Chapter 1: Admission, Confusion, Explosion
Chapter Text
Izuku stood at the entrance gate of U.A., heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat he couldn’t quite control.
He’d triple-checked everything, mind racing with a checklist that replayed in his mind like a mantra: schedule, uniform, lunchbox, notebook, backup pen, second notebook, emergency sewing kit (because he’d learned his lesson during the sports festival debacle two years ago), and two juice boxes, hydration was important, after all.
His palms felt clammy, and the cold metal of the gate pressed against his fingertips as he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Today was the day. The first day at the U.A., the legendary, revered, towering school of heroes. The number-one hero school in Japan.
Despite the nerves, a small flicker of pride sparked inside him. He’d earned his place here, somehow, some way. Maybe not in the usual way. Maybe not with a quirk that made everyone look twice. But he’d fought, he’d clawed, and he’d kept going.
He looked beyond the gates, where students clustered in small groups, chatting nervously or boasting loudly. A kid with a cactus-styled buzzcut was already yelling about “alpha energy,” gesturing wildly, like he was auditioning for a hero movie. Another had the unmistakable stance of someone who had bribed their way in, eyes flickering with confidence that might be masking insecurity.
Izuku’s hands jammed deep into his sleeves as he hovered at the edge, eyes darting over the crowd, feeling invisible and yet painfully aware of every gaze, every whisper. Nobody approached him. Nobody cared.
He didn’t mind. He was used to being invisible, used to the weight of silence. Or worse: being mocked for being visible, for standing out.
Just focus. Just breathe.
7:45 a.m., The entrance to Class 1-A.
The door was enormous, more than it had any right to be, like a portal to a new world. Izuku took a shaky step inside, heart fluttering like a trapped bird.
The classroom was a cavern of polished floors and high ceilings, filled with the scent of fresh paint and old wood, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It was already alive with students settling into their seats or whispering in hushed excitement.
Izuku found a seat near the middle, fidgeted with his backpack strap, feeling the rough fabric against his fingers. He unpacked exactly one pencil, the sharp tip gleaming under the fluorescent glare, and sat stiffly, waiting.
The door swung open, late, as usual. A figure slipped through the gap, emerging from the shadows like a ghost.
Aizawa. Eraserhead. The legend. The underground myth. The man whose record of capture was longer than his name, forty-five confirmed arrests, banned from three conferences for "creative restraint applications," or so the stories went.
He did not apologize for the delay. Instead, he muttered, “Too loud,” emerging from a cocoon of nylon like a disgruntled specter. “Already hate this.”
Izuku froze, heart pounding, frozen between awe and terror.
That’s Aizawa.
The man’s eyes, sharp, dark, unreadable, scanned the room. He stood in front of the class without a word, silent, like a predator sizing up its prey.
One student cleared their throat.
Aizawa blinked.
And then, with the same emotionless tone as a falling leaf, he said:
“All of you. Out.”
The class blinked, stunned, confused, some in shock, others in horror.
He pointed with a finger like a judge passing sentence. “Expelled. Except for you, green hoodie. You stay.”
Izuku stared, mouth dry, heart hammering.
“…Me?” he managed to whisper, voice cracking slightly.
Aizawa’s gaze pierced him. “You. Midoriya Izuku. Stay.”
Nineteen kids scrambled for their bags, some in shock, others trying to hide their horror or relief, one inappropriately confident shrug, like this was all just a game.
8:37 a.m., Alone in Class 1-A.
Izuku sat stiffly at his desk, shoulders tense like a wound about to burst.
Aizawa’s eyes lingered on him, unreadable, as if trying to read his thoughts.
“Sir?” Izuku’s voice broke the silence, fragile and tentative.
“You’re the only one with potential,” Aizawa said bluntly, voice like gravel. “The rest failed to meet even baseline expectations during the entrance evaluation.”
Izuku blinked. Twice. Then again.
“Does this mean…?”
“You’re the only member of Class 1-A,” Aizawa finished, voice flat but somehow heavy.
A long, breathless pause.
Izuku hesitated, then raised his hand.
“Do I get, like, a personalized curriculum, or…?”
Aizawa sighed, eyes narrowing, then cracked a faint grin, like a secret just slipping free.
“You get me.”
Later that morning, Cafeteria, Faculty Wing.
Aizawa stormed through the doors, dragging Izuku behind him like a prize catch.
The room fell silent, every eye locking onto them.
Thirteen students sipped from star-patterned thermoses, tilting their heads with curiosity or suspicion.
Lunch Rush looked up from a pan of tempura, eyes wide.
Mic choked on air, coughing violently as he pointed at Izuku.
“Sho,” Mic managed to gasp, voice trembling, “Did you, ? That’s, he’s-”
Aizawa cut him off with a simple, deadly tone. “Problem child,” he said. “He stays.”
Izuku, meek, offered a quiet, “I have a name,” voice trembling with nerves.
Aizawa’s expression was unreadable. “We’ll see if you survive the week,” he said, grabbing a tray. “Then I’ll consider using it.”
The room’s silence deepened, thick with unspoken questions and cautious curiosity, like a storm waiting to break.
And yet, somehow, Izuku felt it, something shifting beneath the chaos.
A flicker of hope, a fragile belief that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something extraordinary.
He looked around at the faces, faintly familiar, yet strangely new, and clenched his fists, feeling the steady pulse of his heart.
This is only the start.
And he was ready.
U.A. Faculty Chat: “Herd Control”
Brooding Cloak Dad [Aizawa]: kept one. rest failed.
Volume Crimes [Mic]: Sho you can’t just return 19 kids like they’re defective USBs
Wine Aunt (HR Nightmare) [Nemuri]: wait which one is the one
Tax Evasion, Probably [Nezu]: Midoriya Izuku. Early entry candidate. Monitored for quirkless status.
Iron Chef: Muted Threat [Lunch Rush]: he ate three servings and cried when I gave him tofu
Galaxy Girl [Thirteen]: I like him. He apologized to the floor for stepping too loud.
Rootin Tootin Physics [Snipe]: that one’s gonna end up either the Symbol of Peace or in my therapy group
Math Sadist [Ectoplasm]: give him extra calculus
The sky above Training Yard 4 was a swirling canvas of darkening clouds, gray, heavy, threatening rain that cast a collapsing, ominous shadow over the ground.
Izuku stood amidst the chaos, his borrowed gym uniform clinging to him, sweaty, damp, and torn in places where the ground had scraped against his knees and elbows. His muscles trembled with fatigue, every breath shallow, heartbeat pounding in his ears like a relentless drum.
His arms felt like lead weights, trembling with effort, the muscles protesting with every movement. His legs, trembling as if the earth itself was trying to drag him down, refused to give in. The wind whipped past, carrying the scent of rain, dirt, and sweat, an acrid, grounding aroma that burned in his nostrils.
He glanced at the figure ten feet away, Aizawa. The man’s expression was unreadable, eyes sharp and unwavering, like a predator waiting patiently for the next move.
“You didn’t quit,” Aizawa said, voice calm but carrying an unyielding edge, like a blade unsheathed.
Izuku panted heavily, the air rushing into his lungs, each breath a ragged gasp. His vision blurred at the edges, sweat dripping down his forehead and mixing with the dirt streaked across his face. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, exhausted, battered, but somehow still standing.
“N-no, sir,” he managed to rasp, voice trembling but determined.
Aizawa’s gaze flicked over him, calculating, steady.
“I made them run this drill too,” Aizawa continued, voice even, like he was reciting facts from a report. “Every single one of them gave up.”
Izuku’s knees felt like they might buckle, but he forced them to lock, his jaw clenched tight, clenched so hard he thought he might shatter. His muscles burned, but he refused to fall.
“I can keep going,” he said, voice hoarse but resolute, the words weighted with grit and stubborn hope.
Aizawa’s footsteps crunched softly on the dirt as he approached, calm and deliberate. He reached into his coat and pulled out a juice box, the plastic crackling faintly in the wind. Without a word, he handed it to Izuku.
The boy blinked, surprised, his mind racing.
“...Thank you?” Izuku whispered, voice uncertain, clutching the juice box like a fragile lifeline.
Aizawa’s eyes remained fixed, unblinking, as he spoke softly, almost like an apology or a promise.
“You live through this week,” Aizawa said quietly, “you’ll get a second one.”
Izuku’s lips curled into a faint smile, tired but genuine. He reached for the straw, biting down on it like it was a promise, a silent vow to himself and the man watching from a distance. His shoulders relaxed just a little, the grip on the juice box tightening as if it were a lifeline, something to hold onto amid the storm.
In that moment, beneath the collapsing sky and amid the chaos of exhaustion and hope, Izuku understood. No matter how battered, no matter how close to breaking he felt, he had already chosen to keep fighting. And that was enough.
Chapter Text
Izuku’s first official day as the only student in Class 1-A began at 5:45 a.m. He hadn’t been told to arrive that early. No, he just… did.
The sky was still a muted grey, the world waking slowly beneath a heavy blanket of dawn. The air smelled faintly of dew and distant rain, cool and fresh against his skin. His backpack was squared on his shoulders, straps tight but comfortable, feeling like a second skin. His notebooks, triple-checked, meticulously labelled, rested against his chest, the crisp paper whispering softly when he shifted.
His eyes flicked between the classroom window and the distant faculty dorm building, counting the lights, fourteen, each small pinprick of glow like a heartbeat in the quiet darkness. He knew exactly whose each one belonged to: Aizawa’s, Thirteen’s, the others. The faint hum of life stirred in the shadows of the waking campus.
A faint pulse of nerves fluttered in his stomach. Today is the start. He took a deep breath, trying to steady the pounding of anticipation.
He didn’t expect Aizawa to arrive until 7:12. But he’d waited. Felt the cool morning air settle into his bones as he stood near the gates, feeling the weight of expectation and uncertainty press against him.
When Aizawa finally appeared, he looked half-asleep, his scarf loosely wrapped around his neck like a tired cryptid. His expression was all disgust, like he’d just woken up from a nightmare, and his eyes, half-lidded, blinked slowly as he spotted Izuku waiting.
He blinked once, sharply, then nodded. No words, no greetings. Just a silent acknowledgment.
Aizawa didn’t tell him to leave. Didn’t tell him he was early or late. He simply walked past, and grunted, “Come on.”
Izuku followed, heart pounding a little faster, feeling the weight of the moment.
The classroom was almost comically vast now that it was just him and nineteen empty desks. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, casting sterile white on the polished floors. The smell of new paint and fresh rubber mats filled the air, faintly tinged with the scent of aged paper and anticipation.
Aizawa didn’t take the podium. Instead, he dropped a clipboard on the nearest desk, sat down in the rolling chair, and gestured toward Izuku with a vague wave.
“State your top five academic competencies,” he said, voice flat but carrying an unspoken challenge.
Izuku blinked, caught off guard. His mind raced, flickering through the possibilities.
“Um, math, physics, battle analysis, quirk law history, and… lunch?” The words burst out before he could think.
He immediately felt his cheeks heat up, the words sounding absurd in the tense silence.
Aizawa raised a brow, unimpressed.
“I retain food knowledge well,” Izuku hurried to add, voice cracking slightly. “It’s survival-based. I wasn’t kidding about knowing 112 bento combinations.”
Aizawa’s expression was unreadable, but there was a faint glimmer of amusement behind his eyes.
“You’re nervous.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t be. You’re here because you didn’t fold under pressure. That matters more than perfect answers,” Aizawa said, voice low but somehow reassuring, like a quiet promise.
Izuku nodded, then instinctively wrote that sentence down in the margin of his notebook, like a rule etched into his very core.
Keep going. Don’t lose focus.
By 8:00 a.m., they were in the auxiliary gym, moving through mobility drills. The scent of sweat, chalk, and rubber filled the air. Izuku’s muscles screamed in protest, hot and tight from exhaustion. His skin was slick with sweat, the fabric of his gym uniform damp against his back. Every breath felt sharp, like inhaling blades of cold air.
He rolled his ankle, just a little, trying to hide the pain beneath a mask of determination. But Aizawa noticed immediately, the subtle shift in his posture, the faint flicker of discomfort in his eyes.
“Off your foot,” Aizawa ordered, voice sharp but not unkind.
“I can keep going-”
“I said off it,” Aizawa repeated, voice steady.
Izuku flinched, the pain shooting through his ankle like a spark, and sank to sit on the mats without another word. His chest heaved, sweat trickling down his forehead, and he pressed the ice pack from the med kit against his ankle, cold, soothing, a fragile relief.
Aizawa tossed him the pack, the soft thud echoing in the quiet.
“What happens when someone orders you to stop?” he asked, voice calm but firm.
Izuku hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “I usually keep going.”
“Wrong answer,” Aizawa said, eyes narrowing slightly.
Izuku swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the words settle deep inside him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, voice small.
“You’re not here to impress anyone,” Aizawa said softly. “You’re here to survive long enough to become better.”
Izuku didn’t know how to respond. The words pressed into him like a quiet command, something he didn’t fully understand yet, but wanted to. So he pressed the ice pack against his ankle and nodded, feeling the faint pulse of determination beneath the ache.
They took a break in the faculty lounge. Aizawa slumped into a chair, shoulders hunched, eyes staring into nothingness. The room was quiet, only the soft hum of the ventilation system and distant muffled sounds from the hallways.
Izuku hovered awkwardly near the doorway, unsure whether to sit or stand, when Thirteen waved him over from the other end of the room.
“You’re Midoriya, right?” Thirteen’s voice was gentle, warm, and calm, like a reassuring touch in a storm.
Izuku straightened, cheeks flushing.
“Y-yes, ma’am, sir, astronaut, !” he stammered, nervous but eager.
Thirteen chuckled softly, deep and comforting. “I go by they/them, but astronaut’s good too.”
Izuku’s face burned with embarrassment. “Sorry! I just, you’re amazing, and your rescue records are, you saved those miners with a broken arm!”
“Guilty,” Thirteen said with a tilt of their head, eyes shimmering with kindness. “Wanna see something cool?”
They led him to the observation deck above Training Dome Gamma, showing him the complex terrain shifts, the intricate tech inside the glass, and the fail-safe systems, every detail a marvel of hero ingenuity.
Izuku soaked it all in like sunlight, warm and bright, filling the cracks in his heart.
At one point, he hesitated, voice quiet and tentative.
“Can teachers tell when someone’s lying about their health?”
Thirteen turned slowly, eyes meeting his, calm, unblinking.
Izuku immediately pretended he hadn’t spoken, rambling instead about rotational gravity centers, trying to fill the silence.
Thirteen didn’t push. They simply listened, patient and understanding, like a gentle guardian.
When Izuku returned to Aizawa, the man didn’t say anything at first. But his gaze lingered longer than usual, an unspoken question, a silent assessment.
During sparring drills, Aizawa slowed the tempo, the subtle way he moved, deliberate, cautious, like he was trying to protect Izuku from himself.
He didn’t say why.
Izuku noticed.
He also didn’t ask.
At lunch, the chaos erupted. Lunch Rush nearly tackled him, shoving a tray piled high with protein and carbs so overflowing that the table next to them clapped in surprise.
Izuku sat alone, stomach churning with a mixture of hunger and emotion, biting into the meal like he hadn’t eaten properly in days, though he knew he had. Just not like this.
Five minutes later, Lunch Rush appeared at his elbow, holding a bowl of warm tofu with a gentle smile.
“Thought you might like this,” he said softly.
Izuku blinked, caught off guard, his voice small with gratitude.
“…Why?”
“You eat like someone who wasn’t allowed to,” Lunch Rush replied simply, eyes kind.
Izuku stared at the bowl for a long moment, then whispered, “Thank you,” feeling the weight of those words deepen in his chest.
He didn’t finish all of it, but he tried, tried to hold onto the kindness, the normalcy, something gentle amid the chaos.
