Chapter Text
For as long as he could remember, he was burning. A constant, low-grade fever simmering beneath his skin, fueled by a gnawing hunger for something he couldn’t name or grasp. Three-years-old, snatched from his sperm and egg donor who sold him to the Hero Commission—his life began. Not a life, really, but an existence, a series of tests and procedures that blurred into one another, a relentless, oppressive cycle of pain and confinement.
His Quirk wasn’t Telekinesis, no matter how many may think it is at first. It’s Brainwashing—a power that warps minds, twisting them into obliging instruments. The Telekinesis was a bonus, a mere afterthought, a way to manipulate and keep objects around his general radius under control. The muzzle, a freezing metal cage secured across his jaw, was seldom removed, only for the meager rations he received when his behavior was deemed ‘good.’ IV fluids became his constant companion, the only source of hydration and nutrients in the cold, sterile environment he called home. They all referred to him as Experiment B01–4. A designation that felt like the brand of a slave.
If he ever had one, his real name is lost to the dark recesses of his memory. The years blurred together, an unyielding cycle of suffering and dread.
He’s seven, almost eight. He’s been strapped to a table, the surface frigid and unforgiving. The pain of scalpels etching his skin, a persistent affiliation, had become a dull ache, a whisper compared to the burning in his core. “Death,” he thinks, a fragment of longing in the darkness, “would be better than this.”
They realized he needed a verbal trigger for his Quirk to take effect, a human link via speech, and they hadn’t let him speak ever since. That happened two months after they took him in. The muzzle cut his tongue if he tried too hard, forcing him into a noiseless, unsalvageable existence. When things get too much, he learns to feign sleep and vanish into his mind’s labyrinth. The world faded into a blur of sterile white walls and the callous gaze of the scientists, forever observing, constantly analyzing.
And then... there it is. An opportunity.
He pretends to be knocked out from the combination of pain and drugs, even adding a muted snore to his breathing. A single woman remained in the room, fiddling with his restraints, humming a random tune, her back turned to him. His muzzle is off. Now is his chance.
“Bitch,” he rasps, the word a rusty hinge creaking open after years of disuse. It felt as if his throat was its own raw wound.
The woman pivoted around, her eyes broadening in startled disbelief. “What the…?!” her voice trailed off, a gasp escaping her lips.
His purple eyes, the only indication of life on his pale face, pierced hers, his Quirk instantly seeping into her consciousness. “Release me,” he commands, his voice a low, insistent buzz. “Then lay down on the table and don’t move unless I tell you.”
Her body stiffens, then unwinds as if the strings of a puppet had been cut. His gaze bore into hers, a hypnotic gaze that dispossessed her sanity, leaving only a hollow shell. The woman’s eyes, once filled with alarm, now had a chilling blankness. She obeyed, her movements robotic, a machine responding to his command.
He watched her intently, a whiff of something akin to hope sparking within him. He had a chance, a slim one, to escape this hell he had been trapped in for years. He wasn’t sure what awaited him outside, but it couldn’t be worse than this. He bound her hands and feet, his movements meticulous and efficient. He clutched her radio, a chilly metal wad in his hand. “Tell me,” he demanded, leaning close, his breath against her ear, “how to get out of here without being caught.”
Her lips move, a robotic drone replacing her voice. “Down the hallway, third door on the left. The fire escape door. You need a nametag to open it without the alarm going off. Slide it under the hinge. Saseko* and I use to… make out…”
What in Kami’s name does ‘make out’ mean?? He had zero clue, but it didn’t matter. He could discern her fear and desperation, her crawling and trying to rebel against his Quirk with all her might, but it was fruitless. She wasn’t even close to getting free.
He yanks the name tag off her neck, a thin piece of plastic with her name and picture of the woman, and even a colorful flag, and slips it into his pocket. He didn’t need to look at her anymore. He had his freedom.
Peering cautiously down the hallway, the purple-haired boy eased the heavy steel door closed. With bated breath, he proceeded to the third door on the left. The door has a big, red sign that says “FIRE” and an alarm above the door frame. He slides the name tag under the middle hinge, holding his breath as the door creaks open. Opening one eye, he droops in relief when the alarm never goes off.
Emerging into another hallway, he spots a pair of double glass doors at the very end. He races towards freedom, bursting through the doors into the crisp night, taking a deep breath of the fresh air for the first time he can actually reflect. And then he runs.
