Work Text:
Izuku has been dreaming of the future. This is something he tells Inko, and something that Inko does not believe.
Of course, this is not because she thinks Izuku is a liar. But, she knows her son and his wild imagination, and his dreams can be curious at the best of times.
She tells him as much one morning, hands guiding Izuku’s to help him clamber into a seat at the kitchen table, gently tugging at his curls as she smooths a rubber bib against his chest. He is five years old but a messy eater, in his overenthusiasm, and Inko would rather clean the bib than spend hours scrubbing stains from his shirts.
“You have nothing to worry about, Izuku,” she assures him, spooning rice into two bowls. There are three seats at their table, but two placemats, Inko tries hard to pretend this is not the case.
Izuku makes a discontented noise at her side, and she practically melts at the pout on his face. “But the doctor said soon,” he huffs, “what if it’s my quirk?”
An uncomfortable feeling settles in Inko’s stomach as Izuku peers at her. He is small for his age and there is a tired, impatient look in his eyes that she cannot figure how to get rid of; Inko knows that children are not kind to the quirkless. This was true when she was a child, but is even more so for those Izuku's age. Those with quirks are normal, those without are abnormal. This is what they are taught from day one, and something that will most likely never be contradicted.
Inko also knows this: Izuku is not quirkless. He is a late bloomer.
To Izuku’s peers, there is no difference.
She runs a hand through his hair, sighing. There's a tightness in her stomach that she pushes away, where she can ignore it until later. “I’m sorry, Izuku,” she murmurs, “Your quirk will come in soon, I’m sure of it, but it’ll be like mine, see?”
Inko flicks her wrist and lifts her chopsticks into the air, taking pride in the way Izuku grins and begins to imitate her movements. She laughs at his clumsy gestures, and there is a short moment, where Inko's cheeks warm at the sight of her son's delight in pretending her quirk is his, before Izuku's movements lull, and he stops, chewing at his cheek, “Um,” he makes grabby hands at her, eyes wide.
“What is it, baby?” Inko takes his little fingers in hers as the chopsticks fall to the table, stilling just at the edge of the wood. Izuku says nothing for a minute, watching their progress with creased eyebrows and a pull at his lips,
“What about my dad’s quirk?” he breathes, quick and quiet.
And it is not his fault, Inko thinks mutely, because Izuku doesn't know how those words make her feel, couldn't possibly. But still something cold cradles her chest, and she turns to her bowl on the table, hiding the furrow of her brow and the curl of her lip. She cradles the warm ceramic, says, “I’m not sure, dear,” and pretends not to notice the downturn of Izuku’s mouth.
“But,” She tries for a smile, because this is her baby, her son, and if she can be anything for him then she must be strong. Because if she is not, if she is not his example, then what could he possibly hope to become? Inko tightens her hold, “But, it doesn’t just have to be like mine, Izuku. Or your dads. Okay?” she says, watching as Izuku's face falls ever so slightly, processes.
He's quiet, and Izuku is obviously confused by this. He is five years old and does not yet understand how quirks and genetics work, and can only imagine that he must have a version of either of his parent’s. Despite everything, hopes for this with every muscle and bone in his small body.
And Inko admires this about him, above all. She huffs, “Don’t you worry about it,” she runs a hand through his hair and pulls at the shorter ones, near the nape of his neck. Izuku whines softly, “Eat your breakfast, baby, or we’ll be late”
And that’s it, Inko thinks, as she gathers her keys and helps Izuku through his coat and carries his backpack out the door, clutching his hand as they cross the street and Izuku spots Katsuki waiting with his mother in the distance. That’s it.
Izuku tells Inko he’s been dreaming of the future. This is not something she believes, because this is something she is scared of.
She thinks, dreams can be particularly scary to children. And, she thinks, Izuku's dreams are particularly cruel to him.
MUSUTAFU PREFECTURE SCHOOL DISTRICT
Musutafu Children’s Elementary School
CONFIDENTIAL SCHOOL REPORT OF SUSPECTED CHILD ABUSE/NEGLECT
CHILDS NAME Izuku Midoriya
CHILDS AGE 6
CHILDS QUIRK N/A
Information regarding possible abuse/neglect (when, where, type, extent, child’s current condition, any further risk to child.)
