah, uh. Things were kind of… bad, at the USJ. You know? When that mist guy teleported us, I ended up in the downpour zone, and that kind of made a lot of my circles useless? I have these- gloves, you know, the ones that Mustang has with the flame alchemy- shit, right, it’s like, this one character has this- ugh. Forget it.”

Arakawa sighed, rubbing furiously at her face beneath her glasses as Izuku picked at a sleeve.

“I, uh, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine. Really. It wasn’t that bad.” Arakawa took a deep breath, staring down at the back of her hand and rubbing her thumb across the scar. “Anyway! It’s fire, basically, which is pretty useless in the rain. And when we got out of the downpour zone they were still soaked, so… basically there’s this one fight in the manga where that happens to him, and he just sorta… carves the circle into his hand. So.”

She flexed her hand with a huff, and Izuku grimaced in understanding. “That’s. That’s pretty brave, though.”

“Huh?” Arakawa’s brow furrowed, hand curling into a fist. “I mean, it’s not really… kind of just copying the show, honestly.” She snorted, a shaky smile returning to her face. “I feel like I do that too much. Limiting myself to the show’s logic, but like- my quirk’s probably a lot more versatile than that, you know?”

“Is that where that sphere is from, then? The one with the- um, the chains, and you throw it out…”

Arakawa perked up, some of her previous energy returning as her eyes glimmered with excitement. “No, actually! Kinda stole that one too—have you ever played DnD- no, forget it, doesn’t matter. Anyway, there’s this item called the Iron Bands of Billaro, and it’s basically what you saw in the exercise- wait, was that you? That was you, right? Things got a little… um… blurry.”

The Stranger crept along his jaw, tangling uncomfortably with the Eye in a vicious contest that burned behind Izuku’s forehead. He rubbed a thumb against his cheek with a grimace. “That- yeah, that was me. I saw you throw it, and there was this… flash, I think, and it sort of… opened up? And tangled around Shinsou?”

“Yep!” Arakawa beamed. “That’s right! That’s basically what it does in the game, but I mean, it’s magic.” She waved her hands and rolled her eyes. “So that’s not super helpful for me. But still, I looked at it, and I was like, ‘Hey, that looks a lot like transmutation, huh?’ and I did some finagling, a lot of research just- sorting everything out, until…”

“So your quirk requires experimentation.” Izuku hummed, hand cupping his mouth as the Eye thrummed against his skull. He could relate—pages upon pages of notebooks were proof enough of that. “It’s transmutation, then? Any transmutation?”

“Well, I mean, it has to be equivalent.” Arakawa snorted at some private joke. “Equivalent exchange, it’s like- man. You really need to watch the show, I swear.”

“So with the sphere, you’re changing the metal from something more condensed and rigid, to something more… flexible? Lightweight? It looked like the bands became segmented once you threw it out.”

“All of the above!” Arakawa practically vibrated in her seat, fingers rapidly dancing across the table. “As many changes as I could get away with, basically. It still has to be the same amount of material, but if I change the density and composition…”

“The ball can still be small enough to throw,” finished Izuku. “It must be heavy, though.”

Arakawa groaned, slumping onto the table somewhat. “Ugh, yeah. That’s why I only really carry one. Still haven’t found a work-around for that.”

Izuku’s fingers twitched for his notebooks. The Eye hissed and stuttered against his ears, the ragged spooling of an old tape recorder. “I guess you can’t really get around that. Not without compromising the integrity of the chains. How heavy is it? What symbols did you have to use? Is the symbology based on anything, or is it just affected by your own understanding of how it should work?”

“I can grab it for you! And a few of the books I use, too, so you can get an idea of what I’m working off of!” Arakawa pushed back her chair excitedly, only freezing at a loud, pointed a-hem from across the table.

“Renaru. Sweetheart.” Izuku’s gaze snapped towards Horishi, who in turn regarded her daughter with a mild exasperation. “I’m really glad you’re making friends, but could this maybe wait until after dinner? Please?”

Arakawa rolled her eyes, sinking back into her chair with a huff. “Fine.”

She was still smiling. Izuku watched, unblinking, at the fond amusement that passed between them, an absence of judgement or fear that itched like a stray grain of sand beneath an eyelid. Unnatural, unfamiliar, almost painful in its distraction.

“No books at the table,” said Horishi, seemingly for Yamada and Eraserhead’s benefit. “Those things are expensive, and someone has a habit of getting distracted midbite.”

“Mom,” Arakawa whined. “I haven’t done that in forever.”

“Yeah. Ever since no books at the table. Wow, what a coincidence.”

Arakawa leaned back with a groan. “I’m not a baby.”

“Yes, you are.” Horishi’s grin was wide and infectious, holding none of the hidden malice that Izuku was accustomed to. “You’ll always be my little baby with those cute, chubby cheeks and—”

“Mom!” Arakawa yelped, straightening in her seat. Horishi threw back her head in booming laughter.

“Psh, you were so cute. Come on, Shouta, back me up here.”

Eraserhead sighed, though with the Eye buzzing in his skull Izuku caught the way his lip tugged towards a smile.

“I remember a menace. Nothing cute about her.”

Horishi gasped. “Slander!”

“You’re the one who left a high schooler in charge of a toddler.”

“I can’t believe this,” Horishi huffed, crossing her heavily tattooed arms with a scowl. “And after all the money I didn’t pay you.”

“You still owe me interest.”

“Nope! Don’t remember that in the initial contract!”

“I never signed a contract.”

“Well, there you go!”

Eraserhead rolled his eyes as Yamada leaned forward with a sly grin. “Pretty sure unpaid labor is a crime, Ayano.”

Patchwork nodded solemnly from next to his wife, patting her on the shoulder. “As heroes, that makes it our duty to detain you. Please come quietly.”

“You guys suck,” Horishi groaned. “Got you a few leads with that trigger nonsense, didn’t I? And set you up with my underground contacts, and got you invites to all the best parties—”

“I never go to those.”

“Well that’s not my fault.”

Yamada snorted, elbowing Eraserhead in the side. “He’s too much of a workaholic for that. Bailed on date night last week, too.”

“Boo.” Horishi cupped her hands around her mouth. “That’s a foul. Come on, Shouta, what was so important?”

“Work,” Shouta deadpanned. “You know, the work that we get paid to do. By the government.”

“Fuck the government.”

“Ayano,” hissed Patchwork, gesturing loosely at Izuku and Arakawa, the latter of which only rolled her eyes.

“Oh, are we pretending to be a good, wholesome family now?”

“It’s fine,” Horishi grinned. “Whenever we curse, all she hears is static. Right?”

Arakawa snorted. “I thought it was an airhorn.”

“Whatever works!” Horishi gave her daughter two thumbs up before jabbing her finger at Eraserhead. “But you. What’s your deal? You know, part of working underground means you don’t have to deal with all that agency crap. Set your own hours! Jesus!”