And in that moment, beneath the collapsing sky of expectations and exhaustion, Izuku felt a fragile thread of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could survive this, and maybe, he could thrive.
U.A. Faculty Chat: [“Herd Control”]
Volume Crimes: lunch rush said he made tofu and the kid started tearing up
Wine Aunt (HR Nightmare): HE WHAT
Brooding Cloak Dad: leave it
Galaxy Girl: he asked about teachers noticing if someone lies about being hurt. be gentle with this one
Math Sadist: giving him supplemental calculus exercises. will scale difficulty based on emotional state
Gremlin Wrangler: what is he doing in my lab
Brooding Cloak Dad: he got in?
Gremlin Wrangler: he reorganized my diagnostics by processor type. it’s BETTER now. I HATE IT.
Rootin Tootin Physics: lunch rush is bringing him custom bento boxes. we’ve all lost.
Tax Evasion, Probably: we haven’t lost. we’ve gained an heir
Izuku sat in the quiet corner of the common room in the Class 1-A dorms, late into the night. The room was dim, empty, and softly illuminated by the glow of the city outside and the flickering light of his tablet screen. He was alone, yet, strangely, it didn’t feel entirely lonely.
The silence around him was a strange thing, neither good nor bad, just… weightless. It pressed gently against his chest, like a quiet tide washing over him, neither pulling him in nor pushing him away.
He pulled his knees to his chest, the fabric of his hoodie soft and warm against his skin. The tablet rested on one arm, fingers absentmindedly doodling prototype upgrades, tiny sketches of support gear, intricate and fragile, like dreams he was trying to hold onto. The screen blinked with a tiny, persistent dot, the security system in the ceiling, watching silently but without judgment, like an unblinking eye.
His gaze drifted downward, landing on the cup of tea he’d made, steam long gone, the liquid cold and untouched, a symbol of moments lost to time. He felt… nothing and everything all at once.
He didn’t feel tired. No, that wasn’t it. He just felt… floating, adrift in a space where nothing was solid, nothing was certain. Just the quiet hum of the world spinning outside, and his own heart, pounding faintly beneath the surface.
He wasn’t used to being watched without judgment. To being seen, truly seen, without expectation or critique. It was a strange sensation, like a fragile glass in his hand, both terrifying and strangely freeing.
He was caught in that liminal space, neither here nor there, when a knock sounded at the door around 8:30.
He tensed, muscles tightening instinctively.
Then, hesitantly, he opened it.
Standing there was Present Mic, bright, loud, impossibly cheerful, holding a bag of snack cakes in one hand and grinning like he’d just burst into the room in a blaze of sound and color.
“HIIIIIIII, I AM HERE TO BE AN EMOTIONAL SUPPORT DJ,” Mic announced, voice booming with exaggerated enthusiasm, as if the very idea of supporting someone’s feelings could be turned up to eleven.
Izuku blinked, startled, his brain catching up with the sudden burst of energy.
“…Huh?” he managed to say, voice uncertain, caught between confusion and a faint flicker of hope.
“Don’t worry,” Mic said, slipping past him with ease, “I brought sugar and shame. We’re gonna be sad together.”
“I- I’m not sad,” Izuku said quickly, voice trembling slightly, more from surprise than defiance.
“Great,” Mic replied, plopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Then I’ll be sad for you. Wanna play Mario Kart?”
“I-” Izuku hesitated, looking around at the controller-less chaos of the room. “I don’t have a controller-”
“I do,” Mic interrupted, grinning fiercely, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
And suddenly, the room didn’t feel so empty anymore.
They played until midnight, laughter echoing softly through the quiet night.
Izuku didn’t win a single race. But he laughed so hard at one of Mic’s over-the-top sound effects, thunderous, ridiculous, that he nearly fell off the couch, clutching his stomach, tears in his eyes.
For the first time in what felt like months, maybe longer, he felt a tiny crack in the armor of waiting. A flicker of something softer, hope, maybe. Or just the faint warmth of being understood, even if just for a little while.
And in that moment, amid the scattered chaos of snack wrappers and silly noises, Izuku realized, maybe he didn’t have to wait for everything to break. Maybe, just maybe, he could find pieces of himself in these small, imperfect moments.
And that thought, fragile and uncertain, was enough to keep him going.
Notes:
guys im back
Chapter 3: He Eats Lunch Rush’s Tofu, He Must Be Trusted
Chapter Text
was just, habit. A well-practiced, ingrained response. Like folding napkins into triangles or checking every door lock twice before bed. It had started as a tiny twinge, just a flicker in his shoulder during capture tape drills. A small pop, a pinch that he’d brushed off in passing.
He flexed his arm a few times, trying to shake the discomfort away, telling himself he’d ice it later. But he didn’t. He never did.
By the time he hit the last wall-run rep of the morning, the pain had become a steady pulse, a dull, throbbing ache that radiated down his bicep and into his ribs. He didn’t make a sound. Didn’t flinch. Just kept moving, landing harder than usual to compensate, shortening his strides, letting his other arm bear the brunt of the swings.
He felt the ache settle into his bones, numbing, persistent, and pushed through it, the world narrowing into focus around the effort.
Aizawa noticed. Of course he noticed.
After the cooldown set, the silence stretched long and thick.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa said, voice flat, unimpressed. “You’re compensating with your left leg and guarding your right shoulder. What’s wrong?”
Izuku’s throat tightened; he forced himself to speak, voice too quick, too automatic.
“Nothing,” he said, almost a whisper.
Aizawa’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Again.”
“I’m fine, really-”
“Stop lying,” Aizawa cut him off, tone steady, unyielding.
Izuku’s mouth opened, then closed again, like he’d forgotten how to speak. His eyes widened, pupils dilated with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud and frantic, a drumbeat of shame and vulnerability. That tone. Not yelling. Not even sharp. Just disappointment, familiar, quiet, unwavering.
Aizawa exhaled slowly, measured and even.
“Show me,” he ordered softly.
Izuku hesitated, then carefully pulled up his sleeve, revealing the swelling around his shoulder, already a dark purple at the edges, tender to the touch.
Aizawa didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t sigh or scold. He simply turned, his voice low and steady.
“Recovery. Now.”
Izuku followed silently, stiff, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him, like a heavy blanket he couldn’t shake.
Recovery Girl was gentle, her small hands precise, experienced, calm as she examined him. Her touch was cool and sure, feeling the swelling, checking for tenderness, listening to his quiet, uneven breathing.
The scan showed a moderate strain, no tendon damage, no fracture. Still, enough to make her narrow her eyes when he hissed trying to lift his arm again.
“You should’ve come in earlier,” she said softly, voice measured, not scolding, merely a quiet reminder.
Izuku’s voice was small, almost ashamed.
“I didn’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re already our problem,” Aizawa muttered from the wall, arms crossed, voice edged with dry humor.
Recovery Girl shot him a look, then turned back to Izuku, her gentle tone unwavering.
“Sweetheart, pain is not a punishment. It’s a message. Ignoring it doesn’t make you stronger. Just quieter.”
Izuku didn’t look up. His gaze was fixed on the cold, flat surface of the exam table. His fingers twitched in his lap, clenched around nothing.
“I wasn’t trying to be strong,” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.
“Then what were you trying to be?”
He hesitated, thoughtful, hesitant. Then shrugged his good shoulder, feeling the ache deep in his bones.
“Tolerable.”
Aizawa moved, silent, deliberate. Not touching, not crouching, just standing closer, enough to make the message clear: He’d heard.
“You’re not here on trial,” Aizawa said softly, voice steady. “You’re here because you belong. You don’t have to audition every time you breathe.”
Izuku’s fingers curled into fists in his lap, trembling slightly. He didn’t speak.
Recovery Girl placed a gentle hand on his knee, her touch kind and steady.
“You’re allowed to ask for help. That’s what we’re here for.”
He nodded once, slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle into his chest, soft, reassuring, and painfully necessary.
Later that afternoon, Izuku sat in the dorms, staring at the bandage wrapped tightly around his shoulder, fresh, clean, a small reminder of the pain he’d tried to hide. But beneath that, a strange warmth bloomed, a quiet sense that something inside him had shifted. Not in the world. In him.
He looked down at his hands, trembling just a little, then took a deep breath.
Maybe he didn’t have to carry everything alone. Maybe, just maybe, it was okay to lean on them.
U.A. Faculty Chat: [“Herd Control”]
Wine Aunt (HR Nightmare): girl what did you DO to him
Math Sadist: he didn’t even complain during pain calibration. not normal first-year behaviour
Galaxy Girl: he told me “I’m sorry I exist so loudly” when I offered him tea
Brooding Cloak Dad: strained his shoulder and hid it. I had to order him into the infirmary
Volume Crimes: that’s not normal kid behaviour. that’s “I’ll be punished for inconvenience” behaviour
Iron Chef: he asked me if I was sure I wanted to feed him again
Gremlin Wrangler: he reorganized my tool cabinet, then said sorry for touching anything
Rootin Tootin Physics: why does this read like a rescued cat that flinches at shadows
Tax Evasion, Probably: because that’s exactly what he is
Aizawa knocked once on Izuku’s dorm room door at 8:07 p.m., a quiet, deliberate sound that seemed to echo in the stillness of the night.
No answer.
He hesitated for a moment, then pushed the door open slightly, an act of quiet permission.
Inside, Izuku was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by a chaotic battlefield of notebooks, diagrams, and crumpled sketches. His hair was tousled, face pale, and the faint glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows over the mess. Three open water bottles sat nearby, half-drunk, condensation dripping onto the floor, cold and forgotten in the rush of exhaustion.
A cold pack was strapped to his shoulder with what looked like duct tape and a sock, clumsy, makeshift, and painfully familiar. The smell of sweat, ink, and faint antiseptic hung in the air, thick with the weight of effort and fatigue.
Aizawa sighed, heavy and slow, shoulders drooping as he surveyed the scene. “Seriously?” His voice was low, tired but carrying the weight of concern.
Izuku looked up slowly, eyes tired and glassy, cheeks flushed with exertion or perhaps exhaustion, he wasn’t sure anymore. His voice was small, sheepish. “I ran out of elastic bandages.”
Aizawa crouched, pulling a fresh roll from his coat pocket with practiced ease. His movements were efficient, and silent, as he replaced the haphazard wrap with calm precision, like tending to a fragile, broken thing.
Izuku watched him, pupils dilated, eyes heavy with fatigue, like he’d been running on empty for too long. His shoulders felt heavy, weight pressing down on him in a way that no amount of effort could shake.
“Sensei?” he asked softly, voice trembling beneath the exhaustion, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile quiet.
“Mm?” Aizawa replied, without looking up, voice calm but carrying a faint undertone of steadiness.
“Am I… your problem?” Izuku’s voice cracked slightly, vulnerable, unsure, trembling with the weight of unspoken fears.
Aizawa paused, the flicker of his eyes catching the faint reflection of the desk lamp, thoughtful, unhurried. Then, with a quiet finality, he secured the last strip of tape.
“No,” he said simply.
His voice was steady, firm, unwavering. “You’re my student.”
Izuku didn’t reply. His throat felt tight, words caught somewhere between hope and hesitation.
But he didn’t look away. His gaze held Aizawa’s, searching, pleading, quietly asking for permission to stay.
And in that silence, thick with unspoken understanding, the night stretched on, carrying the weight of a thousand small, fragile moments of trust.
Chapter 4: The Kid Hacked My Projector
Chapter Text
Izuku wasn’t trying to break into Power Loader’s lab. It was just… unlocked. Sort of. Technically. The door was cracked. The hall lights were out. And the “AUTHORIZED ONLY” sign had fallen on the floor sometime earlier and hadn’t been put back up. Also, he had just finished his diagnostics practical in Gym Beta and gotten turned around looking for the support equipment archive. So really, if anyone asked, it was all just an extremely accidental misnavigation through one unsecured side door and a very interesting tunnel with glowing conduit panels. That’s what he told himself. And then he stepped into the lab and forgot how to breathe.
The space was a glorious mess. Stacks of half-dissembled machines, repurposed support gear, tool benches arranged in chaotic spirals, diagnostic projectors still whirring. Dozens of drones were piled in a corner like robotic insects awaiting resurrection. On the wall behind the main workstation, a large curved screen flickered with dozens of internal schematics labelled only by numbers, no categories, no user interface trees, nothing indexed. Izuku was vibrating by the third step in. By the fifth, he had already fixed three cable junctions and realigned a sensor feed. Not on purpose. It was just there. Crooked. Glitching. Wrong. And his hands moved faster than his brain could catch up. He recalibrated a gesture-control drone mid-boot. It whirred to life in his palm and hovered beside his head like it had imprinted on him. He flinched and turned it off with a sheepish, “Sorry.”
“You did not just apologise to a drone.”
Izuku froze.
Power Loader stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eye twitching.
“I- I can explain-”
“You reorganized my processor matrix board.”
“I thought it was out of thermal order.”
“It was.”
“I can put it back! I remember where everything was-”
“You labelled the error logs.”
Izuku swallowed. “Was that… bad?”
Power Loader stared at him in silence for a full six seconds. Then turned and stomped back toward the hall, muttering, “You better stay right there.”
Izuku did. Standing ramrod straight in the middle of the lab like a gremlin who had chewed through power lines and was now facing divine judgment.
Exactly six minutes and thirty-nine seconds later, Aizawa and Nezu entered together. That was how Izuku knew he might actually die.
Aizawa looked at the scene in deadpan silence. Nezu stood on the worktable like an angry board executive evaluating an intern’s crime spree.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa said, voice bland, “why are you inside a classified R&D lab?”
“I- I was looking for the archive server room and the hall light was out and then-”
“You reprogrammed the drone dock,” Power Loader snapped. “And you color-coded my firmware patch files. And you fixed the projector.”
Nezu’s ears twitched. “He did what to the projector?”
“Fixed it. I’ve been trying to get the edge distortion off that lens for three weeks.”
“I rerouted the UI sync overlay,” Izuku said, flustered. “The keystoning was inverted on the right-facing diode. I didn’t mean to. It just looked wrong.”
Silence.Aizawa rubbed his temples.
Power Loader pointed at him like an accusation. “This is your fault. You brought in a feral overachiever.”
“He’s twelve,” Aizawa muttered.
“Twelve and an active systems hazard.”
Nezu jumped down from the bench and trotted over to Izuku, beaming. “Would you like a guest access pass for the technical subwings?”
Izuku blinked. “I- I’m not in Support.”
“You are now,” Nezu chirped. “Honorary. I’ll have your credentials updated by morning.”
“I just, was looking for a map-”
“You mapped the entire server cable path into a schematic,” Power Loader grumbled. “From memory. I checked.”
Aizawa sighed so long it echoed. “Get out of the lab, Midoriya.”
“Yes, sensei,” Izuku whispered, fleeing.
The next morning, Izuku found a new badge in his mailbox. It read:
U.A. Temporary Technical Liaison – Subsystem Access Tier C
(DO NOT let him near the prototype hangar without supervision.)
– P.L.
He stared at it.
Then turned it over.
There was a sticker on the back. A tiny, grumpy-looking cartoon Power Loader, arms crossed, glaring over a caption bubble that read: “I tolerate you.”
Izuku smiled.
Later that day, he walked into Gym Delta to find that Ectoplasm had added advanced calculus problems to his warm-up drills. He didn’t complain. He just ran them. Sweating through the third set when Thirteen appeared beside Aizawa in the upper window and made a small motion with their hand.
Aizawa didn’t nod. But he didn’t stop watching.
Recovery Girl cornered him after dinner and handed him a thermos. “You’ve lost weight,” she said, matter-of-fact.
“I run a lot,” he said.
“You flinch when someone says your name too loudly.” Izuku didn’t answer. “I can’t fix what was done before. But I can tell you this: you don’t have to earn food. Or sleep. Or kindness. You already deserve those.”
Izuku looked down at the thermos and whispered, “Thank you.”