He runs, and runs, and runs, utilizing all of the muscles and stamina he developed during training to good usage. He ran until his legs gave out, crumpling on the side of a freeway. It was practically daylight by the time he finally stopped, and he managed to crawl underneath a large bridge and build a diminutive structure out of paper-like, brown cubes. He falls asleep on the ice-cold pavement and has the best natural sleep he’s had in years.
When he awakens the following day, the sun barely starts to peek over the horizon in a sheepish hello.
The purple-haired child stirs as the sun tentatively peeks over the horizon, casting a gentle glow over the sleeping city and blinking away the remnants of sleep. The world is hushed and still.
Rising from his makeshift bed, he walks to a nearby stream, the cool water soothing his parched skin and helping him wake up. He fashions his hair with deft fingers into a braid, a straightforward yet practical way to keep it out of his face.
Using a jagged rock he finds on the stream’s bank, the child trims off the long sleeves of his infirmary garments, fashioning them into makeshift coverings to conceal his identity; he binds one sleeve around the lower part of his face in a shoddy attempt at a face mask, and the second piece as a bandana to hide his hair. Draped in his new attire, he feels a semblance of anonymity for the first time.
Returning to his pathetic sanctuary, he settles for a nap. His mind drifts in the embrace of sleep, seeking consolation in dreams untainted by misery.
Hours later, he awoke to the rustling of the wind, the soft light of day filtering through the cracks in his shelter. Crawling out into the open, he finds himself face to face with a young girl, her eyes bright and welcoming beneath a raincoat hood.
“Hi, I’m Kanako! What’s your name?” The girl’s voice is a song, pure and unwavering, calling out to him in a way he had never experienced before. He stares at her blankly, but she grins, her arm and smile never wavering.
Uncertainty gnaws at him, the small voice in his head whispering of deception and betrayal. But something in Kanako’s gaze made him pause and consider the possibility of trust in a world polluted by darkness.
Without a word, the boy grabs the girl’s tiny hand, feeling the warmth of connection in the simple act of touch. And underneath that ominous bridge, a young boy with a titanium heart is born in that fleeting instant.
For the second time, his life begins.
“HITOSHIIIII! Where did you put my hairbrush?!” Kanako’s piercing voice reverberates through the passageways of the sewers, grating on her elder brother’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Hitoshi groans, his eyes fluttering open as he drags a palm down his face to stave off the impending headache.
“For the fourth time, it’s on your FUCKING nightstand!” he retorts, his voice strained with exasperation.
“No, it’s NOT!” Kanako’s screech could very well have shattered glass. “I gave it to you last; where did you put it?!”
“I put it RIGHT FUCKING THERE! You probably moved it somewhere else, you little shit!” Hitoshi’s patience is wearing thin. His sister’s incessant bombardment of questions and accusations is propelling him to the brink of insanity.
Kanako snaps back, “I did NOT! You just like to blame me for everything!”
Hitoshi clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to scream. His patience wears thin as he hears Kanako’s shrill voice echoing through their lair. How such a small item can render such a commotion is beyond him. With a grave sigh, he rises from his bed and bumbles towards his sister’s room.
The clatter of metal on stone echoes through the cavernous space. With a perpetual scowl, Hitoshi throws a rusty metal bucket at a wall, missing Kanako by a hair. He twists, hands on his hips, and scowls at his younger sister, standing in the doorway to her makeshift bedroom, her arms crossed over her chest.
The brother raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of annoyance and (much to his own shame) amusement. “You seriously can’t find it? It’s probably right where I told you it would be.”
The girl shoots him a glare that can easily freeze hell over, her brows furrowing in anger. “It’s not my fault you’re a slob , Hitoshi!”
Sighing heavily, Hitoshi squats beside her, checking the floor for any sign of the elusive hairbrush. “If you hadn’t thrown a tantrum, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“ Me?! A tantrum?!” Kanako’s voice raises several octaves, disbelief lacing her words. “I simply asked a question, and you detonated like a firework on New Year’s Eve!”
Izuku walks in with a sigh, presumably pulling himself away from the kitchen he’d been diligently cleaning. He treads carefully into the bedroom, avoiding the scattered garments and bedsheets that litter the floor from Kanako’s frenzied pursuit of the god-forsaken hairbrush. He picks up the hairbrush from the nightstand, a small, unassuming ivory item that looks out of place in the harsh, industrial environment.
“It’s right here, Kocchan. You should have put your glasses on before looking for it.” The middle child’s voice is soft and buttery, starkly contrasting to the enraged shouting from his siblings.