“There was an update on a case—”

“There was an update on a case,” echoed Horishi in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice. She sighed, amusement giving way to a genuine concern. “Shouta. You’ll work yourself to death like that.”

He huffed, crossing his arms and not quite meeting her gaze. “It was just one time.”

“Press X to doubt,” muttered Arakawa. Horishi snickered, some of the tension melting from her shoulders as she reached forward to tap Eraserhead on the arm.

“Look, just promise you’re taking breaks. Okay?”

“You’re not my mother.” At Horishi’s pointed stare, Eraserhead wilted somewhat. “Fine. Fine. I promise.”

Horishi reached her hand out over the table, little finger extended. “Pinky promise?”

Eraserhead glanced down at the hand, then back up at Horishi, mouth pressed into a thin line.

After a beat, Horishi drew back her arm with an exaggerated sigh, nearly throwing herself against Patchwork. “He’s being mean to me, Kyou.”

Patchwork hummed thoughtfully, patting her on the head. “You kind of deserved it.”

“Ugh.” She sat up straight again, focus snapping back to Eraserhead. “Well? You gotta spill, now.”

“About what?”

“The job. What’re you working on that’s got you so riled up?”

“I am not—” Eraserhead cut himself off with a sigh, scratching idly at his jaw. “It’s confidential.”

“Hm… wouldn’t have anything to do with Confession, would it?”

The Eye prickled at Izuku’s temples. His hand stilled as Eraserhead’s mouth twitched towards a scowl.

“Confidential.”

“Aw, come on. Heard he was active recently. Hey, he was on your turf last, right?”

“Hm.” Patchwork grinned, looking Eraserhead up and down before tapping lightly at his chin. “Probably a catch and release. Just like the last twenty or so vigilantes. Isn’t that right, Shouta?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” said Eraserhead stiffly, ignoring Yamada’s poorly stifled laughter. “What I do know is that it would be irrational to waste energy on arresting people who are only making the streets safer.”

Arakawa snorted, leaning over to whisper none-too-quietly in Izuku’s ear, “Uncle Shouta has a soft spot for vigilantes.”

This. This was uncomfortable. Izuku forced a nervous smile past the blistering pressure of the Eye, this pointed scrutiny of a mask they did not know was his.

“Hah,” he managed with a shaky grin. “Wh- what makes you say that?”

Eraserhead glared at Horishi. “Stop telling her lies about me. I’m her teacher now.”

“Come on, Shouta, you can’t say it ain’t so. You collect them like strays.”

“I do not.” Eraserhead huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose with a frown. “Besides. Confession isn’t a normal vigilante.”

Izuku blinked. Tilted his head sharply, eyes snapping towards Eraserhead in a manner he knew was unsettling but could not seem to check. “What- um, why is that? What does he do?”

From across the table, Horishi winked. “Don’t tell, obviously, but this vigilante goes after heroes. It’s wild.”

Eraserhead groaned, scrubbing at his face. “What about confidential is confusing to you?”

“Come on, it’s not like there haven’t been leaks already. Honestly I’m surprised he isn’t more famous.”

“Commission meddling,” Patchwork muttered darkly, and Horishi’s expression soured.

“Hm. Probably. But hey, he’s doing pretty good work from what I’ve heard. Who was the last one? Polarity?”

“Heavy Step.” Eraserhead sighed, hand falling back towards the table. “Selling illegal support items.”

“Right, right. Polarity was harassment—”

“No, that was Stormwing.”

“Yeesh. You’re in deep, huh.” Horishi hummed, regarding him carefully. “So you are on this case, then. Officially. This isn’t just a passing interest.”

Eraserhead shrugged. “I have experience with vigilantes.”

“Hah. Experience. You let them walk all over you—”

“I resent that.”

“Noted.” Horishi leaned back with a snort. “But Confession’s different, is he? What, afraid he’ll corner you next?”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“Then what? What’s worth the extra hours?” Horishi’s scrutiny was blistering, pulsing against Izuku’s temples with every probing question.

Eraserhead hesitated for a moment, sharing a glance with Yamada before letting out another, weary sigh. His shoulders slumped forward as he turned back to Horishi.

“Are you familiar with the Hero Killer?”

The air thickened with tension, and Izuku nearly dizzied himself with how rapidly his gaze flicked around the room. Horishi leaned back with the beginnings of a scowl.

“Of course.”

“He’s killed fifteen heroes already. Do you know why?”

Horishi’s mouth twisted further, fingers tightening against her arms. “Shit. Right. He went rogue. You think Confession will, too?”

“I think it’s a possibility.” Eraserhead frowned, tapping a finger against the table. “There are vigilantes who just want to help people. There are the ones who are only in it for glory, ones who just like an excuse to beat people up… and then there are the ones with an ideology. Who see something fundamentally broken in our society, and are trying to fix it.”

Yamada snorted. “Three guesses where Stain falls, and the first two don’t count.”

“Confession hasn’t hurt anyone,” said Patchwork pointedly. “You think he will?”

“He’s already broken the pattern once,” Eraserhead muttered. “I don’t know. But I think it’s likely.”

The pattern? Izuku blinked, static tearing through his thoughts with every twitch of his pupil, ink-stained fingers twitching for the information that might save him, here.

In all of his years operating as Confession, he supposed the steps hadn’t changed. Track down corrupt hero, gather every scrap of intel he could, confront them with the suffocating weight of being seen—then use the Eye to tear the words from their throats.

It was soothing. A ritual, dancing to a tune where for once he knew the steps, could guide the tempo. So where had the notes gone sour?

The Dark, growling in his chest and tingling at his fingertips in frigid bursts. There was the foul taste of brackish water crawling onto his tongue, chased away with harsh ferocity by the Eye’s unblinking gaze.

Right. Right. That criminal, in the alleyway—Izuku had told him his name was Confession, hadn’t he?

Horishi’s voice ripped through his scattered thoughts. “So you’re worried we could have another Hero Killer on our hands. Great.”

“Not worried. Just cautious.”

Izuku was too frozen by the Eye’s impassive gaze and the Lonely’s curling grasp to bristle at the implications. Besides—what even was the crime? The accusation? That Confession was a murderer?

There was a truth to that, even if it was not so simple as they clearly assumed. And, if nothing else, Confession was bound to truth.

No matter how inconvenient.

“Well, kid. What do you think?”

Izuku’s eyes snapped up, shoulders jerking backwards when he met Horishi’s expectant gaze.

“I- uh, what?” he managed, wincing when the words stumbled. “Uh- about…”

Horishi rolled her eyes, and the Desolation prickled in his palms at the memory of Shigaraki’s irritation.

“Confession,” she said, waving a lazy hand towards Eraserhead. “The guy everyone’s losing their shit about. Thoughts?”