U.A. Faculty Chat: [“Herd Control”]
Gremlin Wrangler: he sorted the drone interface alphabetically. the DRONES, Aizawa.
Volume Crimes: oh no he’s a detail hoarder. he’s going to memorize where every plug in the building goes.
Galaxy Mom: I gave him access to the observatory records. He already sent me seven suggestions to fix the dome motor.
Math Sadist: he answered one of my extra credit questions with a footnote about psychological math teaching models.
Rootin Tootin Physics: I showed him how to use the ballistics sim and he coded his own trajectory tracker.
Wine Aunt: this isn’t a child. this is a sentient backlog ticket.
Tax Evasion, Probably: he found the security camera blind spot in Wing C. Without a map.
Brooding Cloak Dad: he’s not a threat.
Gremlin Wrangler: he’s MY threat.
That evening, Aizawa found Izuku in the dorm lounge, staring at a complex gear schematic with a frown.
“You’re not in the Support course,” he said.
Izuku startled. “I know, sensei. I wasn’t trying to, Nezu said I could-”
Aizawa sat beside him.
“I didn’t say stop.”
Izuku blinked.
“You’re good at this,” Aizawa said. “You see systems. You fix what’s broken.”
Izuku swallowed. “I don’t mean to. I just… can’t stop once I see it.”
“Neither can I.”
They sat in silence for a while. Izuku didn’t realize he was crying until Aizawa handed him a tissue from his coat pocket. He wiped his eyes and whispered, “Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” the older man grunted.
“I can’t.”
“You will. Eventually.”
Chapter 5: You Are My Problem Now
Summary:
"Problem Ferret, i choose you" i say in a perfect pokemon immitation.
Chapter Text
Izuku’s eyelids fluttered open with a dull ache in his ribs, a persistent reminder of yesterday’s quiet battle. The air around him was thick with the faint scent of stale sweat and the cool metallic tang of last night’s sweat-soaked bandages. His skin prickled with the residual chill of the ice pack pressed against his side, melting slowly into a numbness that fought to dull the ache. Light filtered through the thin curtains, casting muted shadows across his cluttered desk, where a crumpled shirt lay half-folded, forgotten.
He blinked, the room spinning slightly, a chaotic swirl of memories, pain, and the dull throb of exhaustion. His mind was a jumble, a chaotic mess of thoughts flooding in, Did I sleep too long? Did I move wrong? The pain was always there, lurking beneath the surface, a silent reminder of yesterday’s quiet battle. He instinctively pressed a trembling hand to his side, feeling the sharp, almost stabbing sensation beneath the skin, a reminder that maybe, just maybe, he’d pushed himself too far again.
Just a bruise. Probably just a bruise. Tape it up, ice it down, should be fine. No one needs to know. No one cares if I’m broken. Just keep going. Keep pretending.
The ache surged again, sharp and insistent, and he winced, biting his lip to silence the rising wave of anxiety. His chest felt tight, a familiar constriction that made breathing shallow and hurried. The dizziness crept in like a ghost, swirling around his senses, making the walls of his room tilt and sway.
He tried to sit up but was met with a wave of nausea that made his stomach churn. His head spun, the world, a chaotic kaleidoscope, spinning faster. His internal voice, a frantic whisper, urged him to stay still, to not let anyone see. The habitual silence was his armour, the quiet, automatic response to pain, to worry, to fear.
Izuku’s footsteps were hesitant, heavy with fatigue, as he shuffled into the corridor, trying to mask the tremor in his limbs. His face was drawn, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air, his breathing shallow and uneven. His mind raced, I can’t let them see. Just a little more. Just finish today. Yet, beneath that resolve was a turbulent storm of doubt and vulnerability he desperately tried to suppress.
He didn’t realize how obvious it was until Aizawa yanked him out of an afternoon sim. Literally, by the back of his collar, like a rag doll. His body jerked involuntarily, caught off guard, stumbling into the hallway. His heart pounded erratically, a chaotic drumbeat echoing in his ears.
“What the hell are you doing,” Aizawa snapped, dragging him into the corridor, voice sharp, but underneath the harsh tone was a thread of concern that never quite left him. His eyes, usually sharp and aloof, flicked over Izuku with a mixture of frustration and worry. “You’re leaning to your right side. You haven’t used your dominant arm in two hours. You’re sweating through a cold compress and breathing shallow.”
Izuku’s mind scrambled, No, I’m fine. I can still push through. I just need a little more, but his body betrayed him. His ribs throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, the pain radiating outward like a slow-burning fire. His lips parted, trembling, as he tried to deny the truth.
“I’m fine,” he managed, voice automatic, hollow, like a broken record repeating a lie.
Aizawa’s gaze pinched, the concern in his eyes flickering like a weak flame. “Bullshit.”
“I can still finish the set-”
“Midoriya,” Aizawa interrupted. That tone again. Sharp, clipped, too calm. “Let go of the need to bleed before someone believes you.”
The words hit him like a punch, and his hand, which had been trembling at his side, dropped. His chest heaved, the pain radiating outward, making him clutch his ribs involuntarily. His mind screamed No, no, I can keep going. Just a little more, but his body betrayed him. The overwhelming ache, the dizziness, the faint prick of fear in his chest, all refused to relent. His chest felt tight, the ache spreading through his ribs like a slow burn.
“I…” he whispered, voice small, uncertain, on the verge of breaking.
Aizawa’s eyes softened just a fraction, a rare flicker of understanding passing through. “Go to Recovery Girl. Now.”
Izuku nodded, silent, defeated in a way that hurt worse than the pain.
He didn’t argue again.
Recovery Girl was calm, her hands gentle but precise as she examined him. The sterile scent of disinfectant and faint hints of lavender filled the quiet room. Recovery Girl’s hands were cool and reassuring, her touch steady against his trembling frame, familiar in that quiet way only a healer knew. Her eyes, calm and observant, flicked over his ribs, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breathing, feeling the subtle give beneath her fingertips.
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper of comfort. “Two hairline fractures. One micro-fissure along the sixth. Not life-threatening, not urgent. But dangerous if ignored.”
He stared at the medical chart, words caught in his throat, the shame heavy on his chest. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
She didn’t scold him. Didn’t lecture. Just handed him water, her gentle gaze not judging, but understanding. “Do you want to tell me why you didn’t come sooner?” she asked quietly.
“I didn’t want to cause trouble,” he whispered, voice trembling with shame, eyes fixed on the white paper.
Her tone was soft but firm. “You’re already in pain. That’s enough reason to speak up.”
“That’s not the same,” he replied, voice barely audible.
“Explain.”
He stared at the medical chart like it might answer for him, words caught in his throat.
“I…” he started, then stopped, voice barely audible. “If I say I’m hurt, people get upset. Or frustrated. Or tired of me. It’s easier to wait. Easier to handle it alone.”
Her gaze softened, and she pressed a fresh pack of ice against his side, resting a hand on his shoulder, steadying, reassuring. “Pain shouldn’t be your introduction.”
Izuku closed his eyes, feeling the cold numbness seep into his ribs, the ache dulling just enough that he could breathe. “It always has been,” he whispered, voice trembling with the weight of unspoken fears.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, fifteen minutes, maybe more. Long enough that his tea went cold, forgotten on the desk. Long enough that Recovery Girl had to take a phone call from the faculty office.
He left quietly, walking back to his dorm, every step feeling heavy, full of exhaustion, relief, and something else he couldn’t name.
He stayed there, silent, until the ache dulled into a distant hum, the world outside slipping away. Minutes blurred into an eternity, long enough for his tea to cool, long enough for Recovery Girl to take a call from the faculty office, long enough for the weight of silence to settle over him.
He left quietly, each step heavier than the last, a strange mix of exhaustion, relief, and something else, an unnameable, fragile emotion twisting in his chest.
There was a note on his desk when he arrived, written hurriedly in Aizawa’s unmistakable handwriting:
“Common Room. Now.”
He almost crumpled it but he hesitated, clutching the paper, wanting to hide beneath his blanket, to disappear into the quiet darkness of his room, wishing the world would forget he existed. But his feet moved of their own accord, carrying him forward.
Aizawa was sitting on the lounge couch, hoodie pulled over his head, a mug of tea cradled in his hands. He looked tired, shoulders slumped, more tired than usual, eyes dull but steady. No anger, no disappointment, just quiet exhaustion.
Izuku hesitated in the doorway, uncertain, feeling the familiar surge of vulnerability and fear.
Aizawa nodded slightly, a subtle gesture inviting him closer.
He approached and sat beside him, the silence stretching long and heavy, thick with unspoken truths. For a while, neither spoke. For Aizawa, it was a silence to gather his thoughts. For Izuku, it felt like the air was being sucked out of the room. He couldn’t breathe. Time seemed to slow, like the quiet before a storm, thick with unspoken truths.
Finally, Aizawa broke the quiet, voice soft but unwavering: “You are not disposable.”
Izuku’s throat tightened, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
“You do not have to prove your right to stay here.”
His fists clenched, trembling, as memories flickered, of hiding, of fighting for his own survival.
“I don’t-”
“You get hurt and hide it. You break yourself to avoid being noticed. You apologize when you breathe too loudly. But you won’t anymore.” A pause, then softly: “You’re not here to be tolerated. You’re here because you’re mine.”
Izuku’s breath hitched, the words hitting him like thunder, overwhelming and impossible to ignore.
“Yours?” he whispered, eyes wide, searching.
“My student. My responsibility. My problem,” Aizawa confirmed, voice steady. “That means I take the bruises, the mess, the fear. All of it.”
Izuku shook his head, lips trembling. “I don’t know how to do that.”
A bitter laugh escaped Izuku’s lips, unsure if it was relief or confusion. “That’s not, comforting.” he murmured.
“I wasn’t trying to be comforting,” Aizawa said quietly, gaze steady. “I was being honest.”
“You’ll learn,” Aizawa replied, voice gentle but firm.
“I don’t think I can stop being afraid.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I can’t tell what’s safe anymore.”
“This is.” The words hung in the air, heavy and sincere. Then, very slowly, Aizawa extended his hand, a steady, open gesture, not a hug but a gesture of quiet support.
Izuku stared at it, hesitant. He reached out, trembling, feeling the heat and cold of that simple touch. His hand shook in his own grasp, trembling like a leaf in a storm, but he didn’t let go.
He held on silently, trembling, feeling the strength in that quiet act, more powerful than words, more enduring than promises.
The next morning, he found a box on his desk.
A care package.
No note.
But in bold black marker, Mic’s handwriting:
“YOU SURVIVED. HERE’S SNACKS.”
Inside were two packets of gummies, three onigiri, a slightly dented plush ferret, and a USB stick labelled “Aggressively Uplifting Music (And One Taylor Swift Song).”
Izuku didn’t cry. Not exactly.
But his eyes welled with something close to tears. Instead, he smiled, a bright, painful smile that hurt in the best way, warming him from the inside out.
He looked at the small, chaotic collection of kindness and felt a flicker of hope, fragile yet real, something worth holding onto, no matter how chaotic the storm.
U.A. Faculty Chat: [“Herd Control”]
Volume Crimes: dropped the care pack. no hugs. just food and passive-aggressive affection.
Brooding Cloak Dad: he didn’t lie about the pain today.
Wine Aunt: that’s huge.
Galaxy Mom: he stayed in the infirmary until the scan was done. didn’t try to sneak out.
Iron Chef: I added dessert to his lunch tray. He didn’t argue this time.
Rootin Tootin Physics: kid’s starting to sit like he’s allowed to take up space. not a lot. but a bit.
Gremlin Wrangler: he organized my schematic library again. but he also labeled one of the tools “mine.” don’t tell him I noticed.
Tax Evasion, Probably: the faculty unit has claimed him. you may all proceed with structured emotional sabotage.
Math Sadist: he asked for extra work. I gave him empathy exercises disguised as logic problems.
Notes:
sorry this took so long to get out. shit went down and i got hospitalised WITHOUT MY LAPTOP >:(
then the big sads hit.
anyways, as always, i hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Chapter 6: Welcome to U.A., Please Don’t Burn It Down
Summary:
hey we're healing!
...sort of
Chapter Text
Izuku’s eyes fluttered open into a world that felt like a chaotic swirl of shadows and dull, aching warmth. The room was dim, shadows pooling in the corners where the morning light struggled through the blinds, casting jagged strips of gold across the cluttered desk, the crumpled blanket, the scattered books and tools. His skin still prickled with the ghost of last night’s exhaustion, an invisible weight pressing into every nerve.
A dull, persistent ache radiated from his ribs, like a slow-burning ember buried deep inside, flickering, pulsing in a rhythm only he could feel. It wasn’t sharp anymore, just an insidious throb, like a heartbeat echoing beneath his skin. It whispered insidiously: You’re broken. You’re fragile. No one cares.
He pressed his palm against his side, feeling the uneven texture, slight soreness, a dull tenderness, like pressing on a bruise that refused to fade. His breath hitched involuntarily, shallow and quick, a reflex born of fear that if he inhaled too deeply, the pain might erupt like a volcano. Somewhere in his mind, a chaotic storm raged: Maybe it’s worse than I thought. Maybe I cracked something. Maybe I should tell someone. But what if they get mad? Or disappointed? Or tired of my stupid injuries?
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the rising tide of panic. His thoughts bounced chaotically. Just a bruise. Just a bruise. Keep it quiet. Keep it hidden. Keep going. The room spun faintly, a dizzying carousel of memories, cement mixing, drills, sharp pain, the feeling of falling, the rush of adrenaline, the quiet hush of the infirmary. His stomach clenched with guilt and shame because admitting pain meant admitting weakness, and weakness was a sin in his mind.
Why did I push so hard? Why didn’t I stop? I should’ve told them. I should’ve yelled. But I just kept going, like a machine, like I had to prove something. But what? That I can handle it? That I’m not a burden? No, no, no, no. I just… I just wanted to be okay. I just wanted to be normal. But I’m not. I’m not.
The ache pulsated again, more persistent now, a dull roar that refused to be silenced. His hand trembled as he pressed closer to his ribs, feeling the faint, almost metallic coolness of the tape he’d wrapped around himself yesterday. The uniform had hidden most of the bruising, but he knew, deep down, painfully, that the damage went beyond what the eye could see.
I iced it. I taped it. It’s fine. It has to be. Just a sprain, maybe a cracked rib, worse? No, don’t think about that. Just breathe. Breathe through it. Moving is dangerous. Stay still. Don’t let anyone find out. Not yet.
The faint hum of the city outside filtered through the window, a chaotic orchestra of distant sirens, honking cars, and the muffled buzz of life continuing without him. His senses heightened, every sound exaggerated, the faint creak of the bedframe, the tick of the clock, the whisper of wind against the glass.
The Breakfast Hall, The Day Begins
Izuku shuffled into the cafeteria, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead like impatient ghosts. The scent of frying eggs and sweet toast mingled with the metallic tang of his own sweat, the taste lingering bitter on his tongue from last night’s bitter pill of shame. The chatter was a chaotic hum, voices overlapping, footsteps pounding, laughter ringing and shattering his fragile calm.
He was clutching his schedule like a sacred relic, glossy and colour-coded, tiny mascot stickers dotting the margins like a childish spell of protection. The paper felt fragile, like a fragile promise, clutched tightly in trembling fingers.
This is… a new schedule? They’re actually trusting me with this? Giving me tasks outside of the usual routine? It’s… strange. Kind of terrifying. But maybe… maybe I can do this? Maybe I’ll be okay? Or is this just another way to keep me busy so I don’t fall apart?
Nezu, the tiny, hyperactive professor rat, beamed at him from behind his desk, holding a revised timetable printed on glossy cardstock, with tiny, cheerful mascot stickers haphazardly decorating the margins. His voice was chipper, almost sing-song.
“This is… a new schedule?” Izuku asked hesitantly, voice tentative as if afraid to break something.
