Chapter 4: Appointments
Todoroki Shoto wasn't sure how to classify this new emotion he was feeling. There was a whole lot of abdominal pain, but that was probably the nitroglycerin-powered punch that Midoriya had rammed into his gut. He also felt light-headed, which may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that he couldn't breathe anything deeper than a mouthful of air without prompting another bout of the aforementioned abdominal pain. Neither of those experiences ware particularly new, as Endeavor was fond of going for gut punches to teach him to keep his guard up. Gut punches tended to leave fewer broken bones, and the bruises were easier to hide.
The new feelings were more of a confused knot of anger, shame, and giddiness, as though a kitten had taken the neatly wound yarn balls of emotion lying in the dust-coated hamper in the forgotten corner of his mind and batted them across his head, leaving everything tangled together. Bearing that metaphor in mind, Shoto decided to spend the slow, arduous walk to Recovery Girl's office trying to untangle his emotions.
The shame was simple enough. Shame he lost to the Quirkless kid, shame all it took was a pair of gloves and the wave of a hand to lure him right into a trap. Shame he let something so petty as a mosquito bite distract him at the worst possible moment, though now he thought about it, that had to be Koda's doing. Shame he used Endeavor's fire, even though he had sworn not to.
And there was the anger again. Not at Midoriya, not at Bakugo either, no, at himself. The training exercise hadn't particularly mattered to him, so it didn't make sense for him to be angry he had lost, except for this nagging sense that he wasn't supposed to lose, not to someone so weak. How was he supposed to prove to Endeavor that he didn't need his fire if he couldn't even win with both powers?
The giddiness came anytime he thought about Endeavor's reaction. Losing to someone near his level would've been enough for Endeavor to spend a month training him until his bones turned to jelly. Him losing to someone without a Quirk might make Endeavor furious enough to burn himself to a crisp. Shoto wondered if it would be better to tell Endeavor himself, or wait for him to find out through whatever contacts he had at U.A.
"Are you still feeling okay?" Ojiro asked. "We're almost there."
Shoto looked over at the classmate carrying him by the shoulder. "Nothing's broken."
Bakugo was laid down in one of the beds. Dried, crusted blood was smeared across his face, and his nose was wrapped in thick gauze bandages.
As Ojiro set Todoroki down at another bed, Recovery Girl came back in with a damp towel. "Just how many kids is All Might going to send me today?" she said as she pulled up Todoroki's shirt. Shoto winced as she prodded and poked at his gut, but the pain was mild enough to endure without making a sound. "Nothing's broken sweetie. Have a gummy, let that ice for ten minutes, and head back to class."
The purple gummy bear she handed him tasted like cough medicine. It left his chest with a tingling, energized sensation as it hit his stomach. Ojiro offered him an ice pack, but Shoto made his own ice.
Recovery Girl examined Midoriya next. "Gloves off, please."
Ojiro had to help Midoriya with the right glove. As the skintight black fabric slid off, revealing a patchwork quilt of scars, Shoto felt his eyes widen. He followed the scars up Midoriya's shoulder, over to his back, and wondered how he hadn't noticed earlier. Thin lines, jagged scratches, and burn marks, so many burn marks, some the size of a thumbprint, some bigger than his hand, none quite as vivid and pronounced as Shoto's own scar, but eye-catching through their sheer quantity. The skin from his knuckles to his elbow was an angry shade of red, with the faint beginning of a blister forming on the back of his hand.
Recovery Girl's eyes roamed across the scars before snapping back to the burn. "Second degree, I think. I have some cream and painkillers for that, no point in wasting my Quirk. It'll blister a bit, just leave it alone and it'll be fine."
Bakugo's gloves must have helped. Endeavor's flames usually burn to the bone. Midoriya managed the other glove himself, though not without visible discomfort as he gently pried the glove off his hand. Two crooked fingers didn't quite bend with the rest of his hand.
Recovery Girl tsked and puckered her lips. Midoriya's fingers twitched and straightened as the bones in them mended back together. "Two students with broken bones in ten minutes, that has to be a record. I really ought to have a word with him."
"It was my fault," Midoriya said. "Sorry about that."
"Learn from your mistakes. There's only so many times I can speed up your healing before you're too exhausted to move."
"I will, thanks." Midoriya set a hand on Bakugo's bed. "How is he?"
"Concussion, broken nose, nasty lump on the back of his head." Recovery Girl squeezed come cream out of a tube and slathered it on Midoriya's burned hand. "Let All Might know he'll be out for the rest of the day."
"Got it." Midoriya took the tube of burn cream Recovery Girl offered him and went to the door. As he was leaving, he turned around and asked, "Hey Todoroki-san, want to get soba sometime?"
The only two words that initially registered in Shoto's mind were 'want' and 'soba'. Without thinking about it, he said, "Sure."
"How does five on Friday sound? I'll have training with Aizawa-sensei after class, but I can do it after that."