Kanako grabs the brush from his hand, her eyes conveying her gratitude. “Fine, fine. But Hoshi-nii is still a slob.”
“Well, next time, perhaps try not to blame others for your carelessness,” Hitoshi replies, unable to resist one last departing shot.
Kanako squawks. “Ex- fucking -cuse me?! Maybe if you had put it back from where you first took it, none of this would’ve happened!”
Hitoshi lets out a guttural laugh, a blend of disdain and affection. He pitches a crumpled paper airplane at Kanako, who, without even looking, bats it away with a muttered swear. The siblings’ bickering is an unending cycle, a regular hum of noise that fills their vast, concrete home with a semblance of normality.
Unexpectedly, the doorbell tolls, cutting through the wild exchange like a knife. Hitoshi and Kanako both freeze, staring at each other with wide eyes.
“We… don’t have a doorbell,” Izuku whispers.
Hitoshi creeps down the hallway, his footsteps quieted by the dense carpet. As he approaches the main entrance, akin to a regular suburban house’s doorway, he notices a faint light beneath the door. He looks behind him to see darkness, and when he calls out for his siblings, the only response is silence. The air feels thick and heavy, with an odd, acrid scent.
He swallows hard and reaches out a trembling hand towards the doorknob. As his fingers graze the cold metal, the light suddenly intensifies, blinding him.
Darkness sheathes him, and then gradually, the hum of fluorescent lights replaces the oppressive void. Hitoshi’s breath comes in irregular gasps as he realizes he’s restrained, his limbs held by unseen forces. He desperately fights whatever is keeping him down, gritting his teeth at the oppressive pain that comes from moving, and tautens his muscles in preparation to launch himself up.
“Shinso! Shinso-kun! Relax, you’re alright! You’re safe! NURSE!”
Hitoshi’s eyes snap open, his body shuddering as he gradually ceases his resistance. A group of nurses scurries towards him, their faces a crossbreed of concern and relief. “He’s awake!” exclaims one. “Doctor, he’s awake!”
As the nurses secure him, a weary-looking doctor approaches, his expression conveying a mix of pity and understanding. “Shinso-san,” they begin, their voice gentle. You were brought to our hospital seven hours ago and underwent surgery two hours ago. You and your class were attacked by a villain group dubbed ‘The League of Villains.’ Do you recall any of this?”
It clicks.
Memories flood back with overwhelming force. Tomura’s contorted face as he aimed for Tsuyu, jumping in the way and being taken over by the sheer agony . The, quite literally, suffocating grip of the Noumu. The blurred faces of his classmates as they screamed his name and begged him to get up. Izuku wrenching his arms out of his sockets to behead the Noumu. Eraserhead’s cries of pain. Thirteen’s shattered body lying on the floor, Ashido and Hagakure leaping in front of Kurogiri, ready to die for their teacher, the person supposed to protect them. Tsuyu weeping, cradling his head in her lap as she begs him not to die, to get up and tell her everything is going to be okay. Todoroki roaring Midoriya’s name. The bumpy ride to the hospital—darkness.
“Yes,” Hitoshi rasps, his voice barely a whisper. “I remember all of it.”
The doctor nods slowly, writing down things on a clipboard at worrying speeds. “You have been through a great deal. Many of your classmates were injured; we are still awaiting updates on their conditions. We’re surprised by–”
“–okay?”
“Pardon me?”
“Is everyone okay? Are they alive?”
Everybody looks puzzled at his question, making Hitoshi grumble in anger. “Answer me, dimwits.”
“Yes, Shinso-shounen,” a younger nurse answers, squeezing his left hand. Many of the other staff screech at the action and make gestures at her, but she ignores them. “Everyone in your class, including your brother and teacher, is alive and well. You can rest now.”
Thank Kami. He can finally sleep knowing everyone is okay. He tries to smile, but it only ends as a grimace. He concentrates on the nurse’s hand, its gentle hold sending a wave of consolation through him. Her touch is warm, a stark distinction from the chilliness of the unbending mattress.
As he glides away from the pain of consciousness, he can feel Kanako’s hand tugging him through their house to the living room, demanding the boy play cards with Izuku and her. A chuckle escapes Shinso’s lips, and eyes crinkling at the corners as he lets himself be swept away in the solace of his dreams for just a little while longer.
Three days later.