“You’ve been doing so well in your solo studies,” Nezu chirped, “we thought it might be time to expose you to a few of the more specialised departments on campus. Socialization. Cross-curricular immersion. Prove you’re not just a goblin hoarding schematics in the corner.”
Izuku blinked, caught off guard, feeling like he’d been handed a treasure map, one that promised adventure but also hinted at chaos.
“I don’t hoard them,” he muttered, voice muffled, defensive, as if denying the truth could make it disappear.
“You do, kid,” Nezu replied with a grin that was almost too innocent, too cheerful, as if mocking him gently.
Construction Labs, Foundations of Chaos
His first stop was the construction labs, where Cementoss awaited like an immovable force, blueprints rolled under one arm and a hard hat already perched atop his head. The smell of fresh cement and sawdust filled the air, dust particles dancing lazily in the shafts of morning light, a chaotic swirl of grit and determination.
“Midoriya, right?” Cementoss’s gravelly voice rumbled, the kind that vibrated through his bones.
“Yes, sir,” Izuku responded, voice uncertain but respectful.
“Know how to read load weight schematics?”
“Yes.”
“Great. You’re with me. We’re checking foundational integrity on the south quad.”
The morning was a jumble of crawling through under-quad passageways, squeezing through narrow, dark tunnels smelling of rust and damp concrete, the air thick and humid like a secret waiting to be uncovered. Cementoss explained stability magic theory in a rapid-fire manner, like a weather report on steroids, his voice booming and echoing off the concrete walls.
Izuku listened, scribbled notes furiously, trying to keep up. His mind was a whirlwind, fighting to process every word, every diagram, every instruction. When he finally got to set a small bracing seal by hand, his fingers trembled, muscles trembling with the effort. The sensation of the cool metal against his fingertips, the slight resistance, the tiny click as the seal snapped into place, was pure, chaotic joy.
He blinked, stunned, feeling a surge of pride swell in his chest. Cementoss handed him a cookie, the sweet aroma cutting through the dust and sweat.
“You did good,” Cementoss said gruffly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Izuku stared at the cookie for ten long seconds, feeling his heart thump painfully in his chest, before whispering softly, “Thank you.”
The Support Wing, Unpredictable Chaos
After a brief lunch break, an anxious, hurried meal, he was ushered into Hound Dog’s domain, a stark, sterile office filled with the scent of industrial cleaner and something faintly metallic. The towering figure of Hound Dog, clad in riot gear, looked like he’d stepped straight out of a war zone.
When Izuku entered, Hound Dog barked once, sharp and sudden, and pointed wordlessly to a beanbag chair. Izuku hesitated, unsure if this was a test or an invitation. The chair looked soft and inviting, but the tension in the room was electric, like a storm about to break.
He sat. They stared at each other, an intense, chaotic silence stretching for forty-five seconds. Then Hound Dog sighed, a long, rumbling sound, and growled, “Stress management.”
Stress management? What does that even mean? Am I supposed to do… art? Music? Scream into a pillow? Or just sit here and pretend I’m okay?
“I’m here because Aizawa said you don’t decompress,” Hound Dog said, voice gruff but kind, as if trying to be gentle in his own way.
“Oh,” Izuku replied, blinking rapidly, “I don’t… I don’t really do art or music.”
“You make spreadsheets,” Hound Dog said flatly, then reached into a drawer and handed him a sticker, a cartoon dog howling at the moon, with the phrase “Let It Out, You Little Cryptid” written above.
Izuku accepted it as if it were a sacred relic, precious, fragile, a chaotic little beacon of hope.
The Sublevels of the Support Wing, The Hidden Chaos
In the dark, cluttered depths of the support wing, Power Loader loomed like a living mountain of machinery. The smell of oil, grease, and solder fumes was thick and intoxicating, a chaotic symphony of sparks and static.
He handed Izuku a clipboard, eyes narrowing. “Fix anything without permission, and I’m locking you in a storage bin,” Power Loader growled.
“Yes, sir,” Izuku mumbled, nerves fluttering in his stomach like butterflies in a tornado.
“Drawer six is yours,” Power Loader added, voice gravelly but steady. “Tool drawer. It’s got your name. Don’t make me regret it.”
The drawer was a mess of tools, wrenches, screwdrivers, adapters, and a note that read: FOR MIDORIYA. DON’T TOUCH, YOU THIEVING GREMLINS. His vision blurred as he read it, a chaotic mixture of pride and embarrassment swirling inside him.
He wiped his eyes, got to work amidst the clutter, feeling the weight of expectations and chaos swirling around him.
The Hallway, The New Normal
He didn’t notice the change until Mic waved at him from down the hall, a wide grin plastered on his face. Izuku’s eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t widen. He waved back, numb.
Mic’s grin grew wider, almost like he’d been handed a puppy, an absurd, chaotic bundle of joy.
“Loud lunch?” Mic asked, voice light and teasing.
“Please no,” Izuku muttered, voice hollow.
“Mild lunch?”
“Acceptable,” Izuku replied, voice flat.
“Emotional breakdown snack basket?”
“Already packed,” Izuku whispered, feeling the chaos inside him surge and recede like tidal waves.
The Corridor Outside Nezu’s Office, The Chaotic Meeting
Later, in the corridor, Izuku spotted Nezu, the tiny, hyperactive rat, with a mischievous grin. He bowed instinctively.
Nezu stopped him with a gentle wave. “Your credentials have been updated,” he announced, voice lilting. “You now have semi-permanent lab access, provided you don’t install any more unsupervised drone nests.”
Izuku blinked. “That was one time.”
Nezu’s eyes twinkled. “It was three. Still, forgiven. Also…” he paused dramatically, “your faculty file now includes a tag.”
“A tag?” Izuku’s mind spun.
“Status: unofficially adopted,” Nezu said cheerfully, then added, “It’s a technical classification.”
“You made a file tag called that?”
“You’re part of the staff now. They just don’t realise it yet.”
“Wait, who put that in?”
“Aizawa,” Nezu replied, then vanished into the ceiling.
Gym Gamma, The Quiet Sparring
Later that day, Izuku found Aizawa waiting in Gym Gamma, calm and focused. The air was thick with anticipation, the faint scent of sweat and chalk lingering. Aizawa nodded at him, threw him a capture band, and began the warm-up.
They sparred, the chaos of movement, sharp, precise, fluid, dancing in a controlled storm. Feet barely making noise, movements quick and deliberate. Izuku didn’t hold back. He fought with everything, fists, kicks, strategies, each move a chaotic thread woven into a tapestry of skill. He still lost, but he held his ground.
When the match ended, they stood facing each other, breathing hard, a moment of fragile peace.
“You’ve improved,” Aizawa said quietly.
“Thank you,” Izuku whispered.
“That’s not a compliment. It’s a fact,” Aizawa replied, voice firm but steady. “You belong here. You’re good.”
He’s right. I am. I really am. His heart clenched, then beat faster, an emotional chaos he couldn’t contain.
Izuku’s throat tightened. “You’ve said that before,” he managed, voice trembling.
“And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me,” Aizawa said softly, stepping closer, resting a firm hand on Izuku’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
That simple phrase hit him harder than any punch, more chaotic than any training drill. His mind spun, fear, hope, confusion, an emotional storm breaking loose.
The Dorm Lounge, The Calm After the Chaos
That night, Izuku sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, clutching a warm cup of tea. The room was a chaotic mess of mismatched furniture, scattered snacks, and the faint hum of life. Mic tossed him a snack bar, Nemuri flopped dramatically on the adjacent couch, Hound Dog brought him a sticker, barking approvingly.
Ectoplasm dropped off a calculus book with a sticky note: “Solve page 48, You Cryptid.” Lunch Rush sent a recipe. Cementoss mailed him a tiny green brick. And Aizawa sat nearby, silent but present, an anchor amid chaos.
He looked around at the chaos, the warmth, the silent understanding. The people who hadn’t asked him to be perfect. The chaos and comfort intertwined like a tangled, beautiful mess.
Finally, Izuku took a deep breath, an act of chaos and courage, and let himself breathe, truly breathe, for the first time in what felt like forever.
U.A. Faculty Chat: [“Herd Control”]
Brooding Cloak Dad: he didn’t flinch when I corrected his form. He cracked a joke.
Volume Crimes: HE JOKED???
Wine Aunt: Someone write this down in the ferret chronicles
Iron Chef: fed him dessert, and he didn’t apologise for eating it
Gremlin Wrangler: he added a backup grid to the lab AI interface. I’m not mad. I’m terrified. but not mad.
Rootin' Tootin' Physics: heard him say “I belong here,” cried. quietly. in the supply closet.
Galaxy Guru: I’m making him a star chart. Found family edition.
Tax Evasion, Probably: he’s ours now
Math Sadist: I added empathy prompts to his assignments. He answered all of them.
Chapter 7: “That’s Not a Student, That’s a Ferret in a Hoodie”
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In the dim glow of dawn, Aizawa’s phone buzzed with twenty-three unread messages.
The screen lit up like a chaotic fireworks display, colours flashing wildly, notifications piling up faster than he could swipe them away. Four from Power Loader, each more frantic than the last, a string of urgent beeps and exclamation points. One from Nezu, more calm but tinged with that insufferable wit. Seventeen from Mic, each message an explosion of emojis, exclamation marks, and chaotic shorthand. And one, stark and peculiar, that simply read:
“I have concerns about the ferret.”
Attached was a photo, grainy, hurried, but unmistakably Izuku. The image showed him crouched on top of the 1-A dorm kitchen counter, hoodie hood pulled up over his head, goggles on, stirring instant ramen with a soldering rod. The scene was surreal, noisy, chaotic, absurd, like a fever dream. The counter was strewn with tools, wires, and bits of soldering equipment, the steam rising from the ramen mingling with the faint smell of burnt plastic and metal shavings.
The caption, sent by Cementoss, was blunt: “He said it was an experiment.”
Aizawa sighed deeply, the kind that feels like a heavy weight settling into his chest. He buried his face deeper into his blanket, rubbing his temples, the tension in his shoulders a dull ache. His fingers hovered over the reply, hesitating a moment before he typed:
“I told you not to feed him after midnight.”
The screen went dark, and he wondered if the chaos would ever settle, or if it was just the new normal.
Izuku, for his part, had never felt better.
Every nerve in his body hummed with a ]chaotic energy, a reckless joy that pulsated through his veins like adrenaline. His heart pounded with the thrill of it, an unhinged sense of purpose, and, surprisingly, peace. He had a juice box stashed in his pocket, cool, slightly sticky from the fridge, and a loaded prototype on his tablet, ready to test. His badges from different departments gleamed in his mind, U.A., Heroics, Support, depending on where he was trespassing, breaking rules, bending the boundaries of what was "permitted." He wore three different badges, a chaotic medley of authority and permission, each one an act of rebellion against the stifling normalcy.
His bloodstream was a cocktail of protein toast and pure chaos. His combat stats had been steadily improving. His nightmares had diminished, only once a week now, instead of nightly. He’d gotten better at hiding the dark circles under his eyes, the tremors in his hands, the way his chest still fluttered when he thought no one was looking. And, most importantly, the staff had mostly stopped calling him Midoriya. Mostly. Now it was “Ferret,” “Gremlin,” “Cryptid,” “Our Disaster,” “Son, Probably.” They’d started to accept, no, embrace, the chaos he brought.
He grinned, eyes bright and wild, as Mic handed him a new lunch card. The card was a riot of colours, stickers, and scribbles. It was labelled: “FERRET: VIP ACCESS.” A badge of honour, a badge of chaos.
It started small.
Lunch Rush, the ever-whimsical, ever-chaotic hero, had given him a double portion one day, then slipped him a folded note in the cafeteria. Izuku unfolded it, his fingers trembling with anticipation, and read:
“Be careful what you plug into Nezu’s AI core. If it starts humming, run.”
There was a second note, crumpled and stained with a mysterious liquid, probably a stray sauce or something more dangerous. Thirteen, the quiet and observant, handed him a lanyard shaped like a tiny black hole, black and swirling, with a warning not to get too close.
Power Loader, ever the pragmatic chaos engineer, laminated a printout that read “AUTHORIZED CHAOS ACCESS,” and stuck it to Izuku’s door with industrial-grade adhesive, the kind that left residue like a scar.
Recovery Girl, ever the gentle enforcer of chaos, started calling him “dear” and “you little menace” in the same breath, her tone a strange mixture of affection and exasperation. Nezu, the mastermind of chaos himself, upgraded his ID badge without warning. It now beeped loudly when he passed near restricted zones, an irritating, chaotic alarm that only fuelled his mischievous spirit.
That didn’t stop him. Oh no.
He kept wandering, kept pushing, kept bending the rules until the chaos became a symphony, an uncontainable, glorious mess.
The faculty group chat descended into chaos.
U.A. Faculty Chat: [“Herd Control”]
Brooding Cloak Dad: he climbed into the ceiling again
Volume Crimes: WAS THAT HIM IN THE AIR DUCT OR A GHOST
Gremlin Wrangler: both. probably
Galaxy Mom: he asked me how fast I could suck someone into a void. it was about a vending machine. I think
Iron Chef: he’s been testing spice levels on the interns again
Wine Aunt: he wired a soundboard into my office chair. it screams “I am the night” when I sit down
Rootin Tootin Physics: he programmed a dummy to cry when shot
Math Sadist: I gave him a limit theorem. He returned it with a proof and a passive-aggressive smiley face
Tax Evasion, Probably: my favorite child. do not touch
And then, a new message:
🧃 FERRET: [currently typing…]
The chaos was endless. It was like a fever dream, a wild, unstoppable force of nature that refused to be tamed.
Tuesday.
Izuku, with his hair a wild mess and his nerves humming like a live wire, had accidentally hacked the gym scoreboard system. When asked why, he simply replied, “It kept lying.” His voice was casual, like he was discussing the weather, disconnected, chaotic, utterly unbothered.
Wednesday, he taught a sparring dummy to do push ups. The dummy was a battered, old training bot, its joints squeaked and its circuits flickered, but Izuku’s chaotic genius turned it into an unlikely fitness partner. He laughed as the dummy struggled to keep up, a sound that echoed through the halls, half joy, half insanity.
By Friday, Ectoplasm declared him “legally inadvisable” and scheduled him for a mental math duel at dawn. Izuku arrived in war paint, a chaotic swirl of colours and symbols, and won, his mind a storm of calculation, chaos, and raw instinct.
The roof scene.
One afternoon, Aizawa found him standing on the roof of the south dorm, clutching a weather sensor dish, a laptop, and a suspicious smile that looked like he’d just uncovered a secret. The wind gusted around him, tugging at his clothes and hair like a chaotic, living thing.
The late afternoon sun spilled unevenly through the windows of the dorm’s rooftop, casting jagged patterns across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of dust, metal, and something faintly burnt, probably solder or plastic melting from Izuku’s latest chaotic experiment. The wind was a chaotic whisper, tugging at the loose strands of his hair, tugging at his clothes, tugging at the very fabric of his sanity.
Izuku crouched on the edge of the rooftop, surrounded by a tangle of wires, sensors, and makeshift devices, an eclectic mess of chaos and ingenuity. His fingers danced over a circuit board, soldering iron in hand, eyes gleaming with unhinged enthusiasm.
The chaos inside him was bubbling, the thrill of discovery, the reckless joy of bending the rules, and that strange, persistent feeling that he was on the verge of something incredible. His mind spun with possibilities, each more chaotic and brilliant than the last.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the cacophony of thoughts, flat, unimpressed, tired.
“What are you doing?”
Izuku looked up, grinning wildly, eyes sparkling with mischief. His cheeks were flushed, a little sweat trickling down his temple, mingling with the dust and grease on his face. His clothes were a patchwork of stains, holes, and bits of solder that clung to him like badges of chaotic honour.