The full extent of Midoriya's quest had finally percolated through Shoto's brain. Even then, knowing that Midoriya had just invited him to eat soba, he had no idea what the request entailed. No one had ever asked if he wanted to go anywhere before. Was it something friends did? Were they friends now? Shoto admitted to himself he didn't know anything about friendships, but he was pretty sure they didn't start with a punch to the stomach or he and Endeavor would be friends a thousand times over. Was it the scar? Did Midoriya still want to know the story behind his scar? Was Midoriya willing to share his own? Did he even want to know?
His first impulse was to refuse, saying that he had training after school as well. As he thought about it, he realized it came with two benefits – one, he wouldn't have to go home until late in the evening, missing a day of Endeavor's training, and two, soba. His eyes wandered back to Midoriya's arms, then to Midoriya's face. Midoriya showed no sign of emotion, no anger, no happiness, no worry. It had been that way before and during the fight as well. Two broken fingers, and not a trace of a grimace the entire time.
It felt like he was looking in a mirror.
"Sure. I can do that."
"Great. I'll get you my phone number later."
Watching Midoriya leave, Shoto had given up on understanding his emotions. For now, he decided to sit back, let the ice numb his bruised stomach, and wonder if the soba would be chilled.
With just the two of them in the hallways, Mashirao knew it was now or never, but he still didn't know what to ask. Going straight for the scars felt far too blunt, and odds were, Midoriya would refuse to answer him. Given the fact Midoriya was Quirkless, Mashirao had the uneasy feeling he had some idea of why he had gotten them anyways.
Which left his other question. As they approached Ground Beta, Mashirao took a deep breath, as if he were crouching into a forward stance.
"How did you know when to turn around?"
Midoriya stopped. Mashirao continued a few steps before reeling himself back. With a neutral expression that betrayed no hint of discomfort or confusion, Midoriya asked, "What do you mean?"
"When Bakugo lunged at you," Mashirao said, "You turned at the perfect moment and had your fist in the perfect spot. I know you had Koda telling you where he was, but there's no way hand signals would give you that much information that quickly."
Midoriya rummaged in his track pants' pocket and took out a journal. The cover had the reflective sheen of a product fresh off the shelf, and on the front, in black marker was written '1-A'.
"I've known Kacchan since we were kids," Midoriya said as he flipped through the journal's empty pages. "His Quirk, his temperament, fighting style, everything. I made notes of everything I thought would be important."
Midoriya handed him the journal. On one page was Bakugo's face, glaring at him through rough pencil lines and graphite shading. For a quick sketch, it captured Bakugo's sour, ego-centric personality very well. A second sketch showed a full-body portrait, though the limbs were left as single strokes of the pencil. The other page had a staggering analysis of Bakugo's strengths and weaknesses, in terms of his Quirk, overall physical conditioning, and state of mind, so much crammed into tiny text that it made Mashirao's eyes hurt looking at it.
"Your drawing's very good."
"It's just a rough sketch. I was waiting for our hero costumes before putting the finishing touches."
Mashirao flipped to the next page. It was empty. As he was about to hand it back, curiosity got the better of him. The journal was labeled 1-A, and Bakugo's entry was about thirty pages in. He flipped to the beginning and found Aoyama's roughly-drawn face staring smugly back at him, with sparkles drawn in to capture his vanity. His notes were no less detailed, though a quick read showed it was more speculation than hard facts. Despite that, Midoriya had already noted Aoyama's inability to change the output of his Quirk and speculated on using mirrors and lenses as support items.
"They're in alphabetical order," Midoriya said.
Mashirao, startled, closed the book and held it towards him. "Sorry, I shouldn't have looked."
"No, it's fine. It'd be nice to see what someone else thinks of my analysis."
Somewhat perturbed, Mashirao flipped until he found his own name. Midoriya had noted his excellent physical conditioning and correctly guessed that he had martial arts training. Reading further, Mashirao found the flaws in his fighting style, a lack of ranged options and the inability to combat more impressive strength-augmentation Quirks, along with suggestions of support items to correct both issues.
"You think I should use a bola?"
"Excellent way to incapacitate fleeing villains," Midoriya said. "Non-lethal and low risk of injury. Can be used to tie up villains, and in a pinch, it could serve as a close-range weapon. Makes use of your excellent physical conditioning and impressive throwing ability. With practice, your tail could throw them, surprising opponents that are focused on your arms."
"And the tonfa or escrima sticks?"
"For opponents with blades. You won't be able to dodge easily in crowds and close quarters, so having a way to block is important. A sturdy enough weapon can let you crack hardening Quirks like Kirishima's, and these are less likely to kill as well."
"You've done this for the entire class? How did you get this much?"
"Yesterday's test gave me a lot to work with. I'll add more as I see more of what everyone can do."
Mashirao counted the empty pages. With as much detail as Midoriya could cram into a single page, he likely had enough space to last the entire year. Out of curiosity, Mashirao flipped forward, looking through the M's. Midoriya had a section of his own. His sketch was much more detailed, both the profile and full-body, with colors penciled in. Midoriya's eyes stared out from behind a plastic visor, and his hair was left loose. The full-body shot showed a different hero costume, a form-fitting tracksuit with muted green colors, fingerless gloves, a black belt with pouches, and padded shoes.