“You’re asking a student to do your job for you?” Eraserhead crossed his arms and raised a brow. “I’d say this is a new low, but…”

“Oh, shut up, you,” Horishi scowled. “I’m asking him to do your job for you. Besides, kid’s obviously got some brains beneath those curls! He figured us out real quick, huh?’

“That’s- it isn’t—” Izuku stammered, but Arakawa cut him off with a thoughtful nod.

“Yeah, actually. He figured us out really fast too. In that exercise.”

“I didn’t,” Izuku stressed, nose wrinkling at the blistering pressure in his skull. “I- um, that wasn’t really the… the same thing.”

Arakawa huffed, unimpressed. “Oh? Really? You played us like a fiddle.”

“Exactly,” he muttered, ducking his head. “It’s, um. Different. Manipulation is… different.“

Eraserhead considered him for a moment, unreadable as always. "You heard of Confession, kid?”

Izuku could not help the way he froze. That dreadful scrutiny, that fear of eyes raking across his skin with every harried step—they’ll see you, they’ll know you, and they will hate you for it.

“I, uh.” His mouth was dry, head pulsing with every second their gazes lingered, and when Izuku met Eraserhead’s eye he knew his face was wrong. Slack and listless, save the wide set of his pupils in a piercing intensity.

He could not fix it. The Eye was all-consuming, now, hissing static overcoming the Lonely’s gentle ebb and flow. A mask that was not a mask clutched so tight between his hands, splintered fractures threatening to scatter outwards from his fingertips like the spindly lines of spiderwebs.

The Eye pulsed, and its analytical calm settled over him in the deafening whir of a tape recorder. Izuku tilted his head in cool, quiet consideration. Picked out the truth as best he could, eagerly pressing it towards something that could bite and cut and tear.

“I have heard of him.”

Eraserhead seemed unsurprised. A confirmation, then—and that did make sense. Izuku had already stated his purpose, his role within the League as a collector of information, gathering scraps of knowledge and archiving them for future use.

There was a soft hum, Horishi tilting her head and casting a side-eyed glance towards Eraserhead. Starting to figure things out, then, to realize the strangeness of the situation.

A snag in the tape, a hitch of the recorder, and no. She had always known. Strange child now in the custody of two close friends with no warning, no explanation—she’d already had her suspicions.

Good. Good. Confirm what they thought they knew, pulling the truth from their own skulls as he himself hoarded ink-stained pages and whirring tapes.

“How much do you know?” asked Eraserhead, and Izuku’s unblinking gaze did not waver, even as Yamada leaned forward with a pained sound and a glance towards Arakawa’s parents.

“Uh, maybe this isn’t a dinner conversation—”

“It’s not like they don’t already have an idea,” Eraserhead said pointedly, eyes narrowing.

This was, perhaps, why the Eye blistered so fiercely around the man. Beyond even the red-rimmed power of his quirk—Eraserhead looked, where others might avert their gaze. That was dangerous, that was terrifying, that was intoxicating. The thought of what the man might be forced to see was enough to make Izuku dizzy, the horror of being unable to tear a mind away from its own unraveling.

Horishi, for her part, looked appropriately contrite. Sheepishly rubbing the back of her neck as her shoulders lifted in a feeble shrug. “Ah, I mean… don’t want to pry, but like…”

“It’s fine,” said Izuku simply, tasting how static lingered in every syllable. “You want to know about Confession?”

Eraserhead’s jaw tightened, but otherwise the man’s expression was unchanging as he turned back to Izuku. “If you’re sharing.”

There was a displeasure in the curl of Yamada’s lip, a discomfort in how Patchwork shuffled in his chair—but Aizawa Shouta pro hero Eraserhead quirk Erasure UA first-year homeroom teacher class of ’49 dry eye weakened left arm claustrophobia—

Eraserhead looked at him, intent. Izuku met his gaze with equal fervor.

“Not a high priority target, but it is my business to be informed.” Izuku did not blink, fingers twitching for his notebooks as static crawled through his skull. “Vigilante. Seems to favor nonconfrontational routes to outright aggression, although he is armed.”

“He?”

Izuku snorted. “The police profile suggests that he is a man.”

“And you agree?”

“I find the practice of profiles to be built with too much reliance on patterns and assumptions.” Izuku hummed, tracing a whorl in the table. “Both are useful tools, in moderation. Not as the foundation for a case.”

Eraserhead nodded, eyes darting down to follow the motion of Izuku’s finger before snapping up once more. “The profile also makes a few assumptions about his quirk.”

Izuku hummed again. A smile tugged at his lip, twitching feebly against the muscle. “It does. All of them baseless.”

Patchwork snorted at that, and Horishi leaned forward with a wide grin. “Yeah? What makes you say that, kid?”

“Grasping at straws. There isn’t enough information available to form a solid opinion on Confession’s quirk.” Because Izuku had made sure of it, because save that little incident with the Dark, the only aspect Izuku had ever used within view of a target was the Eye.

Eraserhead, it seemed, was aware of this fact. “A compulsion quirk seems logical, given the evidence.”

“Lack of evidence.” Izuku hummed, finger stilling from its ceaseless circle to tap restlessly at the table. “Compulsion… that could mean anything. Mind control? Truth serum? A winning personality?” He grinned, and he knew it was too sharp, rigid edges of cold, uncaring plastic. “They know nothing of the method, the particulars, the activation requirements… why list a quirk at all? It’s useless to the investigation, as is. Just a distraction.”

“That… is a good point,” said Eraserhead slowly, in careful consideration of his words—and that buzzed in Izuku’s skull, the fact that he was listening, looking, learning. “It doesn’t narrow the field enough to be viable, and might disqualify suspects based on what’s really just an assumption.”

“You said he’s armed?” Horishi cut in with a slight frown. “How can you know? Not exactly the fighting type.”

“I’ve seen him,” said Izuku, truthfully but not honestly. Passing by puddles, flash of green through his fractured vision as he eagerly tailed another victim. “It was dark, but you can still tell. Definitely a weapon in one of his pockets.”

“What kind?” Horishi pressed, but Izuku only shrugged. Grinned, static eating away at his words as he spoke.

“It was dark.”

“You’ve had access to the police profile,” said Eraserhead softly, prompting Izuku’s gaze to snap back towards him. To his credit, the man didn’t flinch beneath that piercing scrutiny. “Age?”

“The profile says young adult.” Words trembling in his sternum with every stolen line, callous descriptors of a man he was but wasn’t, the horror of comprehension, of being seen but never known, of being known but never understood.

Of finally, finally reaping that precious understanding. Only to find that it did not matter.

“And?” prompted Eraserhead.

Izuku hummed, allowing the Eye to crescendo in a deafening whir of static and sound and the stifling scrutiny of a silent crowd—

“I think he’s younger.” Izuku watched him carefully, so carefully, a pleased hum pressing up against the back of his eyes when Eraserhead only nodded at a suspicion confirmed.

