Chapter Text
Aizawa’s capture weapon twitches slightly as he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Children who cry all the time are annoying,” he grunts, low and gruff. He reaches out a hand, ruffling Izuku’s messy mop of seafoam-green hair. “You’re preferable compared to them if anything.”
Izuku’s azure eyes flicker, a vague hint of surprise flashing through them before the barriers of indifference return. “…no,” Izuku mutters softly, barely above a whisper.
The boy’s mind wanders back in time to a younger version of himself, whose tears were met with disdain and cruelty. He remembers the fear, the pain, and the desperate hope that someone, anyone, would come to his rescue.
“The reason children cry when something is wrong,” the boy explains, “is because they think crying will fix everything.”
Eraser’s brows furrow ever so slightly, a flicker of emotion crossing his features.
“From the moment humans are born,” Midoriya continues, his tone soothing, “they’re crying. It’s their first act, their first language. Even before they can speak, even before they can walk, they can cry.” Izuku’s mind drifts to distant echoes of childish sobs, when tears flowed freely and emotions were rampant. He had been a child once: a small, delicate thing with an overflowing heart. The sting of rejection always hurt Izuku more than whenever Kacchan burned him. He remembers the relentless bullying and the taunts that echoed in his ears.
He remembers the feeling of being utterly alone .
“Scientists have claimed that the most vulnerable thing on Earth is a human infant,” Aizawa’s words hang heavy in the air, laden with an unspoken question. “That they have no way to defend themselves.”
“But they can cry. They cry because they know someone will come to help them.” Izuku argues. He glimpses up at Aizawa, his expression unreadable, lips parting to speak but no words escaping. The times he cried, the times he wished desperately for someone to hear his cries, to understand his pain, to offer a hand of solace. His cries fell on deaf ears, met with indifference or even hostility.
People who cry aren’t stupid or annoying. They’re people. If a younger Izuku had someone there for him, to soothe rather than hurt, to understand rather than dismiss, perhaps he wouldn’t have built walls so high that even he couldn’t reach the top. Perhaps he would’ve allowed his tears to run freely as well.
Abruptly, Izuku surges up from bed, his chest heaving, sweat lubricating his forehead. Terror wells up in his eyes, a primal fear consuming him as he’s on the cusp of an anxiety attack. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he clutches at his chest in a pitiful attempt to calm down. The weight of his past and childhood memories—why have they come to torment him now, after all this time?
A faint knock on his door startles him. “Midoriya?” Tokoyami is quiet. Concerned. “Are you alright?”
“…Yes, I’m fine,” Izuku assures calmly. “Sorry for waking you.”
The door creaks, which is presumably Tokoyami leaning against it. “No need to apologize, my friend. I was already up—the darkness never truly sleeps.”
…ignoring Tokoyami’s obvious struggles with insomnia, Izuku can feel warmth blossom in his chest at the thought of being considered a friend rather than the weird, Quirkless classmate no one likes. Or worse.
As he takes a deep breath, quickly regaining his usual composure, he can’t help but wonder.. if Izuku allowed himself to cry, if he allowed himself to be vulnerable, would someone be there to catch him?
He had this same line of thought the day before Kanako died, her blood staining the concrete, begging him to be happy—to smile.
Izuku peeks outside his window, which displays the dorm courtyard, the soft glow of dawn painting the sky. He watches Koda play with bunnies in the gardens, their fluffy ears twitching in the morning breeze. Shoji is resting under a tree near the sidewalk, his elongated fingers tracing the patterns on the pavement.
*“Maybe… just maybe, I also deserve to be happy,”* Midoriya considers.
In the confines of her office, Cece groans in agony , her hands clawing at her face, leaving angry red marks in their wake. The weight of her sheer despair threatens to crush her, and she reaches for a bottle of Everclear, throwing her head back and gulping down the fiery liquid as if it can quench the blaze engulfing her.
Damn it! Damn it all!