Midoriya was no less thorough on his self-analysis, citing his Quirklessness and highlighting his inferior physical conditioning, while stating his ability to analyze Quirks and his research into hero work, along with the likelihood of being underestimated by his opponents, as his chief advantages. Towards the bottom, Midoriya had made a list of self-improvements he wished to make, improving his stamina, getting a ranged weapon, and learning martial arts.
"You even analyzed yourself?" Mashirao asked.
"It's important to know where you start and what you can work on." Midoriya gave him a sad smile. "I have a long way to go compared to everyone else."
"You beat Todoroki and Bakugo. I'd say you don't have much to worry about."
"A stunt like that only works once. If I want to stay in the Hero course, I need to learn how to fight." With a wry smile, Midoriya added, "Without breaking fingers, preferably."
"Well, you could always ask one of the teachers, or you could try finding a dojo off campus. Come to think of it, didn't you say you'd be training with Aizawa-sensei that day?"
"Actually, I was wondering if you'd be willing to show me some beginner moves. Eraserhead specializes in Wing Chun, for more defensive fighting if cornererd, which I intend to learn, but I'd like to try Jiu Jutsu."
"Why e? I'm just another student."
"I doubt that green belt is just for show," Midoriya said, pointing at the belt over Mashirao's gi. "It's fine if you don't want to, I just thought it would be a good way to get to know a classmate better."
"And get more notes for your journal," Mashirao added in a defensive tone.
"I'd be willing to show you what I write down. It's only fair. If I come up with anything else I think would help you, I'd be happy to share it as well."
Mashirao still felt uncomfortable around Midoriya. Between his unexpressive face and affable demeanor, he couldn't tell what was going on in Midoriya's head, and judging by all the scars and his lack of a reaction to breaking fingers, he had to have been through some serious abuse. At the same time, he couldn't deny that Midoriya had been open and honest with him about his observations and seemed genuine in his wish to spend time together. In the end, the opportunity to observe more of his classmate's behavior, to assess how much of a danger Midoriya posed, swayed his decision.
"I suppose I could show you some basic stances," Mashirao said.
"Great! How does Saturday at five sound?"
"More training with Aizawa? You shouldn't overdo it."
"It's just basic stances, right? Shouldn't be too taxing."
Mashirao mulled it over. While exercising too much could hurt Midoriya, he could keep the exercises light for a martial arts beginner. "I suppose. Make sure he knows about it."
"I will. Swap phone numbers after class?"
"Trying to collect the entire class' contact information?"
Midoriya chuckled and said, "My journal wouldn't be complete without it."
Mashirao couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
Once Midoriya returned to the classroom, Ashido Mina waved him over to the empty seat next to her, which had once been Kirishima's. Midoriya took the seat and brought out a journal. His eyes were glued to the screen as he made sketches on a page. Curious, Mina leaned over and saw Midoriya drawing the features of Kirishima's hero costume. When Kirishima and Sato clashed, the latter cracking Kirishima's hardened body with a sugar-powered punch, Midoriya made some quick side notes next to the drawing.
"Wow, you're really good," Mina said, keeping her voice low so All Might wouldn't hear.
"Thanks," Midoriya muttered back. "I've been waiting for the hero costumes to finish my sketches."
Mina leaned closer, letting her shoulder rub up against him. "That's a lot of detail you're putting on the abs. You wouldn't happen to be into guys, would you?"
Mina's teasing statement got a couple strangled gasps out of Kaminari and Iida, but Midoriya didn't even flinch at the question. "The drawings help me visualize how people use their Quirk. More detail means I might see something I'd otherwise miss."
Mina mentally cheered. Midoriya's confident, bold, and knows how to handle her banter. If he knew how to party, she'd call him her perfect match. She studied him closely, searching for clues on how to steer the conversation. He kept drawing, but she could see him glance her way every so often.
"What about me? Have you drawn me yet?"
Midoriya flipped towards the front of the journal. The sketch was still rough, but Mina stared in fascination at her bubbly, cheerful smile staring back at her.
"Ooh, I like it!" Lowering her voice, she asked in a mock serious tone, "You didn't get a peek in the locker rooms for your sketches, did you?"
From the way Jiro's jacks twitched and the glare she sent at Midoriya, she had picked up on that question. Mina winced, hoping she didn't just get Midoriya in trouble, but he handled her question with impeccable poise.
"Who do you think I am, Mineta? I'm working off memory from the Quirk test yesterday."
Jiro relaxed in her seat, and Mina let out the breath she had been holding.
"That has to be challenging, though, right?"
"It is, but for the finer details, I'll ask for footage from today's lesson."
"They let us look at that?"
"Of course." Midoriya gestured at the screens. Currently, Kirishima was stuck in Sero's tape, but Aoyama cut him free with his laser. "The school website uploads videos of class activities like these so we can learn from our classmates."
"Wait, can anyone watch these?" Shoji asked. Two of his tentacles had sprouted ears, and a third held a mouth right next to Midoriya.