A truth not shared, but dragged from shadows. Something he did not wish to acknowledge but needed to know—and that trembled in Izuku’s bones.

One last question. Izuku could see it, the final spark of resolve in the man’s eyes as they stared each other down across the table, all else fading away.

“Have you met him? Confession?”

Truth. Truth, always. Izuku smiled.

“No,” he said. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

For a moment, they held that gaze. Izuku could taste it, ink and blood all crackling in his teeth as the Eye begged to be unleashed, to splinter his skull and burst free, to rend the knowledge from their flesh.

But it wasn’t right. Wasn’t time, because despite everything Izuku still did not know Eraserhead, not in the manner that Confession required. Everything had its place, and Izuku knew his.

So he closed his eyes. Grimaced at the backlash, the throbbing pain of power with no place to go, rippling through his skull and aching in his jaw with the pressure to simply give it up and ask.

 “Akatani?” The false name was enough to jolt him, the slightest encroachment of the Stranger and, suddenly, Izuku could think past that ceaseless whirring. “You doing okay?”

When Izuku opened his eyes again, he found Yamada staring at him with a quiet concern. He winced, one hand drifting up to rub circles into his temple.

“Ah, I’m, um… sorry. About that.”

“Quirk?” asked Eraserhead softly, and Izuku’s shoulders rose.

“Um. Yeah.” His voice drifted off into a hoarse whisper, the Eye’s static overtaken by the Lonely’s prickling surf. “…sorry.”

“Damn. That was intense.” Horishi was still grinning, though she’d settled back in her chair somewhat. “You planning on going underground, kid? World could use that little detective brain of yours.”

Izuku blinked. The Lonely stuttered, like nails spasming around his shoulders as he looked up. “I- what?”

“Underground? Like us?” Horishi swept her hand around the table. “I mean, you are going to hero school, right? Not like you gotta decide now, but the earlier the better in my opinion.”

With the Eye still so prevalent, Izuku could not help the way his thoughts lingered on those words, how they twisted with the irrefutable knowledge of what he was.

Still, he forced an awkward laugh. “Hah, um. Yeah. Underground sounds… um. Nice.“

"Yes.“ Horishi pumped a fist into the air, and Izuku’s shoulders drooped in painful increments as he felt that dreadful tension start to dissipate. “Got another one! If only I could’ve gotten to Hizashi before he was corrupted…”

“Hey!”

“Brings a tear to my eye,” Horishi continued solemnly, tracing a single finger down her cheek before clenching her fist. “Sometimes, it’s like I can still hear his voice…”

“Hey!”

“Quirk,” Eraserhead huffed, eyes flashing red before he shot a glare at Horishi. “Stop riling him up. I’m the one who has to face the consequences.”

Horishi laughed, a loud, booming thing, and the four heroes dove back into their conversation with vigor, friendly and teasing and completely lacking the tension of their little Confession interlude.

Through the lingering strands of the Eye, Izuku considered that. How practiced it was, juggling tone and topic. A skill borne of necessity and familiarity in equal measure.

The rest of the dinner passed by without any major issues—just the standard embarrassment that always chased his words, although Arakawa was more accommodating than most.

She was… nice. She listened when he talked, a genuine excitement coursing through her at every suggestion. And… well, Izuku couldn’t deny that it was interesting, hearing her theorize about her own quirk, its applications, the long and arduous study that had brought her to this point.

First Tokoyami, and now Arakawa… it seemed that, even with the fiasco of that first training exercise, there were still people willing to befriend him. That… that was good right?

The Lonely tightened around his shoulders in objection, but the Spiral… the Spiral rippled through his veins. Cool plastic at his jaw as the Stranger rejoiced.

Because it wasn’t real, was it? None of it was real. Just an opportunity, a second chance he sorely needed if he ever hoped to make it out of this alive.

Still. Izuku could not pretend it didn’t burn. When they finally bid the Arakawa family goodnight, promising that yes they would return sooner than the last time, yes Izuku would come back to watch that show and talk quirks, yes they would take care of themselves—that last one mostly directed at Eraserhead, Izuku thought, although Patchwork did shoot a pointed glare at Yamada—Izuku itched. His smile was tight and plastic, and his face still felt numb from where the Eye had coursed through it.

Mercy of mercies, Eraserhead did not corner him when they returned to their apartment. Izuku couldn’t quite remember what he said—just that he was tired, probably, and should get some sleep before school in the morning. Nothing but agreement there, from both sides, and so he trudged down the hallway to his room, alone.

When he collapsed in his bed, there was the faint but unmistakable crinkle of paper. Izuku stiffened. Glanced towards the door and counted beats of silence for one… two… three…

Five minutes, and he felt the apartment settle into sleep. Blink, and darkness greeted him. Blink, and he watched the city through slitted goggles, strands of fabric rippling at the corner of his eye.

With a long, shaky breath, Izuku slipped a hand beneath his pillow and withdrew a single, crumpled sheet of paper. As expected, Kurogiri’s unnaturally crisp handwriting ran across it.

Objective. Find and recruit the villain known as Stain. You have three weeks.

Right. Right. As always, he couldn’t forget what he was. The threat of failure, of his own uselessness catching up to him… the Desolation prickled in his palms, and Izuku allowed it to flare up, to consume the sheet of paper in a single burst of fire. The soot stained his palms gray, stark against the angry red of new blisters.

The Lonely took its place in the gentle rhythm of waves upon the shore. Izuku let it settle around him like a weighted blanket as he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

If Izuku were any more exhausted, the End might just claim him then and there.

Tendrils squeezing ever so gently around his heart had him push that maudlin little thought far away. Instead he scrubbed his face and focused on finding a seat in the tumultuous cafeteria.

He hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Could hardly bear to close his eyes, after Kurogiri’s note—and even when he did the dreams…

The dreams had been. Bad. That night. A shadow looming over him, watching as he watched, tugging as he tugged, a perfect little puppet unblinking and in miniature.

But the waking was near as unbearable, until Izuku was driven to pass the time with Beholding, flicking through his gathered eyes until the room dipped and churned around him and his migraine drove blistering cracks through his sight.

And he still had so much to do. The task ahead curdled in his stomach, not even the prospect of gathering more information to tuck neatly away in his notebooks enough to calm the swell of nausea.

An elbow jostled him, nearly throwing Izuku off his feet, the rushed apology lost to the clamor and crowd. Izuku sighed and adjusted the strap of his backpack. Classes had been long, and tedious, and the rest of the day promised no better. He’d definitely fallen asleep in homeroom, and he’d be lucky not to pass out in his lunch tray as well.

If he ever found a place to set it down, that was.

God he was a mess. The Lonely was already heavy at his shoulders, spurn festering beneath the skin with don’t deserve and don’t belong, so familiar and yet so disheartening. There wasn’t an empty table in sight, and honestly even if there was Izuku might not have seized upon it. Loneliness was one thing, but to be alone in a crowd? To press his face against the window to peer into the lives he could not live? That would be near unbearable.