“Science,” he replied cheerfully, voice high and excited, as if he’d just declared the greatest discovery in the universe.
Aizawa’s gaze was a weary, chaotic storm, an expression of both exhaustion and something darker, disapproval mixed with a strange, hidden amusement. His eyes, dark and tired, narrowed slightly as he took in the scene: wires tangled like wild vines, a homemade wind feedback sensor hooked up to a tangle of circuits, blinking lights casting eerie glows across Izuku’s face.
“Legal science?” Aizawa asked, voice flat but with a trace of something unspoken beneath, perhaps a warning, perhaps a tired acknowledgment of Izuku’s chaos.
“Grey area,” Izuku said, winking, a mischievous grin curling on his lips. His voice was playful, almost defiant.
Aizawa sighed, deep, long, like a mountain of chaos weighed down by too many expectations, too many rules. He rubbed his temples, the weariness in his posture almost chaotic in itself, an exhausted chaos.
“Do I want to know?”
Izuku’s eyes twinkled with unrestrained chaos, that unfiltered joy of knowing he’d pushed past the boundary of normalcy. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a juice box, an ordinary thing, but to Izuku, a vessel of chaos and comfort, and held it out like a peace offering.
Aizawa looked at the juice box, then shook his head with a sigh. His hand moved lazily to accept it, but his expression was a mixture of weariness and reluctant curiosity.
“You’re getting worse,” he muttered, voice resigned but weary.
Izuku’s grin widened, chaos bubbling over, uncontainable, unstoppable. His chest puffed with pride, with reckless confidence.
“I’m getting comfortable,” he declared, voice filled with chaotic, unfiltered joy, as if claiming victory over the universe itself.
Later, in the lower quad of the support wing, the chaos was in full swing again.
Cementoss, the steady and unflappable master of chaos in stone, was wandering among a cluster of support bots, tiny, agile, metallic creatures with a chaotic gleam of their own. His gravelly voice echoed like rolling stones, calm but with an undertone of chaos.
“Ferret,” Cementoss said, voice like a steady mountain, solid, relentless, unmovable.
Izuku spun around, wires trailing from his arms, soldering iron still in hand, face flushed with excitement and dust. His clothes were a collage of paint, grease, and solder, chaotic art in motion.
“Yes, sir?” Izuku responded, voice high-pitched, eager, as if he’d just been caught mid-creation of the universe.
“Do you ever sit down?”
Izuku’s eyes darted, a flicker of anxiety and pride. “I sat down for ten minutes yesterday!”
Cementoss’s gravelly chuckle was a rockslide of amusement. “You passed out on a keyboard.”
“That still counts,” Izuku insisted, defensive but proud, a wild grin stretching across his face, teeth gleaming in the chaos.
Cementoss reached into his utility belt and handed him a helmet, an industrial masterpiece, battered but functional, with reinforced steel and enough chaos-themed decals to make it look like a piece of art.
“Wear this or you’re banned from bricks,” Cementoss muttered, a warning wrapped in a calm, chaotic tone.
Izuku nodded swiftly, slipping the helmet onto his head, feeling the weight of responsibility and chaos collide, like a thunderstorm contained in a helmet.
“Understood,” he said, voice muffled but resolute, eyes shining with unhinged determination.
Thirteen, watching from the observatory deck, called over the comms.
“He’s speeding up,” she reported, voice sharp.
Mic responded, “I think he’s happy,” with a chuckle.
Nezu chimed in, voice chipper, as usual, “I think he’s dangerous.”
Aizawa, finishing his tea, replied flatly, He’s mine “He’s both.”
Later that night, the dorm lights flickered.
A new message hit the staff chat:
🧃 FERRET: I did something. It may or may not involve the water filtration system and twelve glowsticks.
Gremlin Wrangler: what did I say about chemical incidents???
🧃 FERRET: that I should document them. so, I am
Brooding Cloak Dad: this group chat doesn’t count as “reporting”
🧃 FERRET: it is a system that I can give the people important to me info on
🧃 FERRET: you been typing for like 3 mins r u having a stronk?
Brooding Cloak Dad: it’s past curfew. get back to your room.
🧃 FERRET: define “room”
Brooding Cloak Dad: bed. pillow. sleep.
🧃 FERRET: one out of three?
Volume Crimes: SHO HE’S IN MY BATHTUB
At exactly midnight, Izuku curled into the corner of the faculty dorm’s common room couch, wrapped in a threadbare blanket that had seen better days. His elbow was bandaged, a souvenir of his latest chaotic experiment, and Hound Dog’s anti-anxiety chew toy was clutched in his hand, a fuzzy, chaos-infused relic.
He wasn’t scared anymore. Not tonight. The chaos inside him had become a kind of armour, a chaotic shield protecting him from the quiet, lonely darkness. He wasn’t apologizing. Not for breathing, not for existing, not for the chaos he carried inside.
Mic dropped a snack bar beside him, the wrapper crinkling like a chaotic symphony. Cementoss left behind a tiny, rough-hewn concrete sculpture of a ferret an imperfect, chaotic masterpiece. Aizawa walked by once, pulling his hood over his eyes, voice muffled but gentle.
“Get some rest, menace,” he muttered, like an order wrapped in chaos.
Izuku smiled under the blanket, an unhinged, chaotic smile that radiated warmth and wildness. The ferret was home, chaos, comfort, and all.
Notes:
got diagnosed with "the things in ur brain that get rid of migraines isnt working for you, thats why you went blind for nine weeks.
Chapter 8: “We’re Lucky He’s Not A Villain”
Chapter Text
12:00 a.m.
The room was tense, thick with the scent of hurried coffee, stale air, and the faint, underlying hum of the building’s aging ventilation system. The fluorescent lights flickered sporadically, casting a sickly yellow pallor over the sleek conference table, where a few chairs were occupied by the usual staff, each face a mixture of curiosity and dread.
Nezu sat at the head, paws folded neatly, a cheerful gleam in his eyes that contrasted sharply with the chaos brewing beneath his composed exterior. His small, furry face lit up like a child about to reveal a secret, voice bright and bubbly, almost unnaturally so.
“I would like to request Midoriya Izuku as my personal student,” he said, hands clasped in front of him, voice cheerful, almost too cheerful.
The silence that followed was deafening. The air grew heavy, a sudden weight pressing down on everyone’s shoulders.
Mic, sitting nearby, choked on his tea, a loud cough erupting as the hot liquid hit his throat wrong. His eyes widened, and he reached for a napkin, clutching it as if it were a lifeline.
Power Loader leaned forward, eyes narrowing, whispering under his breath, “Nope.” His voice was wary, almost instinctive.
Aizawa’s gaze fixed on the projection behind Nezu, an ominous chart labeled “Midoriya: Potential Influence If Weaponized.” His stomach sank, a cold dread pooling in his chest as he felt his soul leave his body, an almost physical sensation of despair creeping through him.
“Why,” he said flatly, voice devoid of emotion but thick with exhaustion.
Nezu’s bright voice continued unabated, completely oblivious to the chaos he was unleashing. “He asked me why light-based quirks fail to properly phase in humid environments,” the small professor said, paws gesturing animatedly. “And then he built a simulation. And rewired the projector to demonstrate it. With fog effects.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly, the air thickening with disbelief.
“That doesn’t mean, ”
Nezu cut him off, flicking to the next slide with a flick of his paw, the slide now showing complex diagrams of biomechanical diffusion processes. “He broke down Midnight’s quirk into a biomechanical diffusion process,” Nezu said, eyes shining with enthusiasm. “Then explained how olfactory saturation varies based on temperature density. While eating a fruit cup.”
A collective gasp rippled through the room, Nemuri’s jaw slackening as her eyes widened in shock. “He what?”
“He said he was curious,” Nezu added, almost gleefully, as if that explained everything. “He also asked if he could test a sealed scent-inversion chamber. For science.”
Mic muttered, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and disbelief, “Oh my god, he’s you with a moral compass.”
Cementoss, leaning against the wall, scoffed softly, adding with a dry tone, “We hope it’s still attached.”
12:15 a.m.
The chaos in the room was palpable. No one quite knew whether to laugh, panic, or applaud. The air was thick with a strange mixture of admiration and dread, an unspoken acknowledgment that Midoriya’s boundless curiosity had just crossed a line.
Aizawa’s fists clenched subtly, his mind racing, feeling a flicker of dread he couldn’t quite suppress. *This isn’t just normal genius. This is dangerous.* His internal voice echoed with a mixture of pride and concern.
Mic’s nervous chuckle echoed softly, a strange, hollow sound that only heightened the chaos. His eyes darted around, trying to gauge everyone’s reactions, the flickering light casting shadows that danced across his face.
Nezu beamed, utterly oblivious to the storm he had ignited. “Science is about asking questions, after all,” he chirped happily, paws clasped in front of him. “And Midoriya has an insatiable curiosity. It’s quite refreshing.”
Aizawa’s mind spun with a mixture of admiration and alarm. *He’s brilliant. But... what’s he capable of?*
The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the realization sank in, this wasn’t just a kid with a quirk; this was a force, a whirlwind of intellect and reckless passion that could change everything, and everyone was caught in the eye of the storm.
Earlier that week, Izuku had messaged Aizawa at 2:14 a.m.
[IZUKU]: Sorry to text late. Are underground tunnels under quad 3 open to staff w/ clearance or are they maintenance-only?
[IZUKU]: Hypothetically.
Aizawa hadn’t responded.
Izuku had sent a selfie of him with soot on his face and the caption:
“Definitely not stuck but mildly wedged.”
Aizawa texted Nezu at 2:17 a.m.
“You gave him an access badge.”
Nezu replied: “He asked nicely!”
The faculty were still debating how to stop him from stealing half the school’s internal systems when Vlad King asked the worst possible question:
“What if we just put him in a class-wide combat exercise? Let 1-B fight him.”
Thirteen dropped their mug.
“Like… all of 1-B?” Nemuri asked.
“Yeah. Let the kids size him up.”
“He’s still a first-year. And a year younger than his peers.”
“He’s also a solo class.”
Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not stopping him.”
“No one can stop him,” Power Loader muttered. “He installed a subroutine in my firewall that plays boss music when he logs in.”
Class 1-B vs. Class 1-A (Midoriya)
08:00
The training field was a chaos of sensory overload, crisp, biting air mixed with the scent of synthetic grass, ozone from the simulated weather, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation. The dome’s interior was a sprawling battleground, designed with brutal versatility: rocky terrain, slick wet patches, towering structures, and a sky that shifted from bright sunlight to stormy gloom. The artificial wind howled, rattling the loose debris, while distant thunder rumbled ominously, vibrating through the ground like a warning.
Class 1-B stood on the west platform, twenty students in full gear, armor gleaming, masks lowered, fists clenched. The hum of their gear was a constant background noise, a symphony of readiness and nerves, hearts pounding beneath layered fabric. Vlad’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding, breaking down the situation with clinical precision.
“One opponent,” he intoned, voice steady amidst the cacophony, “you know him. This is your only warning: don’t underestimate Midoriya.”
The words hit like a gust of wind, sharp, unexpected. The students’ faces flickered with a mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and bravado.
Ayumi immediately grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What, the ferret? The one who drinks juice boxes and lives in the ceiling?” Her voice was light but laced with a teasing edge, daring to provoke.
Aizawa, watching from the control booth, winced internally. His stomach twisted as he stared at the monitor, feeling the familiar prickle of dread. *This is going to be a disaster.*
Nezu sat quietly, his small eyes gleaming with quiet anticipation, saying nothing as the gates slowly creaked open with a metallic groan.
Then, he stepped out. Izuku. In a hoodie, gloves, tactical boots, and, annoyingly, an ornate gauntlet that he wasn’t cleared to have. His movements were smooth, almost casual, despite the tension crackling in the air. He waved politely, a small gesture that somehow felt both innocent and ominous.
Daiki rolled his eyes behind his mask, muttering, “This’ll be easy.” His voice was confident, but the flickering overhead lights seemed to flicker in response, casting unsettling shadows across the terrain.
Izuku smiled, calm, almost serene. “It won’t,” he said softly, voice carrying over the rumble of distant thunder and the faint whir of surveillance drones.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed, plunging the field into shadows. A low, ominous hum filled the air, and then, music. That bizarre, intense orchestral score that felt like a boss fight in a video game, swelling and echoing, vibrating in the bones of everyone watching.
Someone in the control booth whispered, “Why is it boss fight music?”
Nezu grinned, eyes twinkling. “He is composing it as we speak,” he said cheerfully, voice full of mischief, as if this chaos was just a game to him.
10 minutes in
The battlefield was a mess of chaos, dusted debris, shattered consoles, and the muffled sounds of students calling out orders or gasping in surprise. Class 1-B had lost nine of their members, faintly audible groans, the scrape of armor against rocky surfaces, and the occasional cough echoed through the dome.
Eighteen minutes in, Izuku had already built two traps from torn-apart debris and a cracked console, wires sparking and smoke curling from makeshift contraptions. His hands moved fast, fingers dancing over scrap metal, activating switches, mimicking a conductor leading a symphony of destruction.
Daiki’s voice broke through the chaos, loud and desperate. “HOW DO YOU KNOW EVERYTHING?”
Izuku responded with a calm, almost amused tone, “I watched your preliminary combat footage twelve times and mapped your foot patterns into a prediction model. I can also open the strings of reality, look into your past, and learn everything about you in a nanosecond. Also, you call out your attacks. Thanks for that.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with a mixture of awe and terror. The remaining students scrambled, some trying to regroup, others paralyzed in disbelief.
By twenty-five minutes, every single member of Class 1-B was down, lying scattered across the terrain, some groaning, some unconscious, some just silent. Izuku, bruised on his elbow, walked off the field, a faint smile on his face, a bruised but triumphant expression.
Nemuri leaned against the wall, her face slack with shock, muttering under her breath, “We are so lucky he’s not a villain.”
Mic whispered, voice low and tense, “He could be. He’s choosing not to be.”
Aizawa’s gaze was fixed on the screen, unblinking, his jaw clenched tight. His internal dialogue was a storm, *This is beyond genius. It’s dangerous. But... he’s holding back.*
“Good,” he said finally, voice flat but weighted with unspoken concern.
Tech Demo Approval Meeting
Power Loader crossed his arms, scowling as he looked at the plans. “I don’t want him onstage,” he said sharply, voice rough with concern.
Thirteen leaned in, calm and composed. “He’s earned it,” she replied simply, her tone firm but measured.
Power Loader’s gaze flicked to the next point. “He’s going to bring a fog machine!”
Lunch Rush, leaning against the counter, chuckled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “He built a fog machine last night. From my broken humidifier,” he said, voice amused but also wary.
Nezu, cheerful as ever, chirped, “It’s educational! Besides, he labeled the button.”
The group looked at the control panel, where a bright red button was labeled: ‘DO NOT PRESS OR YOU’LL BE VIBRATED OUT OF EXISTENCE’.
Nezu beamed proudly. “That’s the one!”
Izuku’s Quirkless Tech Demonstration
Izuku stood at the front of a room packed with faculty and first-years, no podium, no script, just a stack of duct-taped notebooks and a clicker in hand. His nerves jittered with anticipation, but his face was determined.
“Today I’m going to show you why support gear isn’t just equipment,” he said, voice steady, eyes shining with conviction. “It’s translation. Between intent and action. Thought and form. Weakness and function.”
He pressed the clicker.
The projection flickered to life, holograms dancing over the room, gears rotating, glowing circuits, outlines of exosuits, faint pulses of light outlining the sensory matrix he’d built into the gloves.
“This system makes a person quirkless,” he explained, voice unwavering. “And I still beat twenty people in it.”
Nezu clapped softly, eyes moist. Nemuri blinked rapidly, trying to hide her emotion, some tears slipping free. Power Loader, arms crossed, looked impressed but bewildered, a wrench clenched in his fist as if holding back the urge to smash something.