"Anyone with a school I.D.," Midoriya answered to one of the ears. "If the videos go public, the school needs your permission first."
All Might, finally noticing the conversation, cleared his throat and said, "Please hold your comments until the end of the combat exercise. We will discuss it together once they get back."
As silence returned to the room, Mina stared sullenly at All Might's back. The conversation had gotten derailed, and now, she had lost her chance to find out more about Midoriya's hobbies. Risking one last whisper, she asked, "Want to hang out some time?"
"Sure. Swap numbers later."
All Might turned back around, putting a prompt end to their conversation, but once he had gone back to the screen and Midoriya was buried back in his journal, Mina pumped her fist. Her excitement was somewhat diminished when, after math class, she wasn't the only one waiting outside Ectoplasm's room.
"So, you swing both ways, Midoriya-chan?" Mina asked with a mischievous smile.
Todoroki gave her a bland, puzzled look, while Ojiro reddened visibly. Midoriya, unflappable as ever, simply said, "I don't think so. Haven't really thought about it."
Once they went their separate ways, Mina's phone got a text, suggesting mochi on Sunday. Mina immediately said yes and headed home with a bounce in her step.
Power Loader was busy resigning himself to an extra three hours watching over his new problem student when a knock came at the Support Lab's doors. Midoriya, dismissed from extra training by Eraserhead on account of having burns and stamina drain from broken fingers, instead used his time after school to get his hands on new support equipment.
"Midoriya, right? Something I can do for you?" Power Loader asked in a bored tone.
"My hero costume got covered in blood during combat training today," Midoriya answered.
"Put in a request. Yours was pretty simple, so we should have something whipped up by tomorrow."
"Actually, I was hoping to make some adjustments. I have some material specs and color schemes I wanted to implement. I would also appreciate it if I could discuss possible support items with one of your students."
Power Loader looked back nervously, where the one student that had refused to leave the premises was feverishly working on her next volatile experiment. "Well, most of the students have gone home already."
"Which means at least one is still here. Can I talk to them for a minute?"
Power Loader weighed his options. While he technically was supposed to let his students help heroes in training design their gear and only step in to make sure the new equipment wouldn't get students killed in the field, he felt tempted to spare the young, vulnerable-looking Midoriya the danger of approaching his problem student.
Splitting the difference, Power Loader said, "You could always come back tomorrow, when there are more students around. You might find someone better suited to designing what you need."
"I'm sure we can work something out. I need new gear as soon as possible."
Power Loader sighed and flung open the door. "She's in the back. Watch your step around her, the jetpack she was designing today blew up half the lab."
He was hoping that off-hand comment would be enough to scare off Midoriya, but he didn't seem fazed in the slightest by the prospect of handling anything that could explode at any moment. Instead, he thanked Power Loader and went straight towards the sounds of welding torches and power sanders. Power Loader followed the kid, partly because he had nothing better to do, mostly to make sure he didn't have to file an incident report.
As they approached Hatsume's workstation, the canister of compressed, flammable gases she was welding to a metal plate sprung a leak. She dove for cover, killing the heat on the welding torch, but a stray spark ignited the gas. With a deafening bang, the canister blew its top off. A clump of metal shrapnel the size of a fist sailed close enough to the Midoriya's head to ruffle his hair, yet he didn't even flinch.
"Instead of welding the tanks onto the plate, you should make holders for the tanks," Midoriya said. "That way, you can swap them out with fresh canisters."
Hatsume looked up from her hiding spot under the work bench, her goggles zooming in and out as they focused on Midoriya's face. "Hatsume Mei," she said as she clambered onto her feet. "Maybe later in the development cycle," Hatsume said. "I wanted a proof of concept first."
"You're not going to get a proof of concept if it keeps blowing up on you." The student examined the framework of the jetpack, which still had smoke drifting off it. "A jetpack's a great idea, adds maneuverability to a hero's kit. There are a lot of heroes that could use something like this."
Hatsume rushed forward and grabbed the student by the shoulders, all but crushing him with her chest as she brought him face to face. "I know, right? Everyone was saying that grapnel hooks were more practical, but how boring is that?"
"Plus, a grapnel hook wouldn't work in open spaces."
"Exactly! Plus, with a jetpack, a hero can do a flying headbutt. Imagine how awesome that would be!"
"It would be awesome." The student took a journal out of his backpack and got a pencil ready. "I need some kind of long-range weapon, and I was wondering if you could help me with that."
"You want to make babies with me?" Hatsume asked excitedly.
Power Loader inwardly groaned, ready to explain to the poor kid Hatsume's meaning, but the kid answered in a calm voice, "I would appreciate it."
"Ooh, let me guess, attack drones with boxing gloves? Imagine swarming your enemies with hordes of flying punching robots!"
"I was thinking something hand-held."
"A gun that fires a second gun? Imagine the trick shots you could do with that baby."
"Non-lethal."
"…rubber bullets? Ooh, that explode into sticky goo, snaring your target!"
"Something that can help me grab things."
Hatsume frowned. "That kind of sounds like a grappling gun." She hummed to herself in frustration before shouting in delight and slamming her hand on the workbench. "Give me one second."