The air crackles with uncertainty, denser than the damp summer air that clings to the classroom. Izuku and Hitoshi stand at the front, their expressions a mixture of apology and tension. The rest of Class 1-A stare back, their own faces a tableau of bewilderment, outrage, and even fear. This was different from the usual classroom dynamic.
“Soooo…” Hitoshi trails off, his voice lacking its typical confident swagger. The quiet stretches, punctuated only by the rhythmic buzz of the air conditioning. “How are y’all doing?”
The silence intensifies. Not good, then. Izuku takes a deep breath, nodding at Hitoshi before trekking forward. “I would like to start by offering all of you an apology,” he said, his voice unwavering despite the quiver in his chest. “You were forced to witness death too soon—no fifteen-year-old should have to see that. We could not protect you, and for that, we deeply apologize.”
He drops to his knees and touches his forehead to the floor, a formal dogeza* that sends a ripple of apprehension through the class. “As Demon Slayers, and especially as Hashira, it is our unwavering duty to protect humans from harm, and we failed you,” he continues. “We know saying sorry cannot undo what has already occurred, but please understand that we are resolute in our commitment to protect humanity from Demons and Noumu alike.”
As Izuku lifts his head, his eyes meet those of his peers, and his eyes convey actual emotion for what is most of them, for the first time. Hitoshi follows suit, offering his own deep bow, his voice barely above a whisper as he mumbles a small apology.
A collective gasp escapes the class. Their incredulity is definite. “W-what…?” Ochako’s voice flutters, her eyes wide with bewilderment. “You– you saved our lives. We’d all be dead without you.”
The Love Hashira swallows. “We may have saved your lives, but we were unable to prevent the trauma you experienced,” he replies, voice steady and calm. “And for that, we are truly sorry.”
Iida, his face pale and drawn, leans against his desk. “You two…” Iida begins, his voice a low baritone that commands attention. “Went against Sensei’s orders, put yourselves in danger, got life-threatening injuries, fought S-Ranked Villains face-to-face... just to protect us?”
Hitoshi straightens, meeting Iida’s stare head-on. “Yes,” he states firmly, his words ringing with conviction. “It’s our job to protect you when you cannot protect yourselves, and we failed you.” Hitoshi lowers his head, putting his hands to his side. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” Yaoyorozu snaps, her usually polite veneer shattered. “All of us are alive and well. You both did your jobs perfectly, with zero casualties. Neither of you should feel any guilt over that.”
It’s obvious not everyone shares her sentiment, Ojiro Mashirao surging to his feet, his eyes blazing with indignation. “They killed people, Yaoyorozu! They killed over a dozen people! How the hell can you sit there and pretend that’s okay?!”
“They PROTECTED us, Ojiro!” Kaminari counters, electricity dancing across his palms in his rage, eyes sparking menacingly. “It was either us or them!”
“Real heroes should be able to defeat the villains without going that far!” Ojiro retorts.
“Oh, so it’s a-okay when Endeavor kills villains? Or Hawks? Or even Mount Lady?!” Ashido challenges.
Ojiro hesitates, his resolve crumbling under the weight of his own hypocrisy. “That’s different–”
“WHY?!” Mina Ashido shrieks, slamming her hands on her desk in anger. The wood instantly liquefies under her acid, tumbling to the floor in a sad, gloopy mess. “Why can’t you spoiled brats understand that the world isn’t made up of black and white?! Why do you need to be against Midori and Shinso all the fucking time?! Why can you not just let them live their lives, Ojiro?!”
Bakugo’s hands spark, vermillion eyes darkening. “If Deku had a Quirk and Shinso wasn’t a villain–”
“WHO CARES ABOUT THEIR FUCKING QUIRKS?!” Kirishima roars, making everyone go mute. The ordinarily kind boy huffs, sweat rolling off his forehead, his desk split in two by a hardened fist. He whips around to glare at Ojiro and Bakugo. “Who the FUCK cares?! They saved your fucking lives! They put their own lives on the line for you! And all you can do is judge them because they don’t fit your narrow definition of a ‘hero’?! FUCK YOU!”
Kirishima’s outburst hangs in the air like a thunderclap, and the class is stunned into silence. They have never seen the redhead angry.
“Kirishima’s right,” Aizawa says quietly, finally adding something to the discussion. “Lives were in danger, and Midoriya and Shinso protected you. They saved me . You should be grateful for their sacrifice, not condemning them.”
*“Things never really change, do they?”* that tiny voice in Izuku’s head cackles. No. No they don’t.