Izuku’s teachers have frequently brought to attention that he is spacey, distant and prone to falling asleep in class. This is reported to happen at least twice a week and has been growing in frequency more recently.
They believe this may be related to some form of neglect in regards to his sleep or perhaps meal schedule. He is tired and uncoordinated and is found crying by his peers for no apparent reason.
Izuku is also suspected to be quirkless, which brings further concern from his teachers. As far as the school is aware, his father is not in the picture.
Circumstances surrounding the alleged abuse/neglect.
See above. A frequently reported string of events which eventually led to Izuku’s homeroom teacher finding him struggling with what appeared to be an anxiety attack during recess last week. He could not explain why he felt this way, or what had occurred to make it happen.
He stops bringing it up to his mom when he turns eight.
Izuku doesn’t have many friends, and this means that he doesn’t understand a lot of what people are feeling sometimes. Most days he encounters only hostility from those around him; careless, mean words that dig into his chest and make his eyes sting.
This, though, does not mean that he can’t recognise the look on his mom’s face when he tells her about his dreams.
It’s a painful look, Izuku thinks. Her lip curls, brows draw together and her knuckles whiten, holding tight, tight, tight. One time, she had cracked a glass in her haste to put it down, and had spent the evening mopping up flecks of blood from the kitchen counter.
So Izuku doesn’t tell his mom about his dreams. But this also means he doesn’t tell her when they begin to seep into life outside of his bedroom.
Because Izuku is awake when it happens this time. At least, he’s pretty sure he’s awake. He blinks and grabs at the ground beneath him; it’s soft and carpeted and there’s little cars and buildings and lamp posts covering it and Izuku realises he’s crushing a tiny pedestrian and moves his hands into his lap.
He blinks and washes away the feeling of sickness poking at his tummy. Washes away the girl with brown hair and the boy with fire at his fingertips.
“Eh? Why are you crying?” Izuku's gaze shifts, he stares up at Kacchan, who’s brow is turned incredulously and hands are sparking against the plastic truck in his grip. “You’re so stupid, Deku! I didn’t even do anything!”
Wetness drips off of his cheeks onto his shorts and Izuku tastes salt. He licks his lips and frowns, eyes sliding downwards as he rubs at his face. “Sorry,” he breathes, “I dunno.”
Kacchan’s face twists, “Whatever,” he spits, “Stupid, quirkless Deku. I’m leaving.” And he does, bounding over to a group on the other side of the classroom.
Izuku’s frown deepens at this. His fingernails dig into his palms. If only his could spark and pop and crackle like Kacchan. But he knows this to be the impossible. A miniscule spark of hope nestled deep in his chest, nurtured only by the fuel of his own foolishness; the doctor had told him ‘soon,’ and then had told him, later, ‘invisible.’
Because Izuku isn’t quirkless, but his classmates do not believe this.
Izuku thinks he’s having visions of the future, and those around him think he’s a liar.
to: [email protected]
cc:
from: [email protected]
Subject: Some information
Aizawa,
I know it’s unusual for me to contact you. Some interesting information has been floating around.
The HPSC has been keeping an eye on a child. About ten years old, If I remember correctly. He’s on the cusp of being diagnosed as quirkless, but for all intents and purposes the child should have a quirk, so they’re calling it ‘invisible,’ for now.
When he had his first quirk appointment, the child claimed he’d been having recurring ‘dreams’ of certain events, though fuzzy and not coherently explained. He claimed this until he was about eight, and has stopped providing any further information since.
Anyway, the HPSC contacted me to ask about my quirk in relation to this. I’m sure you can understand what I’m getting at. RE: The Takami household.
I think it’d be wise to keep an eye on this child from our end, as well.
Many thanks,
Mirai
Nighteye Agency HQ, Osaka.
The voices start two years later and Izuku convinces himself that he’s going mad.
They whisper and unfurl through his mind. A breeze carried through the wind; ‘Ninth,’ they call him, and they are kind.