Hatsume returned with a six-foot length of cable, some duct tape, and a wad of grip plastic. After taping everything together, she slapped the cord against the wall, letting the plastic end stick. An experimental tug had it clinging to the wall.
"Is it safe on people?" Midoriya asked as he examined the adhesive material.
In response, Hatsume peeled the prototype off the wall and flung it at Midiroya, catching him in the face. With some care, the plastic peeled off without leaving a mark.
"Any way we can get it to unstick remotely?"
Hatsume was long-gone, scrambling for parts around the workshop. "Could do something with an electrical current. Send a wire through the cable. Air pressure… use the grappling guns as a base… I can have it ready by tomorrow."
"Great. Thank you, Hatsume-san. We can meet up right after class ends."
Hatsume grunted in reply as she tore apart a stock grappling hook. Power Loader, stunned by how well Midoriya had handled his most eccentric student, followed him numbly back to his office.
"I would discuss costume changes with you, right? Would you mind if we went over the new specs?"
"Sure kid." Power Loader got himself a cup of coffee and resigned himself to a long night. "Whatever you need."
Chapter 5
There were moments when Izuku hated his Quirk. He hated raising his hand for every question in every class, giving perfect answers every time. He hated getting perfect scores on every quiz and worksheet, prompting the teachers to praise his academic excellence. He hated seeing Kacchan's simmering anger and Yaoyorozu's crushed, defeated expression every time he outdid them both. They both competed with him to answer the most questions and score the highest on their first-day pop quizzes, but neither of them could compete with someone who knew the answers before the teacher had even handed out the papers.
It had been like that for no small part of his childhood. He had always hated knowing that people will die or villains will escape and thinking that if he had made an anonymous call to a Hero Agency, none of that would have happened. He hated hiding his scratches and burns from his mom, hated avoiding beaches and swimming pools, hated wearing long-sleeve shirts even when it was hot outside. He hated wondering what kind of house they could have if he had used his Quirk to win the lottery, how often they could have katsudon, how much more time his mom would have for him since she wouldn't have to work two jobs.
Over the years, he had considered taking those paths, risking discovery of his Quirk to get him and his mother better lives, but every time, the mere thought of changing what he saw gave him a headache, as though he was ramming his head against a brick wall. So, he kept his head down, kept his scars hidden, and tried not to look too closely at news of people dying.
Of all those events, of all the pain and suffering he had endured, of all the squalor of their dingy two bedroom apartment, the instant ramen and bean soup, second-hand clothes and faulty AC units, of all the attention currently heaped on him, nothing made him more seriously consider pushing through that headache, finding any other possible future, than what was about to transpire as he slipped into an alleyway just outside U.A. after a training session with Aizawa on Thursday evening, with loud, angry footsteps at his heels.
Bakugo Katsuki had fallen into Wonderland.
It was the only explanation for how fucked up the world had become the moment he woke up in a hospital bed in Recovery Girl's office, with almost enough gauze plastered over his face to smother him in his sleep. The old hag had told him he had broken his nose and had gotten a concussion. That alone was impossible. He was Katsuki. Nothing could hurt him. He could take a long walk off a high-rise building and blast his way down without a bruise. If something flew at him, he could blast it out of the air. If anyone tried to hurt him, they'd fucking die.
As if that wasn't fucked up enough, when he numbly asked how the hell he had wound up with a broken nose, the hag had slathered a metric fuck-ton of putrid icing atop the shit cake. Fucking Deku had punched him. One punch from Deku, scrawny, pathetic, Quirkless Deku, and he had a broken nose, a concussion, and the living daylights knocked out of him. Not. Possible.
When he bolted upright, dizziness hit him like a truck, but he struggled through it, staggering to his feet through spite against the stupid world that had dared bring him low. With a gentle push of her cane, Recovery Girl knocked him back in bed, gave him a disgusting kiss on the forehead, and all but shoved one of her gummy bears down his throat.
While strength returned to his numb body, he caught flashes of what had happened up until he had blacked out, going up against Deku, racing into the building, finding him with his back turned, nowhere to run, no one to get in his way, no one to make him hold back and take it easy on the hero wannabe. A flash of green, hollow eyes staring through him as a white-gloved fist appeared, as if drawn out of a magician's hat, right in front of his face. The whole scene had a dreamlike unreality to it, like a nightmare that seemed laughably absurd even as it sent a chill up his spine.
Recovery Girl kept him there until the end of the day, by which time it was too late to reassert his place at the top of the classroom. The school had evidently told his parents about the whole thing, since both his parents had come to pick him up. His old hag of a mom shouted at him for being reckless and getting himself hurt on the second day, but the words had no bite to them, and that somehow stung more, like he was too weak to take her anger and disappointment, too fragile after being one-upped by the weakest kid in the whole school. Katsuki let himself simmer in silence, too exhausted and shell-shocked for real anger.