Night in the Teacher Lounge
Aizawa sat stiffly, staring at the monitor, the glow illuminating his tired face. Cementoss handed him a clipboard, voice quiet but pointed.
“You see this?”
Aizawa flipped through ten dense pages, dissections, diagrams, notes, each one a testament to Izuku’s relentless curiosity.
“Filed by Izuku,” Cementoss said, voice dry. “Environmental Sensor Drift in Long-Term Closed Simulations (With Notes on Thirteen’s Spatial Lag).”
Aizawa’s eyes widened slightly as he read the meticulous handwriting, the complex equations, and the detailed analysis. His gaze paused at a section titled “Nemuri’s Quirk Theory”, seven paragraphs long, describing diffusive chemical mist behavior at the cellular level, microthermal inversions, and olfactory saturation variance.
He stared, stunned. *He doesn’t shut up, but he’s brilliant.*
“I thought he didn’t know how to shut up,” he muttered.
Mic snorted, leaning over his shoulder. “He doesn’t. That’s the problem.”
Nezu, lounging on the couch, looked up, a small smile on his face. “You’re proud.”
Aizawa didn’t reply.
“You could say it.”
A pause.
“…Maybe,” he finally muttered.
“I’ll record it,” Mic said, grinning.
“Try it, and I’ll erase your operating system,” Aizawa warned softly, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his face, an acknowledgment of the chaos and brilliance he was witnessing.
Scene: Private Messages
[IZUKU ➜ Aizawa]: Thank you for letting me present today. I’m sorry I went over my time.
[AIZAWA ➜ Izuku]: You’re not in trouble. You’re impressive.
[IZUKU ➜ Aizawa]: …Sir?
[AIZAWA ➜ Izuku]: Don’t make it weird.
[IZUKU ➜ Aizawa]: Too late.
[IZUKU ➜ Aizawa]: You called me impressive.
[IZUKU ➜ Aizawa]: That’s going in my journal.
[IZUKU ➜ Aizawa]: In ink.
Chapter 9: We Signed Up For This (Unfortunately)
Chapter Text
It started with the sprinkler system.
It was supposed to be a minor tech upgrade. New pressure regulation units. Slight fireproofing layer added to Gym Delta’s inner panels. Routine. Boring.
And then Power Loader got locked out of the control system.
“Why is the diagnostics console offline?” he muttered, typing furiously.
The screen flashed.
SYSTEM: MIDORIYA LOCK AUTH PROTOCOL ACTIVE
“Trust me. You’ll like it.” –F
Power Loader slammed his wrench down.
“AIZAWA YOUR GREMLIN HAS GONE ROGUE.”
The air inside the control room was thick with tension, the faint hum of servers and the flickering glow of monitors creating a chaotic symphony of noise. Izuku sat on the edge of the rooftop sim dome, legs swinging over the edge, the cool wind whipping strands of his hair into his eyes. His fingers moved deftly over a series of tablets, each one emitting a soft glow, screens flickering with streams of code, sensor data, and system diagnostics. His ears caught the faintest crackle of static from the building’s sensors, an interference he was carefully rerouting, humming the U.A. school anthem softly under his breath, voice almost a whisper of melody amid the chaos.
The scent of ozone and burnt plastic lingered in the air, a reminder of the recent explosions of innovation and chaos. His internal dialogue was a swirl of focus and calm, *Just a little tweak here, reroute that node, optimize the response algorithms. No alarms, no issues, just a bit of fine-tuning.*
As he worked, Mic appeared at the top of the sim dome, a wide grin stretched across his face, clutching three tablets and a juice box that looked like it had been through a storm itself, cracked, sticky, but still holding liquid. The Bluetooth speaker blared ambient storm sounds, rumbling thunder, distant rain, a crackle of lightning, filling the space with a chaotic serenity.
“What did you do,” Mic asked, voice tinged with equal parts curiosity and disbelief, eyes darting from the tablets to Izuku’s calm expression.
Izuku’s smile was small but proud, a flicker of mischief dancing in his eyes. “I may have… slightly improved the sprinkler system.” His tone was casual, like he was describing a minor upgrade to a toaster.
Mic’s eyebrows shot up. “Slightly?”
Izuku nodded, eyes gleaming with a mixture of innocence and chaos. “And created a subroutine that detects chemical smoke signatures, pre-fires, and stress-induced explosions.” His voice carried a quiet pride, like a scientist revealing a breakthrough.
Mic blinked, processing the words. “Wait. It detects mood-based combustion?”
“Exactly,” Izuku said, puffing out his chest slightly. “It’s specifically calibrated for me.”
The absurdity hit Mic like a tidal wave, his laugh burst out uncontrollably, echoing across the dome. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, and suddenly lost his footing. His back slipped, and he fell backward, tumbling off the ledge with a loud yelp, landing in a heap among the tangled cables and debris below.
Later that evening, the hallway outside the staff lounge was a corridor of chaos, shadows flickering across the walls as the building’s emergency lights flickered irregularly. Aizawa’s silhouette loomed in the glow, dark and imposing, as he cornered Izuku against the wall, the sharp scent of disinfectant and faint ozone lingering in the air.
“You’re not cleared for system-wide override,” Aizawa said flatly, voice low, like a blade cutting through the murmur of distant footsteps. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, bored into Izuku’s calm expression.
Izuku didn’t flinch. His heart pounded softly, not from fear but from the thrill of defiance. “The old routing node was three firmware versions behind and still using deprecated commands,” he said, voice even, almost amused. “That’s a safety issue.”
Aizawa’s brow twitched. “I’m not saying you were wrong.”
“Then what are you saying?” Izuku’s internal voice was a mix of curiosity and a quiet challenge.
Aizawa exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m saying I had to calm five messages from panicking faculty members who thought you’d triggered a building lockdown. Again.”
Izuku’s smile was small but proud, almost defiant. “I only do that when necessary,” he replied softly, voice steady.
Aizawa’s gaze softened just enough to reveal a flicker of exasperation. “You have three alarms labeled ‘EMOTIONAL MELTDOWN QUARANTINE’,” he said, voice tired but with a trace of genuine concern.
“…Yeah,” Izuku admitted, voice quiet but unapologetic.
Aizawa stared at him, a long pause hanging in the air. The chaos of the evening seemed to pulse around them, the distant hum of the building’s systems echoing the tumult within.
“You’re impossible,” Aizawa finally muttered, voice resigned.
Izuku’s smile widened, a flicker of mischief behind his calm. “You’re proud of me though.”
“Stop saying it out loud,” Aizawa snapped, though his tone softened slightly, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through.
“You are!” Izuku pressed, eyes shining with stubborn pride.
Aizawa shook his head, voice dry and tired. “Go to bed.”
Later that week, Nezu summoned Aizawa to the admin office. Only Aizawa.
There was a file on the desk.
Inside: transcripts, reports, incident logs, and one signed line at the bottom:
MIDORIYA, IZUKU, CLASS 1-A (SOLO)
PERSONAL MENTORSHIP: NEZU (PRINCIPAL)
SECONDARY SPONSOR: AIZAWA SHOUTA
Aizawa stared at it.
“You really want him.”
Nezu’s eyes twinkled. “He’s the best mind I’ve seen since you. And he doesn’t know it.”
“He knows.”
“He doubts. And he’s still waiting for someone to take him away from this.”
“I won’t.”
“I know,” Nezu said. “Which is why you need to sign here.”
Aizawa did.
Without hesitation.
Faculty Chat: [“Herd Control”]
Brooding Cloak Dad: it’s done. nezu’s mentorship is official.
Volume Crimes: OH NO
Iron Chef: do we… prepare?
Gremlin Wrangler: for what?
Galaxy Mom: war. brilliance. caffeine shortages.
Wine Aunt: the moment that kid realizes we actually gave him full access, the planet tilts.
Math Sadist: I, for one, welcome our tiny technocrat overlord.
Tax Evasion, Probably: phase two: begin
Rootin Tootin Physics: do I hear building-wide humming?
Brooding Cloak Dad: yeah. he’s rebooting the speaker system. he said something about “entrance music.”
Volume Crimes: it’s happening. he’s ascended.
The lounge was cloaked in silence, shadows pooling in the corners where the faint glow of late-night lights seeped through blinds, casting slatted patterns across the worn wooden floor. The air was thick with a mixture of warm tea, faint traces of ink from the folder, and something unspoken, an emotional weight that pressed against the walls like a tangible force.
Izuku sat across from Aizawa, knees drawn slightly inward, hands trembling just a little as he held his own cup, the steam curling upward in lazy spirals that dispersed into the cool night air. The faint scent of chamomile and mint filled the space, soothing yet fragile. A juice box sat neglected on the table, its straw half-peeled, as if waiting for a moment of clarity, like a last thread of innocence amid the chaos.
Between them lay a folder, thick and battered, filled with plans, hopes, fears, a tangible future cradled between pages.
“I’m not scared anymore,” Izuku finally said, voice soft but resolute, a fragile declaration wrapped in raw honesty. His eyes flickered with a strange, quiet fire, determined, uncertain.
Aizawa’s gaze was steady, unreadable, but a flicker of acknowledgment passed through his eyes. “I know,” he replied simply, voice gravelly and calm, like the ground beneath a storm.
Izuku’s voice cracked slightly, honest and trembling, “I still think I’ll mess it up.”
Aizawa’s lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes hinted at a different truth, He will. That’s the point. His internal voice echoed: He’ll stumble. He’ll fall. But he’ll get up again. And he’ll help others do the same.
“I’ll mess up,” Aizawa said softly, almost to himself. “Then fix it. Then help someone else fix it.”
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as if the room itself was holding its breath. Izuku’s fingers tapped lightly on the table, the faint sound muffled in the quiet, a nervous rhythm of hope and fear intertwined.
“Nezu wants to teach me personally,” Izuku whispered, voice trembling with a mixture of hope and trepidation. His eyes flickered with uncertainty, a flicker of vulnerability that betrayed his brave front.
“I know,” Aizawa said, voice low and steady, as if the words carried a weight he didn’t want to carry but knew he must.
“That scares me,” Izuku admitted, voice barely audible, the words spilling out like fragile glass.
“Good,” Aizawa said, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “It means you respect it.”
Izuku’s eyes flicked down to his juice box, fiddling anxiously with the straw, twisting it between his fingers as if trying to hold onto some semblance of control.
“I… I’m happy here,” he said, voice thick with emotion, the vulnerability slipping through like a crack in armor.
Aizawa’s gaze softened, an almost imperceptible shift as he watched the boy before him.
“You’re home here,” he said quietly, the words slow, deliberate, grounding.
“…Yeah,” Izuku whispered, the simple word heavy with relief and uncertainty, a fragile affirmation.
A beat of silence settled, thick and oppressive, yet somehow comforting in its stillness.
Aizawa didn’t move, just sat there, eyes fixed, the faintest flicker of something unspoken passing through him. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out and set his cup down on the table. The soft clink echoed softly in the quiet room, a small act of reassurance, of acceptance.
And in that moment, they sat together, two victims, victims of Nedzu’s chaos, victims of their own fears, bound by a shared understanding that neither needed to speak aloud.
The next morning, the campus was alive in a quiet, determined way, the air crisp and clear, carrying a faint scent of dew and fresh beginnings. Izuku moved through the halls with a new badge pinned to his chest, shiny, official, a symbol of the chaos he’d embraced, and an upgraded wristband that hummed softly with some unknown, quiet fire. His eyes shimmered with a calm, quiet intensity, like a storm barely contained behind a mask of normalcy.
He waved at Thirteen, who nodded in return, her expression unreadable but approving. He greeted Recovery Girl by name, her eyes widening in surprise and pride. Mic’s voice echoed in his mind, Toast stealing, snack hoarding, chaos incarnate., and he couldn’t help but grin as he slipped past him, snagging a piece of toast from Mic’s plate with a mischievous wink.
He paused briefly, giving Nezu a high-five, an act of camaraderie, of defiance, and then strode purposefully into the new class schedule, into a future that shimmered with possibility and chaos.
No one dared question it.
He was no longer just the lone voice in 1-A. No longer just the Ferret, he was something more. Something unstoppable.
And he was only getting started.
BONUS: “Group Therapy Is Not a Battle Strategy, Mr. Ishiguro.”
The classroom was a dim, hazy cocoon of subdued light, orange-tinted lamps casting long, flickering shadows that danced with every movement, like the very walls were breathing heavily. The scent of warm juice boxes, faintly sour from being squeezed or forgotten, mingled with the worn fabric of beanbags and the faint tang of paper and plastic. The atmosphere felt thick, almost viscous, nerves prickling against the skin like static electricity ready to snap.
Yuzuki-sensei sat cross-legged on the tatami mat, her hands folded gently in her lap, her voice soft but steady, like a calm tide before a storm. “Let’s begin with breathing exercises,” she said, her tone soothing, almost hypnotic. “I want us to centre our minds on safety and calm.” Her words drifted through the room, fragile threads of hope woven into the thick fog of chaos.
Across the uneven circle, the class sat on beanbags and cushions, some gripping their knees tightly, others trembling so faintly it was barely perceptible. The low, warm lighting cast a gentle, uneven glow that made everything seem more fragile, more vulnerable. The unopened juice boxes sat like relics, condensation shimmering on the plastic, waiting, perhaps, until someone dared to drink, to break the tense silence.
A long, oppressive stillness settled, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the nervous shuffling of limbs. Then Jun Ishiguro, the self-proclaimed class loudmouth, raised his hand, voice loud and almost mocking in its bravado.
“Yes, Ishiguro-kun?” Yuzuki prompted softly, her eyes calm but alert.
“Do we get combat credit for this,” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm, eyes gleaming with mischief, “this is support, right? So, this should count as some kind of tactical unit, yeah?”
The room tensed as everyone digested his words.
“This is support,” Yuzuki corrected, voice even, almost gentle, “not combat.”
“I’m just saying,” Ishiguro pressed on, voice louder, almost theatrical, “if this is group support, I feel like that counts as a tactical unit.”
Yuzuki blinked, her gaze narrowing just slightly beneath her calm exterior. “Please stop trying to weaponize your emotional development,” she said, a faint smile teasing her lips but her tone edged with exasperation.
The chaos wasn’t just verbal anymore. The room was a disorganized mess of limbs and expressions, some staring vacantly at trembling hands, others gripping their knees so tightly their knuckles turned white. The flickering orange light painted everything with a fragile, flickering glow, as if the room itself might shatter at any moment.
Juice boxes sat abandoned, their glossy wrappers crinkled and half-peeled, like discarded shells of innocence. A faint scent of fruit and plastic hung in the air, mockingly sweet against the tension that simmered beneath.
Haruka Mori, the class rep, finally shattered the silence with a voice rough and strained but desperate to be heard. “We need to say it.”
Sayuri Tanabe’s eye twitched uncontrollably, her body stiffening as if she’d been struck. “Don’t,” she whispered, trembling, voice barely more than a breath. “Don’t say it.”
“We do,” Mori insisted, voice rising slightly, raw and unfiltered. “He’s… he’s not normal.” His words hit with the force of a confession, truth, raw and unvarnished.
“You can’t call him that,” Hoshino muttered from behind her oversized hoodie, voice muffled but sharp with guilt. “It’s mean.”
Yuuto Kasai, clutching his juice box so hard that the plastic crinkled, shot back with a voice edged in frustration, “He built a functioning pressure-triggered trap out of drain covers. We’re not talking mean. We’re talking tactically unnatural.”
The room grew even heavier, an oppressive silence falling that felt like a thick fog, unsettling, suffocating.
Yuzuki’s voice was soft but firm, “Midoriya-kun is still a first-year.”
Jun Ishiguro exploded, high and wild. “He’s a feral first-year! He knew my quirk activation range before we even started and used it to bait me into a blind spot with a prerecorded crow call!”
Okabe raised his hand, haunted eyes darkened by memories. “He said the trees were talking to him.”