At night, he closes his eyes and finds faces. Their features are faded through the veil of his dream, and yet Izuku’s chest aches with the weight of recognition. It is damning and heavy and leaves him awake, gasping, during the early hours of the morning. Loneliness locks his limbs and claws at his throat, catching his breath in an iron grip.
Izuku may be a liar, for loneliness is a strong word, and his mom is asleep in the next room. But, he cannot bear to wake her, not for this.
And so he is alone.
Images turn in his mind; a man, tall and taunt. He’s pulled tight at every angle, his eyes are sunken, yet they are the brightest blue Izuku has ever seen.
The man is gazing at him, Izuku feels a weight settle across his shoulders. Fights the urge to crumble beneath it. Words spill from the man’s mouth, but they are unintelligible. The voices in his head are hushed as they speak, “Eighth.” then, a woman’s soft cadence: “Toshi.”
There are moments where Izuku is staring down at himself. He only knows that it’s him because he could recognise the weight, the familiar chafe of his fingertips against his palms, anywhere. He has a habit of clenching his fists and it is here that it comes in handy.
The thought makes Izuku grin, and the people in his head grumble disapprovingly.
One such time is tonight; Izuku is helping his mom clean up after dinner, wrapping their leftovers, drying the dishes as she washes.
It’s tranquil. The television humming from the back of their living room. A news report, he listens in, half-heartedly, something about a local dojo winning a prefectural competition.
His mom is quiet, and Izuku spares furtive glances at her as they work. She’s a quiet woman by nature and, as a result, so too is he. But this is worrying, and Izuku wipes down a bowl twice, three times, before giving in. He asks, “Is everything okay, mom?”
She startles, and Izuku catches the cutlery from her hands before it drops, mouth drooping into a frown as he apologises. Guilt curdles in his chest, his mom turns to him with heavy eyes,
“There’s horrible bags under your eyes, baby,” she murmurs, delicate hands coming to rest on his forearms. She is still taller than him, just, “You know I worry.”
Izuku breathes out, in, starts, “I’m-,” he stops as his voice cracks, wincing, “I’m okay, mom.”
His mom bites her lip. She runs a hand down his arm, holds it there as her other one reaches up to rest in the curls at the nape of his neck. “Okay, Izuku,” her voice is barely a whisper. “Okay. I’ll always be here for you, you know?”
And Izuku just nods, swallowing down the churning, palpable stickiness in his stomach and gripping his towel between his fingers. “I know mom. I love you.”
He closes his eyes that night and is met with destruction.
Izuku see’s his hands, but they are crooked, twisted and wrung with pale lines of scar tissue. There is blood on his palms, on his chest. Twisting, he hears voices.
“Someone!” Desperate words tear through his mind, they settle and take root there and bloom into thought, “Anyone! Jeanist, Miruko, please help him!”
When Izuku turns, there is debris. There’s somebody, someone, there. A wound, blood, he feels warmth drip down his lips and his eyes narrow but they won’t focus and he can’t see who it is.
Who is that?
“Not yet” a murmur, a ripple through the haze. The vision breaks. “Not yet, Ninth.”
Izuku’s eyes fly open.
There is blood smeared across his pillow, and his hands meet warm red when he brings them up to his nose.
to: [email protected]
cc:
from: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Some information
Mirai,
I appreciate the intel, thanks.
With all due respect though, I don’t really know how this kid pertains to me. The HPSC is one thing, but you and I both know there’s nothing we can really do to stop them, even if I put some feelers out there to find out if they’re planning anything.
I imagine they’re pretty busy with the debut of that Takami kid, though.
I don’t think this conversation should be over email. Call me.
Thanks,
Aizawa
File name: Transcript.mp3
Duration: 00:23:04
MIRAI SASAKI and AIZAWA SHOUTA
AUDIO START
MIRAI: Aizawa.
AIZAWA: Mirai.
AIZAWA: So, I’m assuming you’re going to […] explain?
MIRAI: Yes, although I doubt a phone call is much better for confidentiality.