The next morning, Katsuki hadn't even remembered what had happened until he looked in the mirror. Purple and black splotches covered half his face. A trembling finger brought to his nose leapt away as pain shot through the sensitive cartilage. The memories came flooding back, and this time, he had the strength for anger. His hand crashed palm-first into the mirror. Beads of nitroglycerin sweat popped, shattering the mirror into a hundred tinkling shards. His mom ran up the steps and screamed at him. He screamed back. They fired salvos of swear words, each more explicit and bombastic than the last, the booms and cracks of their clashing voices turning the tiny, glass-covered bathroom into a war zone.
By the end, Katsuki was grounded for a week and grinning like a maniac. He was back. U.A. wouldn't know what hit it. By the end of the day, he'd be back at the top of the food chain.
His enthusiasm died a slow and ugly death in class that day.
To kick off his absolutely horrible day, their creepy homeless teacher went over yesterday's combat training, giving everyone specific pointers on how to improve. While Katsuki greatly enjoyed the fact his face was awesome enough to break two of Deku's fingers, he did not enjoy getting lectured in front of the entire class on how he was a jackass for charging headfirst into an unknown situation and getting himself taken out without alerting his teammate. That wasn't his fault. He was up against fucking Deku. Deku wasn't supposed to be able to do anything, and the quivering lump of jelly he had for a teammate should've been just as useless. It wasn't his fault the universe decided to turn itself upside-down.
First period was modern art history, an awkward subject for Katsuki, given how Aldera Junior High never touched it and he had blown it off as a waste of time. Midnight's first move was to explain that they studied it to better understand how Heroes influence artistic media, which seemed like a stretch to Katsuki, but given it was a requisite course and he wouldn't settle for anything less than top grades, he resolved to memorize every word of their textbooks. He was already five chapters ahead by Wednesday, having plowed through the book the first chance he got, and yet, he found himself pausing at a few questions, struggling to recall the hastily-assimilated information.
Most other students, even miss know-it-all the recommended student, seemed just as off balance as he was. Deku, quiet, insignificant Deku, on the other hand, had turned into a fucking art critic overnight, answering every question and earning nothing less than Midnight's absolute admiration. In a way, it made sense. Katsuki wasn't blind, he had seen those hero drawings in Deku's books. It made sense he'd happen to have an absurd amount of knowledge on this one, obscure subject. As much as it stung to concede defeat, Katsuki had reckoned on losing only this battle and winning the war.
Second period was another rout. Math, Katsuki's strongest subject, had turned into a confusing maze of integrals and derivatives, exponents and logarithmic tangled like cables carelessly heaped into a drawer, difficult, but not impossible to untangle. Yet, the moment the grinning pile of goop scrawled out a calculus problem, Deku had his hand raised, with a perfect answer every time. Even four-eyes couldn't keep up, and he had fucking jet engines for legs.
It was the same in every single subject. Deku spoke English as if he had been huffing hamburgers since childhood, had every book in the literature syllabus downloaded to his brain, and recited hero regulations as if he had written them himself.
As galling as it was to find himself behind Deku, being visibly behind the recommended chick, who was also behind Deku, stung worse. If it had been just her ahead of him, he'd have rejoiced at the prospect of a worthy contender, someone to surpass on his road to being the greatest hero, but to be outclassed by someone who was in turn outclassed by Deku just rubbed salt into his wounds.
As the day wore on, Katsuki came to an infuriating conclusion. Deku had been holding out. He had deliberately held back in middle school to make him look like an idiot at U.A. How else could he go from a B-level piece of furniture to top of the class in a single summer? Katsuki swore to himself he'd make Deku pay.
Maybe Deku was smart enough for U.A., but he'd never be strong enough to be a hero. One way or another, he would prove it. So, Wednesday afternoon, he waited outside U.A., but Deku never showed. He got back home half an hour late and had to make a half-assed excuse about having to take a detour when his mother got on his ass for not coming home right away. When he heard the next day that Deku was training every day after school with Eraserhead, Katsuki decided that curfew can go fuck itself. He wasn't waiting a whole week while Deku rubbed his inhuman intelligence into his face.
So, Thursday afternoon, as the sun sank below the high-rise apartments, casting an orange glow on their windows, he followed Deku into a quiet, empty alleyway. He made no effort to hide his footsteps, rather, he went out of his way to make extra noise, trying to make the Quirkless wimp turn around. Deku didn't even twitch. Gritting his teeth, Katsuki strode faster until he was within reach of him.
"Deku!" he roared, raising his right fist. He waited until Deku started turning to throw the punch, waited until he could see the panic in his eyes. Like the nightmare of getting beaten in combat training, there was no fear in Deku's expression as he watched Katsuki coming towards him.
Deku caught Katsuki's punch by the wrist. Pulling back, Deku forced Katsuki to lean further forward while pressing his knee into Katsuki's thigh. Unbalanced, Katsuki fell forward, catching himself with his free hand. He tried to roll over, tried to wriggle loose from Deku's grasp, but the smaller boy was on top of his back, wrestling his hand into a painful hold, palm pressed flat against his back.
Katsuki brought up his left hand, detonating the nitroglycerin on his palm, but Deku leaned aside, letting the blast ruffle his hair. Deku snagged the other hand and forced it next to his right, holding them both in place with a knee.