Izuku had just resigned himself to find some quiet corner or closet where he could at least escape the noise, when he heard a familiar squawk from across the cafeteria.

“Green! Green, green, green bean, come sit with me and Fumi!”

Despite himself Izuku snorted, cracking a smile at the hissed, “Behave, Dark Shadow,” that followed. Glancing up and a little ways across the cafeteria, he found Tokoyami glaring down at a smug Dark Shadow, trying and failing to wrestle the creature beneath the table.

There were a couple others sitting with him—Shouji and Jirou, he noted. The former stared at him curiously, while the latter seemed disinterested, absentmindedly twirling one of her earjacks around a finger while she presumably listened to music through the other.

“Oh! Um. Hi Tokoyami!” Izuku approached, but did not place his tray down. “Are you- um. I mean, if it’s okay with you- with everyone, would it be alright it I…”

“Sit.” A hand clapped him none-too-gently on the back, and Izuku nearly dropped his tray with a yelp as Arakawa slung an arm around his shoulders and dragged the both of them towards two open seats. “Seriously, Akatani, I’m getting secondhand anxiety.”

Izuku instinctively reached for the Lonely, making sure it hadn’t somehow slipped loose. “Ah- um. Sorry.”

“It’s fine! But relax.” Arakawa waved him off with an easy smile, then turned to the others at the table. “What’s up?”

Tokoyami tilted his head thoughtfully. “The day has been—"

“The sky!”

Tokoyami closed his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, before shooting a pointed glare at Dark Shadow. For her part, Arakawa reached out a fist with a grin.

“Nice. Got me.”

Dark Shadow returned the fist bump exuberantly before retreating back into an exasperated Tokoyami’s chest.

“They’ve been… restless, today,” he muttered. “I am unsure if this bodes ill. It is not the typical chaos of planetary misalignment. Perhaps I misread the star charts…?”

“Dude,” Jirou interjected with a soft snort, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “You believe in that astrology crap?”

Tokoyami huffed, and ruffled his feathers. “I believe that intangible forces exist all around us, yes. Energies cannot be ignored.”

“Next you’ll be telling me you collect crystals.”

A strangled croak escaped him, and his feathers puffed up even further. “I- that is of no consequence.”

“You know,” cut in Arakawa, “I actually use a lot of astrology symbols in my alchemy. Planetary meanings and all that, it’s pretty fascinating.”

Tokoyami tilted his head, sharp gaze landing on her. “I agree, that is quite fascinating. I admit I’ve never studied them in that context, but I’m sure it’s a unique reward, to see them take shape in such a way.”

Arakawa snorted, and her grin turned sheepish. “Well- it’s not that great, but if you’re interested, I’d be happy to show you some of the mechanics.”

“I would be a fool not to take you up on such a venture.”

Jirou rolled her eyes, tapping at her phone. “Nerds.”

Arakawa stuck out her tongue. “Oh, like you’re one to talk.”

“I am not a nerd. Don’t know why I put up with you dweebs.”

“Because we’re dark and mysterious?” offered Shouji softly, and Izuku thought there was the hint of a smile crinkling his eyes, hidden beneath the mask.

“Getting to know you has kinda taken the mystery out of it,” Jirou shot back, though she couldn’t seem to fight back her smirk. “Try again.”

“Hm…” Arakawa tapped at her chin. “Maybe it’s because we don’t make fun of someone’s music taste…”

“Hey. Don’t come after my bands.”

“How could I? I’ve never even heard of half of them.”

“The other half are unpronounceable.”

“Et tu, Shouji?” Jirou slumped across the table with a dramatic groan. “That’s it. I’m out. You guys just don’t get it.”

“There, there.” Arakawa patted her arm consolingly. “I’m sure that… uh… Error: Name Not Found is a great band.”

Jirou huffed. “Ugh. No, they’re awful.”

“What?” cut in Tokoyami. “Just last week you were insistent—”

“They sold out. Got a spot on Put Your Hands Up… there’s no coming back from that.”

“Oh my god. You’re serious. You’re… serious?” Arakawa’s nose wrinkled as she leaned in to peer more closely at Jirou. “No… yes? Jirou you’re killing me here.”

“You think I’m killing you.” Even hidden where she pressed her face into her arms, Izuku could hear the grin in her voice. “Every band I’ve ever loved betrays me.”

“I- no, this is bad for my sanity.” Arakawa adjusted her glasses with a dramatic sigh, then unfortunately turned to Izuku. “So! You fell asleep in homeroom.”

Izuku winced, then choked out an awkward laugh. “Hah- I, uh… was it that obvious?”

“Yes,” said all four of them in dreadful monotone. Jirou snorted.

“Dude. You hit the desk so hard we could hear it. Like, are you okay? Might’ve given yourself a concussion.”

“Wha- it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was.” Arakawa nodded solemnly, then held up a finger with a grin. “But! Eraser didn’t kill you! You know what that means?”

“I’m, uh… my days are numbered?”

“What? No. It means you’re immune.” Arakawa’s grin sharpened to something more reminiscent of her mother’s. “And you know what that means?”

Jirou sighed. “It’s only his second day. Please don’t get the new kid killed.”

“Seconded,” Shouji murmured.

“What…” Izuku hesitated at the frantic shake of Jirou’s head, but there was an infectious gleam in Arakawa’s eyes that spurred him onward. “What does that mean?”

Arakawa clapped her hands together in a manic fervor. “Oh, Akatani. It means we’re going to have some fun.”

“No,” Tokoyami groaned, while Jirou formed an X with her arms.

“Vetoed. Absolutely not.”

“Aren’t you concerned about being pulled from the Sports Festival?” Shouji raised a pointed brow. “At least wait until after then.”

“The- the Sports Festival?” Izuku blinked, eyes darting between the three of them. “They’re still having it?”

“Uh… yeah?” Jirou scrutinized him through narrowed eyes. “Man, how out of it were you?”

What a terrible idea. Izuku could hardly believe it, running such a high risk event after such a high profile break-in. Or… perhaps it was a show of strength? Of perseverance? His lip twisted, because that was the sort of thing heroes would want to see. Anything if it meant maintaining that carefully crafted illusion of hope, of security, of stability.

“Haha, sorry,” was all he said as the Spiral traced feather light fractals through his veins. He pulled it back with a brutal snap. “Guess I must’ve missed that. I, um. Really figured they’d cancel it this year?”

“Yeah, so did my folks.” Arakawa crossed her arms and sank into her chair with a sigh. “They didn’t want to let me do it anyway. Barely convinced them.”

“Why’s that?” asked Jirou, but the knowledge was hot on Izuku’s tongue.