AIZAWA: There’s not much we can do about that. [...] They don’t have enough jurisdiction over me, so, let’s just play it safe.
AIZAWA: The kid?
MIRAI: The kid. [...] I admit, emailing you was a bit [...] out of the blue. I have my reasons.
AIZAWA: That is?
MIRAI: I told you about his potential [...] quirk. The kid had been telling his doctor about dreams he’d been having. He wasn’t necessarily claiming he could, I don’t know, see the future, but there were some things in there that I recognised, and didn’t particularly like.
AIZAWA: Mirai, the point, please.
MIRAI: Aizawa, anyone who doesn’t know these people wouldn’t recognise the descriptions the kid was giving. They gave me full access to the doctors notes, the kids reports, etcetera.
MIRAI: Direct mentions of, well, Toshinori, I’d argue. I assume you’re aware of recent events.
AIZAWA: I am.
MIRAI: Good. To put it bluntly, the kid described something along the lines. [...] I couldn’t believe it, Aizawa. He must’ve been around [...] four or five, that was years ago.
AIZAWA: [...] And you’re certain?
MIRAI: Positive. There’s more, though.
AIZAWA: What?
MIRAI: He mentioned you.
AIZAWA: [...] What?
MIRAI: Nothing detailed. A vague description at best, but it’s you. I quote, ‘a man, he had black hair that was long like my mom’s, and a weird thingy around his neck.’
AIZAWA: Are you-
MIRAI: There’s absolutely no way this kid could know of you, otherwise. You would’ve just graduated at the time, Aizawa.
AIZAWA: [...]
MIRAI: I don’t know if this kid has the quirk we think he does, but it’d be good if we keep an eye on things. This isn’t just about the [REDACTED] at this point. Regardless, if it’s true, he’ll be coming to find you one day. You ought to recognise that.
AIZAWA: [...] Okay, yeah, Mirai. I get it.
AIZAWA: I’ll, [...] keep an ear out.
MIRAI: Good, as will I.
END OF AUDIO TRANSCRIPT
Izuku is eleven when he loses his vision on a train platform, and subsequently plummets onto the tracks beneath him.
He is pulled out by a mess of limbs; bystanders and police and station personnel. The trains are delayed, and Izuku keeps quiet and averts his eyes as the crowds around him grumble in annoyance.
It is nothing he isn’t already familiar with, afterall. Nobody is kind to the quirkless.
Vision swimming, head down, Izuku is led quietly into the back of an ambulance. He’s taken to the hospital where he’s questioned, poked, prodded. They purse their lips and speak to him in low, cautious tones:
“Are you suicidal?”
No.
“Look, dear, we know this is hard, but you have to be honest with us, okay?”
Okay. Yes, I understand.
“Are you trying to hurt yourself?”
No.
“Do you think about hurting yourself?”
He shrugs at this one, because there is a small part of Izuku that wonders this, too. Thinks of crooked, misshapen fingers. A hand settles on his knee, and he’s peering into the shimmering golden eyes of a nurse far too young for his kind of patient.
Or, perhaps that’s why she’s here. Izuku thinks this with a lump in his throat that he swallows down rather than let linger. “No.”
He waits, watches the crease between her brow deepen as she considers this.
“Okay, sweetie,” she says, eventually, tucking her clipboard between her knees. Izuku eyes his name on the edge of the paper wearily. “We think it’d be wise to run some tests, once your mom gets here. This isn’t the first time you’ve had this happen, based on what we’ve gathered.”
And so Izuku is eleven when he is diagnosed with narcolepsy. When he curls over himself in a stainless white hospital bed and grips the sheets between his fingers and cries, and cries.
Because he has been torn and shredded and tossed away by every facet of society, and every night he is met with faces he feels as though he should remember, but doesn’t.
“Ninth,” a breeze, “Do not be afraid,” they murmur, and yet that is all Izuku feels he is capable of.
Izuku is eleven, and for all intents and purposes he is quirkless. This is what he cries, and this is what he tells his mom, clawing and desperate, as he parses through the weight of emotions he does not yet understand, and does not know how to feel.