"I'm sorry about this, Kacchan."
Katsuki wriggled, but he couldn't break free. "What the hell, Deku! Let me go!"
"Stop struggling. We need to talk."
"Like hell I will! Get the fuck off!"
Katsuki wriggled and wriggled, but nothing he did made Deku budge an inch. As he struggled, he became painfully aware that, with his palms pressed against his back, he may as well be Quirkless. The skin on his hands could stand up to his explosions, but everything else was too sensitive. He'd scorch his back if he tried blasting his way free. It was Deku's way of making Katsuki as worthless as he was, and the mere thought of it made Katsuki sorely tempted to light up his hands like fireworks, his back be damned.
Exhausted after his fruitless struggle, Katsuki sagged, letting his head rest on the dirty concrete. "What the fuck do you want?"
Deku rolled up one of his sleeves and held his scarred arm in front of Katsuki's face. "Not all these are your doing, but enough are to get you into serious trouble."
Katsuki snorted. "Seriously? Nobody gives a damn about you."
"Aldera didn't, but Aldera was an impoverished school desperate to get someone with a powerful Quirk to graduate and put them on the map. They would've covered up murder if it meant getting you into U.A. But at U.A., it's a different story. They have a reputation to keep, and nobody wants a hero that abuses their classmates. It'd be bad press for U.A. if someone found out they accepted someone with your track record for hurting people."
Katsuki froze, sagging under Deku's weight. The pebble in the road, by some cruel optical illusion, had turned into an indomitable mountain in the far distance the moment he turned the bend towards U.A. Deku was smarter than him, Deku was stronger than him, and now, Deku had him at his mercy. What made it worse is Deku had the balls to look sorry as he ground his face in the dirt. Deku stared sorrowfully at him through the grimy glass shard in front of Katsuki's eyes.
"So, what? You're going to get me in trouble?"
"What you did would have you expelled, at the very least. If I pressed charges, you could even get arrested. You'd never be a hero."
Hot, stinging tears worked their way out of Katsuki's eyes. "You're just rubbing it in before you fuck me over, huh? Having fun, Deku?" His voice was shaking, and he couldn't stop it, but he refused to break down sobbing.
"Not at all. This is the only way to get through to you. This is the only way to get you to listen to me. If there was any other way, I'd take it." It sounded more like Deku was trying to convince himself than Katsuki.
"Fine, I'm listening, happy? Say whatever the fuck you have to say and let me go. My old hag's already going to chew me out for being late."
"Alright then. I want you to do three things for me. First, no more swear words. Heroes don't swear."
"The fuck–"
Deku's knee dug into his back, crushing his fingers. Katsuki groaned and gritted his teeth.
"That's your last one," Deku said. "If I hear you swear again, I'll go straight to the principal. Do you understand?"
"Are you fu – are you blackmailing me?"
Katsuki watched him through the glass. Deku looked away, and his shoulders slumped. "It's the only way."
Hysterical laughter bubbled up in Katsuki as tears dripped down his face. "Are you fu – for real? What makes you think you can get away with this?"
"Second," Deku said, "Make friends with Mineta-san and Kaminari-san."
"The pervert and the dunce?" Katsuki asked angrily. "You can't be serious."
"I am. Invite them to the arcade next Sunday. If they accept, I'll keep your secret. My advice is to start eating lunch with them, act nicely around everyone, not just them, and wait until next Tuesday before asking them. I'll pay for it, since it's only fair."
"You seriously want me to–"
"Also, make sure Mineta doesn't get himself expelled. You can hardly be friends with him if he gets himself kicked out for peeping in the women's locker room.
"Fu–" Katsuki cut himself off before he could swear. The blackmail, the humiliation, Deku's casual attitude as he told him how to live his life, like he was a cute little Pomeranian on a leash, made his blood boil. Once again, he bucked and tried to throw Deku off, and once again, Deku's knee forced him back into the dirt.
Sweating, tired, and emotionally spent, Katsuki asked in a sullen voice, dreading what the answer would be, "What's the third thing?"
"Be the hero I could never be."
Deku put something in his pocket, released him, and walked away. Katsuki struggled to get up, half-blind with rage, ready to strangle Deku, but by the time he made it back onto his feet, Deku was long gone. He felt around in his pocket and found a 5,000 yen note, clean, neatly folded, fresh from a local bank. Katsuki almost tore it up.
"Shi–" Katsuki cut himself off, seized with the fear that Deku might still be nearby, waiting for him to crack. Howling in anger, Katsuki punched a brick wall, leaving a scorch mark as his sweat exploded. The sharp ache of his bruised fingers did nothing to dull the ponderous, cold dread in his gut.
Katsuki made it back home just before sunset. His mother was on him at an instant, shouting at him for not coming home on time two days in a row. Too tired to put up a fight, Katsuki murmured an apology and waited for her to stop shouting. She must've known something was off, from his disheveled clothes, bloodied fingers, and tear-stained face. Her voice softened to a tone Katsuki hadn't heard in years and asked him what was wrong. He couldn't answer her.