After a few beats of frantic drinking, she wheezes, cold bursts of oxygen entering her lungs as she wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her suit in a rough, nearly violent manner. “Okay,” she tells herself, bracing her resolve. “I’ve got this!” After all, this is Cecelia Verity Magne we’re talking about here. She’s faced every challenge head-on.
“I graduated at the top of my class from the Yuuei Business Management course, interned for Japan’s Billboard Number Two Pro Hero, and got fired after a few months, which is a RECORD; no one had ever lasted that long,” she reminds herself. “I graduated valedictorian from Hosu University, and I’m technically a Pro Hero given my license! What’s one traumatized youngster gonna do?”
A timid set of three knocks on the door jostles her out of her reverie. Quickly, the woman hurries to chuck the Everclear into one of her desk drawers and grab her whiskey, the glass clinking against the other bottles loudly. “Come in,” she calls out, a hint of forced neutrality in her tone.
The door creaks open, and Cece first notices the boy’s vibrant hair, which seems to disregard gravity entirely. His eyes, framed by profound bags with a cool hue, are a luminous violet with indigo undertones and slate-colored pupils, meeting Cece’s stare with guarded curiosity. Comparing him to the doorway, Cece can tell he’s only an inch or two shorter than Aizawa.
“Hi,” the boy greets, his voice surprisingly controlled despite the weight of the present situation.
Cece motions to the chair in front of her. “Yes, hello, now sit down,” she commands, her tone clipped and professional. Most kids and parents especially don’t appreciate her bluntness, but Shinso just nods and sits without hesitation or bitterness, which is a promising sign. “Hello, I am Miss Counselor, and you will call me nothing but Miss Counselor unless I express otherwise,” she begins, setting the tone of the discussion with her authority. “Now, your files are… lacking, to say the least, so I’m gonna have to ask you some questions regarding your general life circumstances.”
Shinso looks fairly startled at her straightforwardness, but not in a bad way. The thing is, Cece would have usually gotten a general read on the person or at least discerned their primary emotions, but she’s gotten… nothing from this guy. The kid is registered on what few files they have on him as Quirkless, but from what she’s heard from Shota, that’s not at all true. It’s only been a few minutes, but Cece…
Cece doesn’t believe in coincidences.
But she neither-the-less says nothing for the time being, as Shota kindly told her that the topic is a very sore subject. They’d have to build up to that.
The boy meets her gaze unflinchingly. “I understand,” he answers steadily. “There’s not much to say.”
Cece lifts an eyebrow. “Well, that’s certainly not my experience with teenagers,” she retorts, a glimmer of amusement creeping into her tone. “Most of them can’t seem to shut up about their problems.”
“I’m not like most teenagers,” the boy claims, his voice devoid of bitterness. “I don’t like complaining.”
And now, Cece finds herself intrigued. “And why is that?” Cece questions.
The student hesitates momentarily before saying, “Because it won’t change anything.”
“...”
“Please, Auntie, don’t go!” the young girl wails, clinging to her aunt’s leg. Her cries fill the room with raw emotion. She’s kicked back, the impact of her skull hitting the wall making the world flash white.
“Worthless child!” her aunt exclaims, a sneer on her vermillion lips. “Crying won’t change anything! I won’t have such a useless child under my roof!”
..
“Why can’t you open up to me?!” Hina demands, tears pouring down her face. “Your Quirk is LITERALLY being honest! You can rely on me, Cece! We’re friends, we’re family! Crying and admitting you had a shit life doesn’t make you weak!”
“Crying won’t change anything!” the fifteen-year-old Cece snaps. “Crying and bitching about how life is soooo hard, how unfair the world is, how woe is me won’t change shit, Tsukuru!”
“...”
“...”
*“I believe,”* she thinks to herself slowly, *“that this might just work out.”*
Because even if her Quirk doesn’t work on Shinso Hitoshi, she has a doctorate in Psychology, god damn it.
Still, she’s absolutely going out for drinks with Hina, Nemuri, Hikari, and Usagiyama tonight because Cece is not getting paid enough for this bullshit.
The atmosphere in the U.A. High School’s conference room is stuffy with tension and unstated fears. The aftermath of the League of Villains’ attack had left a trail of chaos and devastation.