“You want to go underground?” A likely assertion, and one verified by her firm nod. “It does make sense, then. An underground hero doesn’t benefit as much from the Sports Festival—they should be finding mentors through other avenues, and having their quirks on display is actively harmful for future hero work.”

Izuku hummed, tilting his head thoughtfully as the Eye threatened another migraine. “The Sports Festival isn’t an accurate display of ability. Especially not for underground work. It’s too showy—subtler quirks get lost in the flash. Honestly, with the added threat of what happened at the USJ, I’m not surprised.”

“Huh.” Jirou looked at him with a new consideration. “Never thought about it like that. Guess I’ll have to work hard to stand out, huh?”

“You…” Izuku blinked, then pressed a hand to his mouth. “Oh- that’s not- I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to imply that you wouldn’t- or, that’s, um—” If you can’t talk like a normal person then keep your mouth shut, Deku. Shigaraki’s voice, ripping ugly through his thoughts. Izuku pressed his lips together and struggled to sift the tangled mess of words into something comprehensible.

“Dude, relax.” Jirou huffed softly, tugging at one of her earjacks. “I’m not offended or anything. These things aren’t exactly flashy, but that just means I’ll have to find some other ways to stand out. No big deal.”

“I’m afraid Dark Shadow will insist upon preening before such an audience.” Tokoyami sighed, as if already exhausted at the thought. “May the gods grant us strength.”

“I might have some trouble.” Arakawa rubbed at the back of her hand, where the circular scar was fading. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to bring support items in…”

Izuku hummed, the Eye flickering through possibilities as his finger tapped listlessly against the table. “There might be rocks in the stadium—you could try and use one of those to make circles? Or… blood probably isn’t ideal, but that is an option, and- oh! What about Yaoyorozu? You could ask her for chalk or something, if it’s a team thing…”

To his surprise, scorn twisted at Arakawa’s lip. She crossed her arms with a derisive snort. “Nope. No way in hell. I wouldn’t ask that stuck-up princess for help if my life depended it.”

The Eye hitched and sputtered, and Izuku blinked bemusedly back at her, rubbing at his temples as he reined the aspect in. “I- um. What? But… your quirks, they could work so well together… the utility applications alone would be enough to boost both of your performances and that’s not even getting into—”

“I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

Jirou raised a brow. “What do you have against Yaoyorozu? She’s like the living embodiment of politeness.”

Arakawa gave a half-hearted shrug, then wilted at Jirou’s disbelieving look.

“It’s… complicated.” She sighed, rubbing at her face beneath the round glasses. “Look, there’s all this family stuff involved, and just- we’re cousins. Okay? I’d rather not get into it.”

“And we should respect that,” said Shouji pointedly when Jirou went to speak once more. She shut her mouth with a huff, but nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. As usual.”

Shouji hummed, but did not refute it.

With one last, thoughtful shrug, Jirou glanced across the cafeteria. When Izuku followed her gaze, he could catch a glimpse of Yaoyorozu, sitting prim and proper with a stony-faced Todoroki.

“She does seem a little stuck up,” Jirou said at last. “But like, she was pretty badass at the USJ, you know?”

Arakawa huffed, jabbing at her food. “I guess. Let’s move on.”

The others seemed to drop it easily enough, and Izuku really did envy them for that. How they could just… stop—stop prying, stop seeking, stop looking. The Eye burned into his skull with the urge to tear the truth from those who feared it, to lay it all bare and baking beneath that scorching gaze like buzzard-picked bones in the sun.

His eyes began to water, and Izuku hastily blinked them clear, rubbing at one of his temples in a fruitless attempt to ward off the encroaching headache.

Arakawa Renaru… daughter of Arakawa Ayano, previously known as Yaoyorozu Ayano. That thread was clear, but past that things became… murky. The Eye itched at the thought, at the trespass of mud and brackish waters that the Dark was so fond of, and Izuku felt his jaw tense with that familiar desperation scrabbling against the inside of his skull.

Arakawa Ayano, niece of Yaoyorozu Takeshi. Formerly known as pro-hero Vanguard… the Yaoyorozu’s had a strong line, both in and out of heroics. An effective blend of business acumen and analytical minds that was mirrored in a wide variety of creation-based quirks.

It was a strong family. An old family. The kind that clung to those who bore the name like stubborn cobwebs.

The Arakawa’s did not have any family articles, pictures, tokens of any kind. Izuku hummed, the stuttering hiss of static drowning out all conversation around him as he tapped a restless finger against the table. Arakawa Ayano was estranged, then. Some falling out that rippled further to spoil the blood between her own daughter and those of her sibling.

That didn’t explain the why, or the how, or any number of other tantalizing details, missing bits of data that burned like Shigaraki’s quirk, slowly eating away at him from the inside.

Things didn’t click. It was distinctly unsatisfying, distinctly painful, like an eye that could not close until it had drunk its full, no matter how harsh the itch. Information flitting past him like noisome flies all buzzing restless in his ears—old family good quirk good line high expectations strong blood limelight heroes—

“Is it because your mom went underground?”

Silence. He- oh god he had cut someone off to say- and they were staring at him, pressing seams against his skin that threatened to split into a fractured gaze and—

“It… is,” said Arakawa haltingly, almost as if she hadn’t expected herself to answer. She paused, and fiddled with something in her pocket. “Akatani—”

“I’m sorry!” Izuku managed to squeak out. “I- you said you didn’t want to talk about it, I shouldn’t have- I didn’t mean to—”

Defective. Izuku realized that he had pressed his palms flat against the table, that he had screwed his eyes shut. Realized that these people would not take that for what it was, for I am not a threat. They would just see it as yet another oddity, another sign of disrespect.

“Hey, Akatani, relax. It’s fine.” When Izuku’s eyes shot open, Arakawa was staring at him with a nose wrinkled in… concern? “Are you okay? It seems like you’re kind of… freaking out, a bit.”

“I- uh.” God he was a mess. He’d almost done it, he could taste the static in the air, the scent of aged parchment paper and ink, the itch behind an eye that could not shut and he was hungry, he ached for it, he- he needed to reach out and grab and twist and tear and—

Izuku slammed down the impulse. The Eye was not starved. It only hissed and whined like a spoiled pet when its bowl dipped past full.

The comparison won him no favors. Pain lanced through his skull like an icepick, threatening to crack him open in the manner he refused to do to Arakawa.

That was fine. Izuku took a trembling breath as he settled his shoulders and pushed that roiling fear back. That was fine. This was not the time for a statement, no matter how enticing the mystery, those furtive, ugly truths that he could smell within the walls.

The Eye could sulk all it wanted—he was not taking a statement from an innocent. Not again, not ever.

“S- sorry, Arakawa,” he managed through gritted teeth, not quite able to force a smile yet. “My… I shouldn’t have pried. Let’s just- we can move on, we- what were we talking about?”

Arakawa was unimpressed. “Was that your quirk?”