Freckled hands hold out a steaming cup of tea. Its color shifted ominously, a strange blend of purple and aquamarine that danced in the dim light. “Drink this,” Izuku urges. “It doesn’t taste bad.”
Hesitance flashes across Hitoshi’s face, but the overwhelming pain in his head proves too much to argue against. He cradles the warm ceramic between clammy hands and brings it to his lips, taking a cautious sip.
To his surprise, the tea is surprisingly pleasant. It has a peculiar yet familiar taste like wisteria mingled with a hint of hibiscus. Each sip helps to soothe his skull-piercing migraine, and the pulsing in his neck dulls to a faint pulse. “Thanks.”
Izuku replies nonchalantly. “No problem.” The younger sits at Hitoshi’s bedside, holding a new towel before submerging it into the large, wooden bowl of ice water. Shinso sighs in pure euphoria as the warmed, sticky rag on his head is replaced with a new one, the cooling sensation spreading through his forehead. “Move your head over here so I can braid your hair, please.”
Hitoshi sits up with a groan, turning towards the window that overlooks the sprawling gardens of Yuuei. The stars twinkle above, seemingly greeting him with their gentle light. He allows Izuku to massage the back of his scalp, his fingers gently scratching and his strong hands combing through his hair in a soothing, practiced motion.
“I miss her.”
Izuku pauses, if only for a second, before continuing. “...I do, too,” he admits. “I miss her every day.” It’s a show of vulnerability, something that is extremely rare when it comes to them. “Sometimes, if it’s really quiet and I close my eyes, I can see her.”
A picture flashes in Hitoshi’s mind, one of a vibrant girl with bright magenta eyes and soft raven hair. She’s laughing, running around in the grass of a small clearing, butterflies pollinating the flowers and birds filling the air with their songs.
“Hoshi-nii, ikimasho*! I made sweet potato butter rice for dinner!”
Something profound and vicious pangs in his heart, yearning to witness the smile, to even hear her voice one last time. “She probably would have given Bakugo the shits at least four times by now via food poisoning.”
Izuku chuckles in exhaustion, the sound bringing a faint smile to Hitoshi’s face. “Yes, she would have,” he rasps.
“Come build a snowman with me, Nii-san! I’ll make you a chocolate mocha if you do!”
The memories resemble an old VHS film, with minor glitches on the screen and the voice lines somewhat corrupted by a robotic overlay.
“Nii-san, nii-san! Look at this drawing I made. Do you like it? I used the crayons you got me yesterday!”
“Do you think… she would be proud of us?” Izuku mumbles.
The girl stands between the two brothers, cupping her hands and catching a snowflake so big Hitoshi swears he can see the patterns on the thin sheet of ice. “Winter has always been my favorite season,” she informs no one in particular, eyes sparkling. The background of the scene fades when Shinso looks into Kanako’s eyes. “I wanna make a snow angel!” she announces, tugging him and Izuku by the arms.
“…I think she would’ve been happy to see us happy.”
The chlorine is stinging his eyes, the echo of their laughter bouncing off the steel walls. Hitoshi, body slick with water, jumps into the pool with a huge splash, the water burning his skin from the impact of his fall. He surfaces with a cackle, whipping out his water pistol and aiming at the blurry figure swimming towards him. The figure, Kanako, based on the screech she lets out, easily dodges the water, her laughter echoing up from the depths of the pool. “Hey, that’s not fair! You didn’t warn me!” she exclaims.
“All is fair in love and war, Kana-chan!” he declares, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He shrieks as a stream of water pelts him in the face while he’s distracted, tying his hair up and leaving him sputtering and dripping. “You BRAT!” he yells, his voice laced with playful anger.
The memories are a kaleidoscope of joy and grief, a painful reminder of the life that was and the life that could have been.
“She taught me how to bake chocolate cornets,” Izuku says, a wistful smile gracing his lips. “Remember how she used to say, ‘the secret is in the love you put into it’?”
Hitoshi nods, a lump forming in his throat. He remembers that. Kanako’s smile would beam as she presented them, her eyes shining with joy as bright as the sparkling ramune she would drink with them.
“You need to eat it like this!” the girl claims, ripping the tip off the thinner end. She dips it in the chocolate, holding it out for Hitoshi to eat. “If you eat it this way, you can savor the chocolate with every bite!”
“She’d be proud of us,” Hitoshi finally whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion. “She would’ve wanted us to keep going, fighting, and living—even without her.”