Shiva paused, confusion flickering across her face. “Did he mean that metaphorically?”
“No,” Okabe said, voice serious. “He crouched under a cedar for six minutes, closed his eyes, and then said, ‘Mori has the softest footfall.’ I wasn’t even in range.”
The room fell into a thick, unsettling silence, like the calm before a storm.
Takuya Satou’s voice was soft but piercing. “He disarmed Riku without making contact.”
Riku, slumped and tense, muttered, “I tripped.”
“Because he made you trip with air pressure math,” Satou said flatly.
“It’s a lucky guess!” Riku shot back, defensive.
“He said the words ‘I mapped your aggression tells’ and then smiled,” Satou continued, eyes intense.
Sayuri leaned forward, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and fear. “My illusions stopped working after he looked at me for too long. Too long. He told me what kind of perfume I wore and how it affects airflow. FLOW.”
Jun hissed, eyes narrowing. “He called my quirk ‘visually inefficient,’ and then dodged an entire barrage of rocks with a mirror.”
Mori, whispering, voice full of awe, said, “He climbed the scoreboard tower. Then jumped off and stuck the landing. That’s not a student. That’s a hoodie-wearing god.”
Yuzuki scribbled furiously in her notepad, her eyes narrowing as she wrote: Ferret Level Threat: Confirmed.
Hound Dog scratched softly behind his ears and asked, almost tentative, “So. Would you say you’re feeling… threatened?”
Sayuri snapped, sharp and defensive. “It’s not threatened. It’s outplayed. Outclassed. Out, out, ”
“Out-ferreted,” Yuuto deadpanned, deadpan.
“I think he knew we were going to lose,” Ayaka added quietly, voice heavy with grim realization. “Like he was waiting for us to figure it out. We never did.”
Riku slumped lower, defeated. “I still don’t know how I lost.”
Mori turned to Yuzuki, voice calm but serious. “He weaponized his own underestimation. That’s not something a first-year should know how to do.”
Yuzuki scribbled again, then cleared her throat. Her voice was gentle but firm, “I think what we’re seeing here is an intersection of combat intelligence and… maybe some unprocessed awe.”
Riku looked puzzled. “Awe?”
Yuzuki nodded softly. “You lost to a tactical genius. One who drinks apple juice and calls his prototype gauntlets ‘training wheels.’ It’s okay to feel overwhelmed.”
Everyone stared silently, digesting her words.
Then Jun whispered, voice trembling, “We’re lucky he’s not a villain.”
Without hesitation, the entire room nodded in unison, silent agreement, a collective acknowledgment of the chaos they’d just witnessed.
Chapter 10: The Variable That Breaks the Equation
Chapter Text
It started with a pencil.
Izuku had left it on his desk, just a plain, standard-issue U.A. mechanical pencil, the kind that felt cold and smooth against the fingertips, with a faint scrape of graphite inside waiting to be unleashed. Nothing special, just a tool, a simple object. But when Power Loader walked past, his heavy boots echoing softly against the tiled floor, he paused. His brow furrowed, leaned down, and muttered, “What the hell?”
The pencil was floating.
Not spinning, not wobbling, not twitching, just, eerily, hovering in midair. As if gravity had forgotten about it, or maybe some invisible force had taken hold. No wind stirred the air; no quirk signature shimmered or flickered. Just a perfect, silent suspension, weightless and unnatural. The silence in the room thickened, taut and electric, as if holding its breath. No explanation. No warning. Just that quiet, impossible defiance of physics.
The second incident happened three days later, like a second punch to the gut, a reminder that the bizarre was becoming normal, or perhaps just another layer of chaos.
Lunch Rush was in the kitchen, preparing a specialty curry batch for the 1-A dorms, a bubbling, fragrant stew that filled the space with warm spices and the scent of roasted garlic. Izuku entered, waving casually, the faint scent of mint and sweat trailing behind him. He stepped into the dry prep area, the cold tile pressing against his shoes, the faint hum of refrigeration in the background.
The pots finished boiling before Rush even turned on the heat. The water hissed and splattered faintly, steam curling up in ghostly tendrils, but Izuku’s eyes flickered with quiet curiosity, watching the scene unfold.
Then, without warning, a chart flickered onto a nearby monitor, suddenly, a simple diagram of environmental influence, with lines and arrows that seemed to ripple and shift as if alive.
“Environmental influence,” Nezu said, tapping a finger against the chart with a faint, deliberate tap. His voice was light, almost amused.
“Telekinetic leak?” Thirteen offered, her tone analytical, eyes narrowing as she studied the data.
“He’s not registered with one,” Nezu replied, voice calm but tinged with intrigue, a hint of something more complex beneath the surface.
“He’s not registered at all,” Aizawa said flatly, crossing his arms. His voice was like a blade, sharp, precise, cutting through the chaos. “Inko Midoriya filed him as quirkless at six.”
Power Loader muttered under his breath, voice heavy with suspicion and a trace of fear. “Because she knew. She knew and didn’t want him noticed.”
Mic, usually verbose and chaotic, had nothing to say. Just stood there, eyes wide, processing the quiet storm swirling around the room.
They called him in on a Saturday.
The gym was empty, no domes, no traps, no sensors, just one chair. Stark, solitary, waiting in the center of the vast, hollow space.
Aizawa stood with Nezu, Mic, Nemuri, and Thirteen, their faces a mixture of curiosity and cautious concern. Recovery Girl watched from the upper tier, her expression unreadable, like a silent sentinel. Hound Dog sat against the wall, ears twitching slightly as if sensing the unspoken tension.
Izuku blinked, looking at the setup, this strange, sparse scene, and asked, “Am I in trouble?”
“No,” Aizawa said, voice calm but firm.
“Should I be?” Izuku’s voice wavered just slightly, internal alarm flickering beneath his words.
“Maybe,” Mic muttered, voice flat but with an undertone of unease.
Nezu, ever composed, waved him in with a gentle, almost playful gesture. “We want to talk about your quirk.”
Izuku froze, a flicker of apprehension crossing his face, a moment stretched thin, almost painfully silent, like a wire taut with anticipation.
“I don’t have one,” he said softly, voice trembling with the weight of unspoken fears, eyes darting away.
“Yes, you do,” Aizawa replied, voice steady and unwavering. “And we want the truth.”
Another long pause, thick and heavy, like a storm waiting to break.
Then Izuku slowly sat down, shoulders hunched, the faint creak of the chair breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I didn’t mean to lie.”
Izuku Midoriya’s
Quirk: Refractal
Type: Reality-altering, logic-based
Category: Cognitive-manipulative / Existential-affecting
Trigger: Intention. Fear. Desperation. Precision.
“I don’t make things up,” Izuku said softly, voice steady but trembling with the weight of what he was about to reveal. “I don’t invent illusions. I can’t just dream something into existence. I can only change what’s already real. What exists. I can tilt it. Fold it. Reshape it. But only if I know how it works.” His eyes flicked upward, searching the faces around him, as if trying to gauge whether he’d just opened a door to something too terrifying to contain.
He looked up, eyes dark and intense, almost pleading. “I can rewrite a machine because I understand the machine,” he continued, voice catching just a little on the last words, trembling with the effort of honesty.
Mic’s throat clicked, an awkward, almost involuntary sound as he processed. “How much can you rewrite?” His voice was hoarse, edged with awe and nervousness, the chaos of the room pressing inward like the walls were closing.
“Space. Sound. Velocity. Force,” Izuku said, voice lowering into a whisper. “Sometimes, rules. Anything technically.” His words felt like fragile glass, delicate and dangerous all at once.
Nemuri’s voice was quiet, careful, almost tentative. “Rules?”
He nodded slowly, eyes distant, like he was seeing something far away, something he couldn’t quite grasp. “Like… gravity. Cause and effect. Probability.” He looked down at his hands, trembling slightly. “But only in bursts. And it takes so much focus. Like… like pulling apart a woven net while you’re drowning.” His words hung in the air, heavy, soaked in emotion, as if describing trying to breathe underwater.
Nezu’s ears twitched, alert and curious. “Can you bend people?”
Izuku swallowed hard, throat raw with the weight of the question. “I’ve never tried,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
“Because it’s wrong?” Thirteen asked, her tone calm but edged with an undercurrent of concern.
“Because it would work,” Izuku answered simply, voice hollowed out by the truth.
He told them everything, how Inko found out when he was just four, how the wallpaper kept changing, shifting into strange patterns as if alive. How lightbulbs refused to stay broken, flickering back to life moments after being shattered. How things went missing, only to reappear in different shapes, different places. How she told him to stop, told him he was wrong, told him if he loved her, he wouldn’t use it.
“I didn’t even realize what it was,” he whispered, voice cracking with the weight of memories. “I thought I was haunted. I thought I was cursed.”
“You’re not cursed,” Aizawa said, voice low, steady, anchoring him in the chaos.
Izuku looked up sharply, eyes shimmering with a mixture of vulnerability and defiance. “But I’m not normal either.”
“No,” Nezu said softly, ears twitching with understanding. “You’re refracted.”
They began testing, controlled, safe, precise. The air was thick with a strange, almost reverent silence, broken only by the faint hum of machinery and the soft, tense sounds of their focus.
They showed him a broken glass, sharp, jagged edges catching the light. Izuku reached out, fingers brushing the shards, feeling the jagged surfaces against his skin. His focus sharpened, eyes narrowing. The cracks began to shift, ripple, flow, until the glass filled, smoothed, and became a perfect bowl, its edges rounded and seamless as if magic had woven it anew.
Next, they threw a heavy metal rod across the room, a weapon of chaos, a symbol of destruction. Izuku flicked his hand. The weightless object paused midair, suspended as if caught in a slow-motion dance. It drifted down like a feather, silent and weightless, as if gravity had been gently turned down to a whisper.
He read a page in a textbook, the words sharp and clear in his mind. Then he closed the book, the pages fluttering softly like wings. Without looking, he reached out and changed the font of the printed text, thick serif to delicate script, bold to faint. The room’s chaos seemed to pause, watching him bend reality with quiet, effortless precision.
“Can you create something from nothing?” Thirteen asked cautiously, voice carrying the weight of the question.
Izuku shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on the space in front of him. “No. It’s not creation. It’s adaptation. Alteration,” he replied, voice calm but layered with unspoken emotion, like a river running deep beneath the surface.
Mic muttered, almost to himself, “Kid doesn’t make miracles. He makes corrections.” His voice was low, awed, respectful of the chaos contained within that quiet statement.
And in the silence that followed, the chaos of the room seemed to settle, the storm inside each of them momentarily stilled, as they stared into the depths of what Izuku was revealing, something fragile, dangerous, and painfully beautiful all at once.
The Incident
It was supposed to be a routine class-wide evac drill, an orchestrated chaos of false alarms, fog gas billowing in thick curtains, debris simulation cracking and crashing over the mock terrain. The room was dense with the scent of burnt rubber, damp dirt, and the sharp tang of chemicals used to create the fog. The air hummed with static electricity, tension thick enough to cut with a knife, every student caught in the chaotic pulse of the emergency.
Then, it wasn’t.
Suddenly, the support braces supporting half the gym floor failed, an error in the underground sim unit, a slip in the fragile machinery that held the chaos together. The floor trembled, shuddered, then gave way with a deafening crack. Dust and debris exploded upward, choking the air with a cloud of pulverized concrete, smoke billowing in thick, choking plumes. One wall, exposed to a faulty line, burst into flames, fire licking hungrily, crackling with a furious roar that made the room tremble.
Izuku’s eyes widened as chaos unfolded in slow motion. He saw Kirioka, the smallest of the 1-Bs, trapped beneath a fallen beam, limbs tangled, face streaked with dust and smoke, eyes wide with shock and fear. The moment was a scream in his mind, urgent, frantic, impossible to ignore.
There was no time.
Aizawa’s voice shattered through the chaos, commanding and fierce, “Containment! Get everyone out!” His voice cut through the noise, a sharp blade slicing the panic. Staff members scrambled, their movements frantic, pushing students away, trying to control the disaster as the room descended into chaos, shouting, running, the clash of shouts and alarms.
But Izuku didn’t move.
Instead, he glowed. Not a flickering light, but an intense, pulsating radiance, like the core of a star, raw and blinding. The space around him warped, shimmered like a broken mirror reflecting a thousand fractured images. Then, with a crack that echoed like the sound of a glass shattering under immense pressure, the web of white lines exploded outward from where he stood, radiating in all directions.
The falling beam slowed, weightless and suspended as if caught in an invisible trap. The flames reversed, licking back into the wires and pipes from whence they came, smoke uncurled like breath exhaled in relief, soft, slow, curling like a living thing. The debris stopped midair, suspended in a web of crackling tension.
Izuku stepped forward, through the chaos as if it were a mirage, an illusion, a fleeting dream. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if reality itself obeyed his silent command.
Kirioka blinked, eyes wide and dazed, voice trembling as he asked, “What, what happened?”
Izuku’s smile was calm, almost serene amidst the chaos, a quiet reassurance. “I revised the moment,” he said softly, voice tinged with awe and a strange, quiet pride.
From the balcony, Nezu watched with a tense, clenched paw, eyes sharp, ears twitching with a mixture of admiration and worry. Power Loader muttered under his breath, voice heavy with disbelief. “That’s not a child.”
Nezu’s response was quiet but resolute. “No. It’s a miracle. On a string.”
Aizawa stood motionless, eyes fixed on his student, his face unreadable but his mind racing. He knew two things, one, that he’d never be able to keep Izuku safe again. And two, that no one was taking him from U.A., not now, not ever.
Because this was more than power. This was something else, something chaotic, fragile, and terrifyingly beautiful. And Aizawa would guard it with everything he had.
U.A. Faculty Chat: [“Herd Control”]
Brooding Cloak Dad: the ferret reversed time in a 4-meter radius
Volume Crimes: define “reversed”
Gremlin Wrangler: define “time”
Galaxy Mom: define ferret
Wine Aunt: this is why Mrs Midoriya never let anyone scan him
Iron Chef: I gave him extra dessert and now I’m wondering if he conjured it himself
Rootin Tootin Physics: no one let him near a quantum course. ever.
Tax Evasion, Probably: the variable that breaks the equation. I love it
Math Sadist: we should be terrified
Problem Son™: [ping: “sorry about the sim unit, it’s fixed now! also I repaired the wiring :)”]
Damage Report
There were no sirens, no alarms blaring like a deafening roar ripping through the air. No blinking red screens flashing urgent icons, no evacuations shouted into loudspeakers. It was as if the world had simply paused, frozen in a moment of suspended chaos, because by the time the support staff even registered the seismic alert emanating from the underground dome, Midoriya had already fixed it.
The crater where the floor had once been was sealed as if it had never existed, smooth, unmarred, the edges perfectly flush with the surrounding surface. The flames that had clawed and hissed in fury had reversed, retreating into their wires and pipes, leaving behind only a faint, lingering smell of burnt ozone and charred plastic. Metal that had been twisted and warped now lay straight again, undisturbed, as if time itself had unknotted the chaos with an invisible thread.
A recorded log from the control console played in real-time, the data strings flickering across the screen, numbers and symbols that defied logic, forced into a language only the universe itself seemed to understand. Force vectors vanished into nothingness, like ghostly whispers. Kinetic tension, the invisible pressure that had crackled in the air moments before, bled backward through matter, undoing itself as if reality had been rewound.
There was no call for help. No frantic cries. No desperate attempts to rescue what was no longer in danger because there was nothing left to save. Only a child standing alone amid the smoke and chaos, his small figure illuminated by the faint glow of flickering embers, and the world bending around him like a sheet of paper crumpled and smoothed again, fragile, unpredictable, terrifying in its perfect calm.