“We’ve arrested nineteen villains,” Tsukauchi speaks, his voice tight, “seventy-two were deceased upon arrival, eight died en route to the hospital, ten more during surgery, and three are currently fighting for their lives due to lethal quantities of wisteria poison coursing through their veins.”
Silence cocoons the room like a suffocating blanket. The very magnitude of the casualties has left them all speechless, grappling with the harsh reality of what had happened.
A small, wry chuckle breaks the somber atmosphere, drawing all eyes to the source. Principal Nedzu sips on a cup of tea with inscrutable amusement. “Midoriya-shounen and Shinso-shounen have undoubtedly showcased their talents, have they not?” the mammal muses, his gaze skimming the room. “I must say, the survival rate among the villains is higher than I expected. One can only wonder at the lengths they went to protect their comrades.”
Outrage flares as Vlad’s voice, booming with fury, slams his hand on the table, causing the delicate pottery to tremble and spill. “Are you joking?! They’ve taken the lives of over eighty people, Nedzu! We cannot afford to harbor such villainous individuals within the Heroics Course!”
Kayama, her expression impassive and defiant, interjects with a scoff. “Oh, spare us your righteous indignation, Vlad. They managed to protect their classmates without a single casualty—”
“Except for the villains,” Cementoss interjects sharply, disapproving.
“They were villains trying to kill a bunch of teenagers , Ishiyama!” Snipe argues, pounding his fists on the unfavored table. “Are you saying you care more about the fact some children killed a bunch of adults in self-defense rather than the fact that we nearly let a group of twenty kids die?! We should be kissing Midoriya and Shinso’s feet, god damn it!”
Recovery Girl’s calm voice weaves through the debate, her words carrying wisdom and compassion. “We mustn’t forget our duty to preserve life, no matter the circumstance. They may have been villains, but they were once people with hopes and dreams.”
Snipe huffs in frustration, shaking his head incredulously. “I cannot believe we’re debating the value of lives here. Those ‘people’ posed a threat to the safety of our students. Are we to overlook that fact? Are you saying their lives are just as valuable as our kids’ own?”
The room falls silent once more. All Might, his tired eyes fixed on the table, speaks gravelly, “It’s not about the number of casualties, nor is it about self-defense. We are supposed to be heroes, and heroes do not take lives unless an S-Rank level threat is deemed too dangerous to apprehend. We cannot ignore the gravity of what has happened, the potential ramifications that could unfold if we allow the line to be blurred.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?” Present Mic asks, his voice accusing. “It was our job to keep those kids safe, and we failed. YOU failed! They were attacked because of you, and on top of that, you weren’t even there to save them! What does the oh-so-great Symbol of Peace think we should do here, huh?”
“Investigate,” Aizawa states, his gaze unwavering. “Think about it. Shigaraki’s plan was reckless, almost childish. It doesn’t make sense for a seasoned criminal. There’s no plausible way that many people followed his every word without an incentive.”
Nedzu hums. “Maybe it’s because he’s not the real head. Perhaps we need to take a look at the Kingpin.” The rodent stares All Might in the eyes, tone suddenly grave. “Toshinori, did you ever find a body?”
“A body?!” Ectoplasm shrieks. Tsukachi has become pale.
The blonde man stammers, “I… I didn’t. No, it can’t be—”
“Oh, but it is,” the principal cuts the man off, eyes hard and paws stiff. “It appears this Battle between two brothers is not quite finished—now is it?”
Suddenly, the conference room door bursts open, and a flustered Yaoyorozu rushes in, her face etched with worry. “It’s Midoriya-san and Shinso-san,” she huffs breathlessly, “They’re missing.”
A wave of panic washes over the room, Aizawa jumping up at the news. “Missing? But how?!” Kayama demands.
“I don’t know!” Yaoyorozu swears, clearly on the verge of tears. “They haven’t been seen since last night. We found their rooms empty, and Midoriya only answered Uraraka-san’s call once and said they’d be back by dinnertime!”