“I’ll always love you from a distance, even if you can’t see me,” Kanako promises, hugging her brothers tight. “One weekend, that’s it. Alright?”
The eldest swallows, holding his sister’s hand. “You promise you’ll be safe?” He offers a slight grin at Kanako’s laugh.
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
“In fact…”
“My mother once told me that the birds chirping outside our windows in the morning were there to say hello in our ancestors’ place.” the girl expresses, staring up at the night sky. They’re on top of the skyscraper of Present Mic’s Hero Agency, having just finished patrol. “And the wind playing with our hair was them speaking to us.”
“I don’t think she ever stopped being proud, Izuku.”
“And if worse comes to worst, and you can’t find them anywhere…” Kanako trails off, reaching her arm up high. “...that you could always find them among the stars.” The girl faces Hitoshi, smiling. “Do you think my parents can see me from the stars too, Nii-san?”
Hitoshi remembers her asking that question, her face filled with a longing that tore at his heart.
“I think they can see you even when you can’t see them,” Hitoshi replies.
A bright laugh exits the girl’s lips, and she’s barreling towards him for a hug. “I love you, Hoshi-nii!” she cheers, her voice ten times brighter than the stars shining above.
“I love you too.” Hitoshi mouths to the stars shining outside their window.
Two years ago, at Yuuei Academy.
Hizashi’s grip loosens, and the mug of steaming hot tea slips out from his hand and clatters to the floor. The liquid forms a small, herbal-scented puddle.
“What did you just say?” he demands, voice utterly devoid of his usual cheerfulness. Shota drops his pen, the appliance rolling to the other side of the table into Nedzu’s waiting hands. Nemuri sits there motionless.
The mammal slips the pen into his breast pocket. “I believe you know precisely what I said, Hizashi-kun,” Nedzu responds with a low hum. “And you also know that I do not like repeating myself.”
Nemuri and Shota are entirely silent—shell-shocked, for lack of a better word. He doesn’t blame them.
…
“How did she die?” his newly turned husband finally asks, breaking the silence. It’s not phrased as a question. Nedzu makes that annoying humming noise again, pausing to take a long sip from his teacup.
Finishing his cup of tea with a dramatized sound, the principal steeples his hands and looks at the trio with his beady eyes. “Kamado Kanako died yesterday afternoon after apprehending S-Ranked Supervillain Muscular. After sparing her opponent’s life, her opponent managed to kill her while her back was turned.”
Silence. Complete and utter silence.
It’s only broken by Nemuri, who starts crying, nestling her face with long, calloused hands. Hizashi senses tears pouring down his face, but despite being dubbed “the Voice Hero,” he is scarily quiet. Eraserhead sits there, rubbernecking at Nedzu with a blank expression, hands twitching.
“Her birthday is next week,” Shota’s words are a hollow echo, his gaze locked on Nedzu’s impassive face.
“Yes, it is,” Nedzu verifies emotionlessly.
“She would’ve been ten.”
“Yes.”
“We let a nine-year-old girl die.”
The accusation hangs in the air, accusing them of their failure and inability to keep her safe. No one denies it.
“...”
The sobs of the R-Rated Heroine intensify at the reminder, practically becoming screams at this point. Usually, Hizashi would find himself grateful their meeting room was soundproof. Right now, he can’t find it within himself to care.
His husband shudders, resting his face in his hands, finally asking the question that haunts them all: “And the boys?”
Hizashi’s breath catches in his throat at the mention of Hitoshi and Izuku. Oh God. The boys. What about the boys?
Hizashi recalls the day he first met Kanako—she was so tiny, practically dwarfed by her brothers, let alone him and Shota. She would always bring snacks for them to eat on his roof and even accept whatever breakfast he’d make gratefully. Always smiling, always kind, always ready to help anyone in need.
Hizashi has always known that Kanako would be a great hero, that she had the potential to be even better than most—but she was too young, too innocent.
He remembers losing a game of chess to the girl, being proud, and wondering if this was what it felt like to have a daughter. Kanako dubbed him “Papa Mic” and Shota “Dadzawa” and pulled pranks on them. He recollects the look in her eyes whenever he was worried—a look full of resolve that made him believe everything would be okay.
And now… she’s gone. The little girl who was the glue in her family is gone.
Hitoshi, with his stoic facade to hide his crippling loneliness and vulnerability beneath, never letting anyone get close in fear of being abandoned, how would he cope with the loss of his baby sister?