Later, when the curtains are closed and the lights are chalk against the canvas of his hospital room, he thinks of a man with long, dark hair and golden eyes.
There is an itch there. He feels it, turns it in his head, scratches.
“Mom,” Izuku whispers. He’s pulling at her hands gently, winding his fingers through hers. She lifts her head and smiles.
“What is it, baby?” her other hand is at his arm, running her fingertips up and down the crease between his elbow soothingly. Izuku tugs harder, sure he is making a face.
He breathes in, out, says, “I have to go to Yuuei,” and as the words pass his lips, he tastes salt. He realises he's crying the same time he notices his mom is crying, too.
to: [email protected]
cc:
from: [email protected]
Subject: A recent case of interest
Aizawa,
I hope it’s okay to contact you like this, I know you’re busy. Congratulations on the new apartment, by the way. I’d drop off a house-warming gift, but I’m ill advised to what you would even want.
Anyway, I know you asked me to keep an eye out. We had a case file put through the system recently that interested me. I thought you might be too. I wouldn’t normally go digging, but the circumstances were so bizarre I couldn’t not.
A kid fell onto the tracks at the local station; the one with a direct line to UA. They got him out, took him to the hospital, figured he was suicidal at first, but everything pointed towards it being an accident.
I recognised the kids' details, though. Turns out he’d been flagged in our system a little while back, a report from his elementary school for possible child neglect.
The reports turned back negative, thankfully, but the doctors who’d seen him after this recent incident ended up diagnosing him with narcolepsy. Seems simple enough, right?
I thought so too, but some further digging found a few more reports from his time in elementary school. They were passed to us with the CPS files, I believe.
The kid, up until he was about seven or eight, would insist he was having dreams of events, of disasters, of heroes, etcetera. Nobody seemed to have believed him, and it was reported as another alarming behaviour of his.
He’s also, supposedly, quirkless.
I’m not keen on getting involved in the business of heroes, but I did notice an unusual crack down on the distribution of the information here. A lot of passkeys, redacted sections. You know how it goes.
I figured it might be related to what you were talking about.
Many thanks,
Tsukauchi Naomasa
Musutafu Police Dept. Head Detective.
to: [email protected]
cc: [email protected]
from: [email protected]
Subject: RE: A recent case of interest
I think we need to talk.
It is a warm, hazy day in April when Izuku realises who Eraserhead is.
The thought is sudden, latches onto his mind, plants itself there. One minute, Izuku is dreaming of the man with golden eyes and a scar painting his cheekbone, and the next he is tangible, recognisable. “Eraserhead,” cuts through the silence of his room, and he chokes on the familiarity of it.
His mom is alarmed at this new obsession, and even Izuku, at twelve, can understand how he must look; he sneaks into her room when she isn’t home, and when he can’t use her computer, stays up into the early hours of the morning with his phone clutched between his fingers and a notepad at his side.
Eraserhead. The man with the dark hair, the golden eyes, the scar. This is someone he knows, Izuku thinks, someone he ought to know.
Someone he knew, he mulls, but does not say. The thought dances around his head for days.
“Ninth,” they sigh, softly, and perhaps because Izuku is older now, and just a little bit wiser, he crumples the paper he was writing on between his fist and starts.
“Ninth,” he repeats, “Why do you call me that?”
It is the first time Izuku has responded to them, and he could almost call the silence that surrounds him afterwards shocked.
Good. At least they have the decency to be a little bit embarrassed about it.
There’s a moment where Izuku sits in the quiet, smoothes out the crinkles in his paper with his fingers. He feels it, when they respond, that gentle breeze, “You’re our Ninth,” a woman’s voice says, and does not continue.
Izuku does not ask again.
It happens often after that. Faces previously unrecognisable begin to shape themselves into names. He feels the way they sound around his mouth and tastes them on his tongue.
There is an Ochako; the girl with the brown hair. Shouto, with the fire at his fingertips. Kacchan is there, too, and Izuku curls his lip and ignores the churning in his stomach at this realisation.