Nedzu, his expression unreadable, leans back in his chair, his eyes glinting with an unsettling light. “It seems,” he muses, his voice laced with an undercurrent of knowledge and mirth, “we have forgotten to keep a close eye on our saviors.”
Izuku is exhausted.
“This is Officer Kosuke calling in, apparently train one-seven-three has gone off-course. Believed to be a simple misdirection due to a technological mishap, conductor has confirmed and investigation has been called off. Asking for officers and a sidekick to be on standby at it’s destination for any potential fallout, over.”
The same exact train of which people have gone missing on? Sounds like a loud of bullshit.
“This is M copping in, currently in pursuit of the metro currently on the green line in suspicion of noumu-related activity. Requesting backup, over.”
A crackle sounds into his ear when the line is taken over. “This is H. Currently on standby—I’m on my way. ETA is four minutes, over.” His communicator goes silent.
Izuku sprints across the thin power lines and spots the train in the distance, the train somewhat slower than normal. The vehicle’s upper carriages are seemingly covered in some sort of burgundy-colored, flesh-like, pulsing substance. “Train spotted, currently switching over to yellow line. Seems like a noumu or villain of some kind merged its own body with the train itself. If the target is a Noumu, it is most likely sentient,” the Hashira mutters.
Not good.
…
The air crackles with the scent of ozone and fear, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the acrid stench of burning flesh. “Where the fuck is this bitch’s head?!” Hitoshi shouts, delivering a swift kick to a Noumu’s gut before quickly chopping off its head. His sword flows through the air graciously, as this is a performance they’ve danced countless times before.
Izuku lets loose a series of elongated slashes upon a group of Noumu lackeys, their grotesque bodies crumbling under the relentless onslaught. “I don’t know,” the greenette huffs. “She must’ve merged it somewhere within the train itself—the heads that have popped out are just there to taunt us.” The boy jumps into the air before diving his blade through a Noumu right down the middle, splitting the entire creature in half. This is why you don’t get on Izuku’s bad side.
“Okay, we need a new plan,” the elder brother pants. With the way things are going, there might not be any survivors whatsoever if they don’t get this shit under control.
His younger sibling does a cartwheel to kick a Noumu in the face twice, landing on its shoulders before launching himself off the makeshift platform and killing the demon within a matter of seconds. “I think I may have an idea.”
“Please don’t hesitate to enlighten me,” Shinso yells over the sound of a Noumu roaring. He feels the air move behind him, and alarm bells sound off in his brain. On pure instinct alone he executes a powerful roundhouse kick, his entire body weight slamming into the approaching Noumu. A sickening crack echoes through the air as the demon’s ribs shatter beneath his foot. Grabbing the Noumu’s hair with a death grip, he readies his katana before lopping off the beast’s head in one clean slice.
Those eyes had no consciousness within them. That Demon was nothing more than a fucking vegetable, soul long fizzled out and replaced with a mindless behemoth that could do nothing but eat, eat, and eat. Izuku considers killing Demons a merciful act above anything else. Like pulling the plug on a mere corpse.
But as long as the body remains alive, the soul, however distorted, is still tethered to existence. Even if they’re surviving on nothing but a machine to make your heart beat because it cannot do so itself, that person cannot truly be at peace until they either come back to themselves or die. It’s a harsh reality, but still reality nonetheless.
Most people are unwilling to accept reality, at least, that’s what Hitoshi has learned over the years. They’ll build their fragile little glass houses, paint the walls with watery paints and desperately try to tape the cracks. Everyone has their own conscience. Put up cement walls and as many illusions as you may, the soul is a fragile thing, more delicate than glass, something that can be completely and utterly shattered in an instant.
It’s something nearly every Demon lacks.
Izuku doesn’t have a bubble. He wasn’t allowed to have one—none of his siblings were. Because in reality, not all men are born equal.
Society reminded them of that every single day, every minute, every second. Reminders that scar their skin and have carved themselves into their memories, things that can never be truly healed or erased like so many claim it can be.