Izuku’s tranquil strength, unwavering determination, and loyalty. The mask of indifference he had up, having been taught in his childhood that not having one meant certain death. Would it finally stutter?
“Both are alive and well,” Nedzu reports, his voice emotionless. He sounds like he’s reciting a script. A hero’s script, perhaps, must be strong, unfeeling, and detached to be effective. All Hizashi feels is a terrifying sense of abandonment—the abandonment of a child, the abandonment of innocence.
The abandonment of hope.
He discerns the tears rolling down his face again, and he lets out a choked sob that echoes in the room, the bitter taste of failure lingering on his tongue. Hizashi couldn’t bear to look at any of the others in the room and face the reality of their collective failure.
“This is all our fault,” he whispers, and the other two heroes at his side nod, each reflecting their understanding of that agonizing truth. They shouldn’t have ever left them alone. They should have taken them in. They should’ve tried harder. They should’ve been there to save her.
He knows the world is dangerous—Hizashi understands that better than anyone. He’s always known that there would be heroes who died in the line of duty. But Yamada had never thought that it would be a nine-year-old girl. He had never considered that it would be Kanako. She should still be here, playing with her brothers, learning to socialize with kids her age, and growing up to be a strong and independent hero. She should still be here.
But she’s not. And he, like everyone else, will have to live with that fact for the rest of their lives.
The air hangs heavy with the scent of rain and the lingering echoes of laughter. Kanako and Izuku sit on the worn concrete edge of the skyscraper, their legs dangling into the cool night air. Kanako is already halfway through a story about her latest encounter with a particularly stubborn Noumu, while Izuku nodded patiently, his eyes filled with an absentminded warmth.
“You know, Izuku,” Kanako pauses, tilting her head, a faint smile playing on her lips, “one day Hitoshi is going to find someone he loves a lot that’s not us. And that person will be able to give him something we can’t.”
Izuku’s brows furrow slightly, his usual, blank expression replaced by a fleeting sense of confusion. “What do you mean?”
Kanako shrugs, her smile widening. “I don’t know, maybe it"s a shared passion, a hidden talent, a perspective he never considered before. Something that unlocks a part of him we’ve never seen.” She pauses, her voice softening. “I hope you find someone like that one day too.”
Izuku looks away, his gaze falling to the bright city lights of Aichi Prefecture. Kanako"s words linger, a subtle tremor running through his chest. He knows Kanako is right—she always is. They’re all connected, their lives intertwined by a shared history, a shared understanding of the burdens they carry. Yet there"s a certain longing in Kanako’s voice, a subtle hint of melancholy that he can’t quite place.
“You see, in English, the structure is different. It’s like…a mirror image of how we say things,” Izuku explains. “Such as… chocolate milk. Yes?” Uraraka nods.
“Well if you were to use that word in English, it would be milk with chocolate, or something of the like. This applies to pretty much everything.”
Uraraka looks stunned, mouth gaping. “Aree? That’s so strange! English is so hard… why does it need to be the most common language?!” she whines. “It’s pretty much a requirement to know English if you want to succeed as a Pro Hero,” Uraraka whines. “And I’m so bad at it…”
“It’s alright Uraraka-san,” Izuku assures her, a small grin playing on his lips. “This is just another skill to master—just like every other aspect of Heroics. I believe in you.”
Ochako’s spirits lift slightly at the encouraging words. “Thank you for believing in me, Deku-kun!,” she cheers.
**Omake~!**
Shota groans, regretting all of his life choices that have led him up to this moment. What sins did he commit in his past life to deserve this hell? Fuck.
He finally approaches the door, rolling his eyes at the golden plaque nailed to the front.
Miss Counselor
That’s all there is. No more, no less. Typical of U.A. Taking a deep breath, the man does his best to mentally compose himself before rapping his knuckles on the door twice.
“Come in,” a woman’s muffled voice calls out from inside. He opens the door and closes it behind him before she can finish, immediately being met with the sight of the woman of the hour in all her semi-business casual glory.
On the wall behind her are two degrees, a dual major in psychology and criminal justice from Hosu University, both doctorates. It’s an impressive triumph for anyone, let alone a twenty-four-year-old, but he’d rather die than admit it. Interestingly, there’s also a minor in Cyber Security.
“ Hello Cecilia .” he greets in English. The lady in front of him scoffs.
“It’s Cece. Sit your ass down,” she orders him in her heavy American accent.