At that, Jirou perked up, eyes darting towards Izuku. “Oh, wow. Did you just use it?”

“I- no, I didn’t…” Izuku sighed and rubbed at his neck, muttering, “More like it used me.”

Arakawa snorted. “Damn. Sentient quirks are weird.”

Tokoyami hummed, but did not comment as Izuku’s shoulders curled inwards with a splutter.

“That’s not- it’s- well. Aren’t, um, all quirks a little sentient? Kind of?”

“Uh. No.” Jirou twirled an earjack around one finger. “You think these things have a mind of their own?”

“Um… yes? It’s like…” Izuku pressed his hands together with a huff, imagining spider threads spinning through his fingers. “Your limbs do. Haven’t you ever moved without thinking? So much of our body is made of involuntary functions—”

“That’s not sentience,” cut in Arakawa. “Sentience is like… ugh. Look, my quirk has misfires sometimes, but it never, like…” She waved her hand noncommittally. “I don’t know. Decides to do something, decides it wants something. It’s more like a muscle spasm.”

Jirou nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess my earjacks can do stuff like that. Muscle spasm is a good way of putting it—I mean, it’s like when you put your hand on something hot, right? But that’s not a mind of its own, that’s just… reflex.” A smirk tugged at her lip as she looked at Izuku. “Damn. You know, I didn’t really think of it before—but that is rough. You two must have your hands full.”

“I wasn’t aware your quirk was sentient,” said Shouji, glancing at him curiously. “Is it similar to Dark Shadow?”

“Ah… no. It isn’t. And I wouldn’t call it sentient, it’s just…”

“You described them as separate entities,” said Arakawa dryly. “You described them as separate personalities. And you said they were all bastards.”

“That’s- I didn’t say that.”

“I can read between the lines.”

“They aren’t… all bastards…”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jirou raised a hand and closed her eyes, as if processing. “You have more than one?”

“This is a surprise to me as well.” Tokoyami tilted his head, steadfastly ignoring when Dark Shadow shoved their way under his arm to rest their beak on the table. “Although I suppose that was a premature assumption on my part. My apologies.”

“No! No, it’s fine, there’s nothing to apologize for.” He hadn’t realized that he’d divulged so much to Arakawa, although in hindsight it made sense. The Eye had been eager, that night, and she shared so much of her own quirk that it only seemed fair.

Plus… she was just so encouraging. All of them had been. Izuku needed to remind himself when to shut his goddamn mouth and be quiet, even if the room was eager to coax words out of him. That was his job.

“There are a few separate ones,” he relented at last, tugging on his sleeves. “But they’re also kind of one whole? It’s… complicated.”

Jirou’s stare intensified, before she broke it with a snort. “Man, you are a walking eldritch monstrosity, aren’t you. That is so your vibe.”

Well. She wasn’t wrong.

“Hey!” Arakawa swatted her on the arm. “Don’t be mean.”

Jirou’s gaze turned incredulous. “What? That wasn’t mean. Dude, that’s metal as fuck. Like it’s sick as hell.”

“Um…” It was as if Izuku could feel the gears in his brain grinding to a halt. “…thanks?”

“You and Tokoyami. Start a band together or something, god, would that be some punk rock shit or what?”

“If they started a band—” Arakawa’s grin turned sly “—they’d probably be too mainstream for you.”

Jirou groaned. “Let it go already, I was joking—”

“That time. That time you were joking.”

“Just because you have such a normie music taste doesn’t mean you’ve gotta jump down my throat about it.”

“I- did you just- holy shit you called me a normie? In real life? Please, Jirou, there’s some grass right out there, I am begging you—”

“Tokoyami collects crystals! Hey! Hey! Can we focus on that?”

“This is more pressing.”

“Agreed,” said Tokoyami, relief bleeding into his tone. Then Izuku caught a glint in his eye, head cocking as he turned to Jirou. “Although, if you do wish for a cleansing energy, I can suggest some for you.”

“Nope. No way, that’s a hard and fast rule—no witchcraft in my room.”

Tokoyami snorted. “I’d hardly call this witchcraft.”

“Hm…” Arakawa tapped at her chin. “That’s a great idea, Tokoyami. Clearly Jirou’s, uh, energies are misaligned, and that’s why she’s so insufferable—”

“Okay weeb.”

Arakawa choked, collapsing forward against the table and spluttering so hard that Shouji lightly pounded her on the back.

“Foul!” she finally managed to gasp. “That’s a foul! Ref, give her a penalty!”

“Um…” Izuku raised a timid hand. “Who’s the ref?”

“Shouji,” they all said at once, and Shouji gave a weary sigh.

“Arakawa,” he said. “You are a weeb.”

“Betrayal! You flaunt the law! Judge, jury, and executioner!” Arakawa swung around to Izuku, clasping her hands together. “Akatani. Akatani, you can vouch for me, right?”

“Um…” The Lonely prickled at his shoulders, and insistence that he did not belong—but Izuku eased it back with a soft snort. “You’ve got anime charms on your backpack, so…”

“Lies! Slander! I’ll sue for defamation!”

Izuku felt his grin sharpen, the faintest pulse of the Eye swelling at his temples. “Uh-huh. That’s a lie, and so are the posters, the figurines, the notebooks…”

A strangled sound escaped Arakawa’s throat as she surged forward and clapped a hand over Izuku’s mouth.

“God, how do you even remember that? You were in my living room for like ten seconds.”

“What? That impressed you?” Jirou scoffed, and flicked a piece of rice at Arakawa. “Not exactly a difficult guess. Here, let me try—at least a quarter of your closet space is for cosplay crap—”

Arakwa let out a warbled shout, removing her hand from Izuku’s face and collapsing forwards onto the table. Shouji neatly pulled his tray back just in time to avoid her.

“My mystique…” she lamented, voice muffled by the tabletop. Jirou rolled her eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure the rest of the class still thinks you’re very mysterious.”

Tokoyami dipped his head into a solemn nod. “You remain unknowable. Unperceived.”

“Well, thanks,” Arakawa grumbled. “I’m so glad to hear it.”

Jirou hummed. “Might want to change your hero outfit from a closet cosplay, though.”

“Wha- it’s not—”

“It totally is. Look, I’m not judging—”

“You definitely are.”

“—but I’m also one hundred percent judging.”

The two devolved into bickering, with jabs and insults that even Izuku could recognize were barbless. Good natured. It wasn’t easy to sit back, to let the natural ebb and flow of conversation wash over him without the Lonely hissing in his ear, but he didn’t find himself quite as unbalanced.

The topic shifted as easily as the wind, and not half as predictable—Izuku had no idea how they landed on classic slasher films, most of which he hadn’t even heard of—and he had to admit that it was entertaining. So many people talking at once about such a variety of things meant that the Eye was more eager to press forward, which in turn had the Lonely easing off his shoulders, if only slightly.