Kanako told him about a type of art once. Where instead of gluing the cracks of a broken ceramic together or filling in the gaps with clay, desperately trying to hide the breaks in the piece, you paint them gold instead, highlighting said cracks. Framing the scars and showing them off like their trophies rather than wounds one should be ashamed of.
“You should be proud of your scars, Nii-san,” Kanako whispers to him, cradling his cheek with a warm hand. “They’re proof that you survived.”
Midoriya’s heart pounds in his chest as the train jolts and screeches, its mechanical groans drowned out by the blood-curdling screams of the passengers. The once clean interior is a nightmarish labyrinth, the carriages having become a grotesque fusion of flesh and bone, its pulsating walls and veins causing a sense of suffocating horror. His senses are overwhelmed with the deafening sound of people begging for their lives and the stench of blood.
…
“How many survivors?” Izuku rasps, expression grim as he tends to a deep wound on his arm.
Hitoshi’s gaze drifts to the twisted wreckage, a grim expression etched upon his face. “A little over a dozen…? I’m not sure.” His words are muffled by the sirens blaring in the distance.
“Did you kill all of the underlings?” he checks, fumbling through his belt for some morphine. Damn it. All out. Oh well. He splashes his arm in disinfectant before grabbing the needle and thread. This is gonna hurt.
Hitoshi grabs the needle from him, a disapproving look in his eyes. “You shouldn’t do your own stitches, and I’m pretty sure I have some numbing oils. Not morphine, but better than nothing. And to answer your question, yes. How you managed to derail the train is beyond me.”
The two boys glance behind them to the wrecked train, on its side in the grasses of the National Park of Musutafu. “I managed to locate the spine—it was merged with the engine itself. I shattered it, killing the Demon, and the controls went berserk and suddenly it was careening off the tracks.”
In the shattered souls of the Demons, Izuku sees reflections of his own spirit. Society had deemed them unworthy of compassion. Their souls, trapped in a void of endless hunger, longed for a release that only oblivion could bring.
Izuku once craved death too, after all.
“And where the hell have you two been?” Midnight questions, arms crossed and thoroughly unimpressed.
Hitoshi bluescreens. He blinks rapidly, trying to come up with a suitable answer. “Uhhhhhh... nowhere?” He offers weakly, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.
The woman hums. “Then how did you get so hurt?” she ponders, pointing at their wounds.
“Oh, haha!” Hitoshi felt the weight of her stare and shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room frantically. “We were, uh…” he looks at Izuku, eyes practically screaming at him to say something, anything .
“…hit by a bus.” Izuku blurts out, his face infected with uncertainty as he offers up the absurd excuse. Hitoshi facepalms.
Midnight raised an eyebrow, disbelief written all over her face. “Hit by a bus?” she repeats, incredulity evident in her voice. The tension in the room seems to thicken at the sheer absurdity of Hitoshi's claim, the silence stretching taut between them. “Is that seriously the answer you’re going to go with?”
Izuku blinks. “Yes.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Hitoshi can’t help it—he facepalms again. “Shut up, Izuku.”
Their teacher sighs, massaging her temples. “Fine. Let’s take a look at the NEWS then, shall we?” She picks up the remote from the coffee table, and moves so the boys can see the television behind her. Oh no.
The television flickers once or twice before showing a woman dressed in a suit, papers in hand, and a fake smile showing off her pearly white teeth. “–this evening, when a duo dressed in traditional Taisho-era clothing raided the train, which was, unknown to the local authorities, being held hostage by a large group of villains. The vigilantes, who appeared to be young men, successfully diffused the situation with their… unique abilities. We are still investigating the event’s details–”
Hitoshi feels his face redden. “Unique… abilities?” he chokes out, goggling at the screen with wide eyes. “What unique abilities?! All we did was stab them!”
“So you weren’t hit by a bus.” Midnight articulates, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Oh no.” Izuku bemoans, his face turning various shades of green.
“I…’ Hitoshi tries to speak, but the words get stuck in his throat. He glances at Izuku, who’s already burying his face in his hands. “This is a disaster.”
“Yeah, you can tell your entire class all about it tomorrow morning,” their teacher scoffs. Oh fuck.