Shota does as she says, grabbing a glass cup from the minibar below her desk. Holding it out, Cece rolls her eyes and fills it with whiskey. “Still bad at Japanese, I see.” Aizawa jests.
“ Shut the fuck up ,” Cece replies, taking a large gulp of Coldspell directly from the bottle. “What do you want, Shota?”
The man in question smirks. “Why are you presuming I need something, Cece? Can’t a senpai desire to check in on his kouhai periodically?” He cackles at the resulting groan.
“ Go fuck yourself , you’d rather shove a banana up your ass than come here for no reason. Oh, wait–!”
“Hizashi’s gonna cry again if you call him that in front of him,” Shota mutters, sipping on the whiskey. Ooh. That’s the shit. Cece giggles sarcastically.
“Okay, now I presume this is about your class getting attacked and you almost dying in front of all your students?” she drones, clipboard at the ready. Brutal as ever.
Aizawa sighs. He throws his head back and takes a long drink of his booze, finally answering. “I’m here to talk to you about two of my students in particular.”
The woman offers an “ uh-huh ,” scribbling something down on her clipboard while downing another shot or three of her alcohol. “I imagine it’s regarding the problem duo you’ve been bitching about all week?” she inquires, eyebrow raised. Eraser nods. “Ugh. Very well. I’m all ears.”
“Midoriya and Shinso have been through a lot,” Shota explains. That’s the understatement of the year, but he knows that Cece will get what he’s saying here based on the rapid notes she’s taking. “They’ve been on their own, away from adults, since the ages of eight and seven. Shinso hates all authority, has zero trust in adults, and has a vendetta against those with powerful emitter Quirks. At the same time, Midoriya grew up Quirkless and abused. He learned to put on a mask of pure indifference that none of us have been able to see across throughout the six years we’ve known him as a coping mechanism.”
Cece slams her clipboard down on her desk, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “ Okay , so you’re telling me you’ve got two emotionally stunted, traumatized teenagers who are probably gonna end up either in a mental hospital or, more likely, become Stain 2.0?”
Shota shrugs. “That’s not exactly how I’d put it, but you’re not wrong. I don’t trust anyone else to deal with them without turning them into another statistic.”
Midoriya, despite his Quirklessness, is the most capable student he’s ever had. He’s loyal and selfless and possesses a relentless will to protect everyone around him, even if it means putting himself in danger. Yet, his insecurities and fear of his own abilities make him a walking time bomb. He sees the twitches of that boy’s lips, the anger and sadness in his eyes, and how he clenches his hands.
“And Shinso Hitoshi?” Cece prompts, inclining back in her chair, her face unreadable.
“Shinso,” Eraser begins, “is a puzzle I haven’t been able to solve. He’s brilliant, a tactical genius with incredible control of his Quirk, but he’s also deeply cynical and distrustful of everyone, especially those who should be helping him. And despite having such amazing control over his Quirk, he never uses it.”
Shinso was abandoned by his family, ostracized by his peers, and treated as a freak by society. His only solace was the acceptance he found in his adoptive brother and sister, who were literally six and eight at the time.
Cece listens intently, her eyes flickering across Shota’s face like a predator studying its prey. She then takes a long sip of her whiskey, her gaze hard. “You’re asking me to help them?” she says, flat and emotionless.
“I’m asking you to talk to them,” Shota says, meeting her gaze with decisiveness. “Someone needs to. You’re the best at what you do. You’re the only one who can understand them.”
Cece scoffs. “You know I hate teenagers. They’re all just hormonal messes with a penchant for drama.”
“And yet you still work here,” Aizawa states. “These two are different. They’re not your average high schoolers. They’re special. And they need your help.”
Cece gazes at him for a long moment, her eyes boring into his. Then, she takes another long swig of her whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass.
“ Fine ,” she yields with a sigh. “I’ll talk to them for the next few days, see where it gets us. But don’t expect any miracles. I’m not a magic therapist. I can only do so much.”
Shota cracks a rare smile. “That’s all I need.”
“Don’t mention it,” Cece orders, waving him off. “Now, get out of here, shoo !”
He gets up from his chair and walks towards the door. As he reaches for the handle, Cece calls out to him.
“Hey, Shota?”
He turns to face her, his brow furrowed.
“About those two...,” she articulates, taking on a softer tone than before. “What do you want me to say regarding... her?”
...
“Do or say whatever you think is best,” Shota answers truthfully, shutting the door behind him.