Enough that he didn’t feel so suffocated, trapped between them in painful silence as he could feel himself begin to flounder.

They were also… extremely weird, so maybe that had something to do with it. Difficult to feel like the odd one out at a table like this.

For once, lunch was over too quickly. A novel occasion for Izuku.

Arakawa glanced at her phone with a sigh, groaning as she packed up her lunch. “I am so not ready for history.”

Jirou picked up her own tray with a snort. “What? Don’t you read old books for fun?”

“Those are alchemical texts. It’s historical science. Actual history is all… battles and politics, god it’s boring.”

“Um.” Izuku couldn’t help the way his shoulders hunched when she turned to him, but it wasn’t as if she’d cared before. Even when he accidentally pried into her past, her own personal life, Arakawa had brushed it off with an ease that he couldn’t help but envy. “I’m, uh, actually pretty alright at history? If you… wanted to study together or something…”

Arakawa beamed, so radiant that Izuku actually felt the Dark ripple in protest. “Really? That would be awesome! Anyone else want to get in on this?”

“I would not be opposed,” Tokoyami said, looking pensively out over the cafeteria before he dragged his gaze back to their group. “And I must admit, I could stand to benefit from your expertise in science.”

Shouji gave a many-armed shrug, tray easily balanced in one hand. “Sounds good to me. More studying can’t hurt.”

“I’m down.” Jirou didn’t look up from her phone. “But, for the record, you’re all a bunch of nerds, and I’m embarrassed to be associated with you.”

“Love you too, Jirou.” Arakawa blew her a kiss, and Jirou pounded her chest with a dramatic heaving sound. With a burst of laughter, Arakawa turned back to Izuku. “Thanks- oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to like, invite everyone without asking or something—”

Izuku waved his hands frantically. “No it’s fine! Seriously! The, um, more the merrier, right?”

Slung over his shoulders, the Lonely gave a little grumble. Izuku resisted the urge to scowl. You don’t get a vote.

Besides, he liked Arakawa. Tokoyami had already expressed interest in hanging out together, and both Shouji and Jirou seemed nice, if a little rough around the edges—in opposite directions, funnily enough.

It was good. The Stranger curling plastic around his jaw and it was good, he could handle this, even if it wasn’t real he could…

Things could never be simple, huh. Like he was cursed to a life of blinding complexity, stumbling over crisscrossed lines and nonsensical curves.

Izuku blinked the Spiral’s fractals from his eyes with a sigh, then mustered up a smile. “Thanks.”

He was more than accustomed to this, segmenting his life just as the fears cut blurry lines through his skull. This was good, and he would be a fool not to recognize it for what it was—a gift. A second chance. And maybe it was for someone else, someone they thought he was but could never be—but Izuku wouldn’t hesitate to seize upon it anyway.

Arakawa, of course, only rolled her eyes. “I should be thanking you. Honestly, it’s impossible to motivate these guys.”

“Seriously Arakawa. Thank you.”

That seemed to fluster her, a sincerity that Izuku had hardly expected himself. She fiddled with her glasses, a faint blush darkening her face, and for a moment the Lonely squeezed softly around Izuku’s neck.

It was just so kind. Her inviting him to sit at their table, gently pulling him into the conversation, promising future meetings to come… people just didn’t do that for him.

“Well!” She clapped her hands together as if to settle herself. “I’m looking forward to it! But, uh, if we’re gonna be studying at my place, you guys should probably just call me Renaru. Right?”

Tokoyami nodded thoughtfully. “Of course, to enter one’s home is to welcome familiarity, an important ritual in its own right. You may call me Fumikage, if you truly wish.”

“Mezou,” said Shouji with a shrug, loosely gesturing to himself with one hand while stacking his empty lunch tray on the pile with another.

Izuku blinked, nearly freezing where he stood, tray clutched tightly in his hands. “Uh. Right! Okay. You guys can, um, call me Izuku? If you want to?”

Jirou cut through the building tension with a snort.

“Great. And you can all call me Jirou.”

The Lonely loosened its grip at the sound of easy laughter, at how Arakawa—Renaru, he needed to remember that—flipped Jirou off, how Jirou lightly jabbed her with an earjack and won a dramatic yelp.

Their good humor trailed them out of the cafeteria and into the hallway, manifesting in friendly bickering and quiet laughter. Izuku felt light, even as the Lonely needled ever more insistently, even as his head began to ache with the pressure of the Eye and his jaw began to creak with the slow intrusion of the Stranger’s plastic.

Even as the Desolation prickled in his palms. It was a testament to his distraction that he didn’t note something so strange, didn’t track how that feeling swelled to something past discomfort before it was too late.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder and jerked him backwards a step. Izuku whirled around without thinking, knocking it free and raising his own hands in silent, blistering answer.

When Bakugou glared back at him, fingers still hanging in the air, Izuku could not find it in himself to be surprised. As if the Eye had known all along, had read the lines of lightless fire coursing through his veins and twitching in his fingers.

“Deku. We need to talk.”

Don’t fucking call me that- Izuku bit down on his tongue as he glanced warily to either side. No one seemed to find the nickname odd—yet, always yet, masks upon masks and he needed to mind the cracks—but they did bristle at the interaction.

“Dude. Back off.” Jirou stepped forward first, followed closely by Renaru.

“Yeah, seriously, what’s your problem?”

Bakugou huffed. “Calm down, assholes, it’s not like I’m gonna kill the nerd or something.”

Renaru’s eye twitched. “Oh, of course. And that was a concern?”

“Fuck off, I’m not here to talk to you.”

Tokoya—Fumikage’s feathers ruffled. “And yet it seems you are talking to us now. Most peculiar.”

“Look, just step the fuck off, before I—”

“Hah!” Izuku let lines trace their nonsense patterns through his veins. “Haha, oh, Bakugou, you’re so funny.”

The look that earned him was nothing short of murderous. “You think this is some kind of fucking joke?”

Izuku chuckled, ignoring how Bakugou seethed and willing his nerves to twist, to split and splinter into the kind of person who could handle this. He waved off the others with another, easy laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You guys go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“What?” Renaru’s head snapped to him, brow furrowed. “Izuku, are you sure—”

“I’ll be fine. Seriously, Bakugou’s all bark and no bite.” Another smile, too sharp against his cheekbones as the Desolation tingled at the lie, the memory of scraped knees and blistered wrists, hand-shaped burns hidden beneath baggy clothes. The Spiral made his words taste sugary sweet. “See you in class!”

With a great and obvious reluctance, the four of them bid their farewells. Izuku watched them shuffle off down the hallway, humming softly to himself as he struggled to keep the Spiral from swallowing him up, from sculpting tangled hallways behind the next door he opened.

Next to him, Bakugou nearly trembled with the force of his silence—but still, he was silent. That was a change. Another proof that this was not the person he remembered.