He could almost pretend it was all in his imagination. His ‘inquisitive mind’ that his mom so insists on. Almost, almost. Until one day, as he’s being pushed down an alley at the hands of his classmates, tugged and grabbed until his face is being kicked into the dirt, he sees one of them.
“Hey! What are you doing!”
The hands stop abruptly, shoving Izuku one last time. For good measure, he supposes. Then,
“Eh? It’s none of your business! Get out o-”
There is murmuring, Izuku is dropped entirely, and the boys in front of him leave. He grabs at the ground beneath him and stares as Hitoshi Shinsou approaches him, quiet.
Shinsou is halting and nervous and shoves his hands into his pockets to stop them from shaking. His smile looks more like a grimace as he gazes over Izuku. “You okay?”
And Izuku finds that he cannot answer, in the face of one of his biggest nightmares.
His face feels damp, and a fierce blush colours his cheeks as he realises that he is crying. Great. Not only does he know, had known, whatever, Shinsou, but this is the first person his age to speak to him normally in a while, and he’s crying.
Licking his lips, he pushes himself to his feet, and smiles. “I-,” he stumbles over his words, because his hair is powdered purple and it is so achingly familiar and-, “I’m fine, yeah. Sorry. Thank you.”
Shinsou busies himself with the ground, twisting his foot into the dirt, “Ah yeah,” A glance, subtle, “No worries. Um, I gotta head home but, you good from here?”
“Um,” Izuku replies, helpfully. He winces at his own awkwardness, because he is thirteen and so is Shinsou, and Shinsou does not know why he is acting this way, “Yeah, sorry, again.”
Shinsou tells him it’s okay, again, and turns to leave. Izuku stares at his back, fingers sliding across the edge of his shirt. The acid in his stomach burns.
That night, Izuku dreams of his death. He had known this was coming, realistically, for what use would his quirk be if not to prevent the inevitable?
His mom finds him gripping the toilet seat in the dead of night, choking on spit and the horror the guilt the dread clinging to his chest and his throat. Suffocating.
Izuku thinks he might be drowning.
File name: Transcript2.mp3
Duration: 01:56:34
MIRAI SASAKI and AIZAWA SHOUTA and TSUKAUCHI NAOMASA
AUDIO START
TSUKAUCHI: Okay. We’re recording. Again, this is just for our personal use, no official record or anything, sounds good?
MIRAI: Yes. I doubt you have any objections?
AIZAWA: No, that’s fine.
TSUKAUCHI: Cool. Then, let’s [...] get started?
MIRAI: [...]
TSUKAUCHI: Nevermind. So about this kid [...] You guys seem to think he’s pretty important.
AIZAWA: Considering the fact that he accurately predicted All Might’s most recent injury when he was just four years old, yeah, we do.
TSUKAUCHI: [...] What?
MIRAI: Aizawa.
TSUKAUCHI: No, what?
MIRAI: [...] He’s not wrong.
TSUKAUCHI: Catch me up, please.
[...]
At fourteen Izuku is drowning, and this time it isn’t metaphorical.
In the grand scheme of things, Izuku thinks this is fairplay. If he’s being totally honest, he knew this was going to happen and made no moves to prevent it.
When All Might saves him he is still a little starstruck. There is a childish wonder there that Izuku cannot, refuses too, will not, abandon. But the man leaves and Izuku does not follow, because he knows how this will end and he cannot bear to face it.
At least, that’s the plan, until the voices in his head whisper and sooth him, and tell him to save Kacchan anyway.
And because Izuku is damned, the villain escapes from All Might, still, and Izuku finds himself running into flames with only his backpack, a roiling of guilt, and a grimace on his face.
Izuku is fourteen and All Might stands before him. He recognises the scene, knows it like the lines cutting through his hands and the chafe of his fingertips against his palms. He recognises who this is, and what this will mean.
“You can be a hero,” All Might declares, “Ninth,” they breathe, and Izuku keels over, sobs, and accepts One for All knowing what it is, and what it means.
Nana Shimura cradles his head as he sleeps, pushes his bangs back from his face, she says, softly, “We will protect you, Ninth.”
Izuku thinks about his death, tastes acid, and struggles to believe her.