Alone in his room, without anyone to watch him, Katsuki broke down, sobbing into his pillow as the sun set.
If any class was going to give Aizawa Shouta gray hairs before his time, it would be this one. It had been just over a week since class had started, but he was already sure he'd have nightmares for years to come.
Sharp glances were keeping Mineta in line for now, but he knew he'd have to give the lecherous kid a private lecture before he got out of hand. Yaoyorozu was slowly crumbling before his eyes, the evident cause being she didn't find herself at the center of this classroom's universe. He might not have even noticed if Nezu hadn't pointed out her confidence issues in an off-hand manner, but knowing what to watch for, he could see the subtle signs of her shattered self-worth. Todoroki was cold and quiet. That scar, coupled with his asocial attitude, made him wonder if he had two abused children in class.
Oddly enough, the one he had pegged as the worst of the bunch, the foul-mouthed teen who had the temperament of a lit torch thrown into a fireworks factory, had gone an overnight transformation. His behavior didn't quite do a complete 180, but he'd call it a big step in the right direction. He had stopped insulting his classmates, and even attempted talking to Mineta and Kaminari. The swearing didn't entirely vanish, but Katsuki would always catch himself before he let one slip. Shouta noticed that he would glance at Midoriya each time it happened.
Speaking of Midoriya, Shouta was blown away by his performance thus far. Every teacher he talked to gushed about their new star pupil, raising his hand for every question and giving perfect answers every time.
Shouta couldn't blame them. During their training sessions, Midoriya absorbed every drop of information, every exercise, every Wing Chun drill, all of it, like parched desert soil. Midoriya only needed to see or be told something once to execute it perfectly, and he would continue to execute it with the precision of factory equipment until his arms shook with exhaustion.
After verifying that Midoriya was doing all his personal strength and stamina training correctly, Aizawa focused on giving him a crash course on all the CQC he could teach him. Blocks, punches, throws, dodges, and everything in between, he learned months worth of martial arts in a matter of days.
As Midoriya continued his explosive growth, Shouta found himself growing rationally angry at all the teachers that had failed him, all the teachers that ignored the enormous potential lying right under their noses. He imagined how much farther Midoriya would be if he had just started his training a year earlier, or two.
Friday afternoon, as Shouta retreated to the break room to rejuvenate himself with a pot of coffee, All Might, shrunken down to his civilian form, crept into the room.
"Ah, Aizawa-san, I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you. It's been a long week, and I haven't seen you around much."
Shouta held back a sigh. "What is it, Yagi-san?"
"Well, I had questions about the combat training. Two of my students got sent to the nurse's office, and I was wondering what I could have done differently. Should I have told them to take it easy on each other before they started? Should I have stepped in when it looked like something bad was about to happen? I'm not sure if there was anything I could have even done, but–"
Shouta held a hand up, stopping the torrent of doubt and insecurity pouring from the number one hero. "Nobody was permanently injured, and the class continued with minimal disruption. You handled it just fine."
"But they broke bones!"
Shouta gave him a flat, disapproving look. "Yes, they did. Your point?"
Toshinori coughed in surprise and wiped at the blood on his lips. "Aizawa-san, I know I'm not an experienced teacher, but isn't that going too far? Isn't it a part of our job to keep these children safe?"
"Safe?" Shouta snapped. "You want to keep them safe? Coddle them like that, and they'll die to the first villain that breaks their nose."
"That sounds a bit extreme."
"Really? I figured that you'd understand how dangerous hero work is, given that hole in your chest."
One of Toshinori's hands reflexively went to the old wound. "That was… not exactly a typical circumstance."
"And most of us can't punch the weather away," Shouta said dryly. "For all your strength, for all your power, you still got a crippling injury, something that would've killed anyone else. Heroes die all the time in this line of work. Nobody realizes it because they're all paying attention to you. Every time you save a civilian or lock up a prominent villain, it makes the front pages and six o clock news, and in the meantime, lesser heroes die to nameless villains, a tragedy forgotten by the next headline."
"Aizawa-san, I–"
"For what it's worth, I think it's a good thing nobody realizes how dangerous the world had become, but you're not going to be around forever." Aizawa poured himself a cup, grimaced at all the grounds lurking at the bottom, and drank the whole mug in one go. "Sooner or later, that wound's going to make you retire, or worse, kill you off, and when that happens, it's going to be ugly. If I'm lucky, I won't be alive to see it happen, but I know my students will have to clean up whatever you leave behind. I want to make sure they're ready for that, and if you have any respect for their lives, you'll do the same."
Toshinori was pale, so pale that Aizawa was worried it might be from blood loss. His hands clenched, and fire returned to his hollow, blue eyes.
"I'll make sure it won't come to that. I'll find someone who can stand just as tall as I can, who can inspire the people, give them hope, drive back villainy and crime. The Symbol of Peace won't die with me. It might not be perfect, but it's better than letting our home fall to chaos."
Aizawa tightened his scarf and went for the door. "I'll make sure that Symbol of Peace won't be needed."