The staff convened in an impromptu meeting, no one was late; no one dared to be. Not even Mic, who usually wandered in with curry chips in one hand and a quip on his tongue, arriving ten minutes behind schedule, as if he’d been caught in some cosmic joke. Tonight, he sat with his mouth closed, the usual smirk replaced by a tense, unreadable expression.
Recovery Girl had already administered three sedatives that day, her hands trembling as she pressed a warm cup of tea to her lips, clutching it like a lifeline, silent, eyes distant behind her glasses. She didn’t speak. The room was thick with unspoken fears and the weight of what they’d just witnessed.
Nezu stood at the head of the table, paws folded in front of him, a large folder resting atop its surface, its thick cover labeled MIDORIYA: REVISED, in bold, block letters. His ears were upright, alert, his tail still. The tension in his body radiated even in stillness.
Aizawa sat with his arms crossed, the dark shadows beneath his eyes deeper than ever, jaw clenched like a statue carved from granite. His gaze was locked onto the folder, as if trying to read the unspoken words scribbled in invisible ink across it.
“We’ve had children with catastrophic potential before,” Nezu finally broke the silence, voice calm but weighted with gravity. “We’ve had unstable powers. Nuclear types. Probability benders. Time glitchers.” His ears twitched with each word, emphasizing the gravity of what was at stake.
Mic cleared his throat, voice hoarse, the usual humor gone. “But not him.”
“No,” Nezu said softly, almost reverently. “Not him.”
A long, heavy silence stretched between them, thick enough to drown in.
Recovery Girl’s voice finally cut through the stillness, quiet but piercing. “He controls reality. Not in the abstract. Not through force. He rewrote gravity in a thirty-meter radius. Reversed fire. Restored oxygen. He doesn’t emit. He adjusts.” Her words were slow, deliberate, as if each one was a fragile thread holding back chaos.
Aizawa’s eyes flicked up, narrowing as he absorbed her words. “He doesn’t know how much damage he could do,” he muttered, voice low and tense, a warning wrapped in doubt.
Nezu’s tone softened, voice almost gentle. “He knows.”
Aizawa’s gaze sharpened, eyes piercing through the room like a blade.
Nezu was still, eyes calm but heavy with something unspoken. “He knows exactly what he’s capable of. And he’s terrified of it.”
Mic leaned forward, fists clenched tightly, knuckles white. “So what do we do? Celebrate him? Leash him? Shove him in a vault and label it ‘break glass if god dies’?”
“No,” Aizawa said, voice firm, unwavering. “We do what we’ve always done. We teach him. We protect him. We give him control.”
“And who protects us?” Recovery Girl whispered, voice trembling with quiet fear. “If he breaks? If he snaps? If he forgets what makes him human?”
Nezu folded his paws together, a calm, unwavering presence. “That’s why he has us.”
Later that night, Aizawa stood by the dormitory windows, watching the faint flicker of lights dying out across the upper floors. He could see Izuku’s window, second from the left, on the third floor, a faint blue glow pulsing softly like a heartbeat in the darkness.
He hadn’t cried after what happened. Not once. He hadn’t trembled or screamed or broken down in panic. No, he just stood there, calm as the smoke parted, gaze heavy and distant, jaw clenched so tight it looked like he was holding back the storm inside. Like he’d been waiting for it. Waiting for someone to finally see him.
Aizawa closed his eyes, the weight of it pressing down on him. “He’s just a kid,” he whispered aloud.
“No,” Nezu said softly, stepping beside him. “Not anymore.”
The words were devoid of malice or joy, only sadness, a truth they all refused to voice.
They replayed the logs for the fourth time that night, footage from four different cameras, heat maps, breath patterns, neural spikes, a chaotic symphony of data. They watched the moment Izuku’s power flared into existence: space folding like a cracked mirror, reality lurching and twisting, smoke seeming to flow backward while everything else froze in a perfect, terrifying stasis.
“I’ve seen top-tier quirks lock a zone,” Recovery Girl murmured, voice like a whisper of wind. “But this isn’t a bubble. It’s surgical.”
Nezu slowed the playback, dragging the scene to a crawl, one percent speed, watching the collapse, the reversal, the delicate undoing of chaos.
“He didn’t stop time,” Nezu said quietly. “He replaced it.”
Mic stared at the screen, eyes haunted, voice hushed. “So what happens when someone pushes him too far?”
Aizawa’s voice was barely a whisper, trembling with unspoken dread. “He erases the moment.”
Chapter 11: Ghost in the Wires
Chapter Text
At first, Izuku thought he was glitching.
He had spent the last forty-eight hours in half-rest cycles, patching broken training equipment, resyncing the dorm’s weather filtration schedule, and updating three different faculty subsystem scripts that Power Loader hadn’t touched in years. It wasn’t unusual for his vision to swim a little. Or for his fingers to tingle.
What was unusual was that his tablet opened itself.
He hadn’t touched it.
The screen lit up, silent and cold. A line of command text scrolled across the lower edge.
Welcome back, MIDORIYA I.
SYSTEM STATUS: CLONE CONFLICT DETECTED
LAST MODIFIED: 00:00:00
His breath hitched.
He tapped the lock key. It wouldn’t respond.
USER ACCESS OVERRIDE ACCEPTED
MESSAGE: DO YOU MISS IT YET?
He didn’t report it that night.
No call, no message, no frantic text to Aizawa or Power Loader. Not even a hurried email. The words burned behind his tongue like a secret too dangerous to speak, simmering with the weight of what he'd seen, what he'd done. Instead, he ran a trace. Fast. Silent. Root-only. No one could know. No one had to know.
The source was local. Underground. Beneath the very foundations of the school, in a hidden part of the city’s infrastructure. West Access Underwing, a service hallway he’d only mapped once, during that rare moment when he’d helped Hound Dog replace the emergency field lights. No scheduled access. No active devices. No reason for anyone to be there.
But the signal was live.
It flickered on his screen, pulsing like a heartbeat, an unnatural, irregular rhythm that didn’t belong. And it was pinging back with his ID tag, a silent, mocking confirmation.
The next morning, Mic’s projector blinked into life without a prompt, no warning, no command, just a sudden, flickering glow that cut through the dimness of the room. It played a one-second clip, a layered assault of sound and voice. Izuku’s voice, layered over music that was almost too calm, too deliberate, like a siren song.
“You didn’t listen to me before. Why would you start now?”
The words looped endlessly, a haunting refrain that echoed in Mic’s mind long after the image faded. The projector’s hum was the only sound, the only indication that something was wrong.
Until Power Loader unplugged it, fingers trembling slightly as he yanked the cord free.
“That’s not funny,” Mic said flatly, voice strained with disbelief and a tinge of fear.
“Izuku didn’t do this,” Power Loader snapped, voice sharp and defensive, eyes darting toward the flickering screen.
They looked at each other, two men caught in the chaos of doubt, each trying to convince himself of what he desperately wanted to believe. Neither believed themselves.
That afternoon, the sim gym doors sealed early, an unspoken emergency that sent a ripple of unease through the corridors. The emergency lights turned red, flashing a high-frequency pulse across the glass like a warning signal, a heartbeat racing out of control.
The message burned onto the display for exactly five seconds, a stark, unambiguous warning in glaring red letters, blaring in the tense silence.
[WARNING]
REFRAC-V-0 DETECTED
SYSTEM AUTHORITY UNVERIFIED
RUN
Then it vanished.
They pulled his access that night.
Not gently, not with explanations, just a sudden, sharp cut. Like flipping a switch in the dark. No call, no warning, just the cold, sterile silence that hung heavy in the air. They didn’t call it punishment. No, they called it “precautionary measures,” as if that somehow made it better, as if it softened the blow. But Izuku knew better. He knew what it meant.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t resist. Just handed over his modified ID band, its sleek surface cold against his palm, without a word. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying the calm he desperately tried to cling to. His voice was quiet, almost defeated: I understand.
He didn’t speak again for the rest of the day. Not a whisper, not a whimper. Just silence. Inside, a storm was brewing, shadows flickering behind his eyes, a thousand unspoken questions pounding in his chest. Why? Why now? Why him?
That night, his dorm room hummed with a strange, unsettling energy. The lights, usually soft and steady, buzzed at a wrong frequency, an irregular, jittery flicker that made his skin crawl. It was as if the very air vibrated with a chaotic rhythm, echoing the chaos inside him. He reached out and adjusted the dimmer, fingers trembling, trying to recalibrate the flickering glow, desperately seeking normalcy in the flickering chaos.
But the lights responded, then betrayed him again, buzzing louder, flickering more erratically. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
He sat on the edge of his bed, eyes fixated on the ceiling, feeling the prickling sensation of sweat forming at his temples. His mind spun in a whirl of confusion and dread. Sleep was impossible. The darkness pressed in around him, suffocating, claustrophobic. Each time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by the relentless, unwelcome reversal of the fan, its blades spinning in the opposite direction, a mechanical mockery of normalcy.
He tried to drown the chaos out, clutching his pillow, curling into himself, but even that offered no refuge. The room’s shadows seemed to stretch and contort, mocking his helplessness. His heartbeat hammered in his ears, a frantic drumbeat that refused to slow. Why was it doing this? Why now? His thoughts spiraled, each question more frantic, more desperate, than the last. *Am I losing it? Is this what they wanted?*
In the common room, the air was thick with a quiet, oppressive presence. Izuku sat in the corner of the couch, a ghostly figure, pale, eyes dull, staring blankly at the flickering screen of the television. The glow reflected off his skin, making him look translucent, like a ghost tethered to something unseen. His mind was a jumble, a chaotic storm of emotion, fear, anger, helplessness, sloshing over the edges of his consciousness. The walls didn’t bother him; they just watched. Silent, unwavering witnesses. They let him orbit in silence, orbiting the chaos inside him, the unspoken scream that threatened to burst free.
The cupboards opened before he even reached for them, as if the walls themselves moved with a mind of their own. The television flickered back on, static dancing across the screen like ghostly shadows. No one asked what was wrong. No one needed to. They had all seen the flickering lights, the erratic movements, the subtle signs of his unraveling. They understood, or at least, they pretended to.
Nezu, ever the calm strategist, sent a message directly to Power Loader, his tone measured but edged with an unspoken urgency.
“Do not tell him yet. Let him trace it himself.”
Aizawa responded in a heartbeat, voice cold and direct.
“He already has.”
The weight of that exchange pressed down on Izuku like a stone. The silent knowledge that he was already lost in this maze, that the answers were just out of reach, gnawed at him.
At 3:08 a.m., in the shadowy depths of the corridor, Izuku found himself outside a maintenance door, far in the western wing, where no signs marked the way, no cameras watched. The air was thick with silence, heavy with the scent of old wires, antiseptic, sterile. His fingers trembled as he reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the familiar cold metal of a manual override key he hadn’t used in months, maybe years. The metal felt heavier than it should. His heart pounded fiercely, a frantic drum in his chest.
He inserted the key, a hesitant breath catching in his throat as the lock accepted it with an almost mocking ease. The hallway stretched ahead, a void, a black hole swallowing light. Darkness seeped into every corner, every crevice, swallowing the faint glow of distant emergency lights. The air smelled of old wires, burnt rubber, and something metallic, something unplaceable, something alive.
He took a step forward. The floor was cold beneath his feet, each footstep echoing unnaturally loud in the silence. His senses sharpened, every sound, every faint hum of machinery, every breath he took felt amplified, chaotic. His mind raced, What am I doing? What am I looking for? His internal dialogue was a chaotic jumble, fear, curiosity, anger, guilt, clashing inside him like a storm.
And then, the door behind him slammed shut on its own. The sound echoed sharply, a cruel reminder that he was no longer in control. It was as if the darkness itself had sealed him inside, trapping him in this silent abyss. His breath hitched, heart pounding wildly, a primal fear rising from the depths of his being. The silence was deafening, oppressive, and he was suddenly painfully aware of how small, how fragile; he truly was in this vast, humming darkness, an intruder in a place where no one was meant to go.
Chapter 12: Debugging Reality
Chapter Text
Echo Syntax
There was no power in the hall. Not really. Just the faint, flickering remnants of a backup node struggling to keep alive, casting long, thin shadows that stretched and writhed along the warped, cracked tiles. Dust hung in the air, thick and heavy like memories long buried, clinging to every edge, every corner, every fissure in the wall. The stale scent of old wiring burnt rubber, and something faintly metallic gnawed at his nostrils, making him want to gag. His footsteps, muffled and cautious, pressed softly against the uneven floor, rubber soles whispering secrets to the silence. Every breath he took was shallow, quick, like he was trying to stay under the radar of some unseen monster lurking in the shadows. His heart pounded relentlessly, a wild, uneven drumbeat echoing in his ears, drowning out everything else.
He hated this hallway. Hated how it made his skin crawl, hated how every step felt like a step closer to the abyss, hated how the darkness seemed to pulse with a malevolent life of its own. He hadn't told anyone that. No one needed to know how much this place unsettled him, how much it clawed at his nerves. He’d walked through it once before, five months ago, during that nerve-wracking wiring inspection with Power Loader. He remembered it vividly. The walls had felt like they were pressing in, bending too close, suffocating in their proximity. The insulation was crumbling along the exposed pipework, crinkled and loose, like the flesh of a corpse. There was that broken camera lens, cracked and smeared with grime, that reflected his own image back at him with a warped, mocking grin. He’d fixed it then. Fixed it all. But even now, it felt wrong. Off. Like something had shifted, just beyond his perception.
Now, the hallway seemed worse. The shadows danced more aggressively, crawling with a life of their own, whispering secrets he couldn’t hear but felt deep in his bones. There was a hum beneath the silence, low, steady, almost deliberate. Not mechanical, not electrical. No, it was something more primal, more intentional. Like the hallway was listening, waiting, plotting. The hairs on his arms prickled as if invisible fingers brushed against his skin, and a shiver ran down his spine.
He found the door. No signage, no lock, nothing to tell him it was the right one. Just a plain, unassuming panel, blending into the wall like a secret waiting to be uncovered. His hand hovered in mid-air for a heartbeat, trembling, hesitant, and then he raised it, fingers curling into a fist.
He hesitated, heart hammering wildly, then pressed his palm flat against the panel. It was cold, slick, and clammy, like the surface of a corpse. For a moment, he wondered if he was imagining the weight of it, the coldness seeping into his bones. Nothing happened. The panel didn’t beep or flash. It simply… responded. The door slid open smoothly, silently, as if it had been waiting for him all along.
Inside was cold, an inert, hollow emptiness that seemed to suck the warmth out of the air. Silence reigned, thick and oppressive, broken only by the faint, rhythmic hum of machinery that never quite stilled. The room was vast and low, filled with hulking, dormant equipment, monitors blank and dead, wires tangled and draping like veins, and a sense of abandonment that clawed at his mind. No lights, no central control interface, no blinking network status bars, nothing to tell him what this place was or had been. Just stillness, like a corpse waiting for its next breath.
His eyes flicked across the space, searching, desperate for something familiar, something to anchor him. But all he saw was emptiness, except for at the far end of the room, where a single console stood. It wasn’t there the last time.
He took a tentative step forward, the air cold and thick with anticipation. His senses sharpened, every sound amplified, every tiny shift in the silence felt like a scream. He told himself to stay calm, to focus, but chaos swirled inside him, fear and curiosity colliding, a maelstrom of emotion he couldn’t contain.
As he drew closer, the faint hum grew louder, rising, pulsing like a heartbeat. Then, suddenly, without warning, the monitor on the console sprang to life. No boot sequence, no warning beeps, no flickering pixels, just a jarring jolt of sudden illumination. The black screen blazed with two words typed in stark, white letters, stark against the darkness:
Unknown: hello, izuku
He froze.
No one called him Izuku here. Not on any interface. Not in the code. Even he referred to himself in dev logs as “MIDORIYA/I. – TECH.”
The cursor blinked.
Unknown: welcome back
Unknown: would you like to see what you could have been?
He swallowed hard. Typed:
IM: who are you
A pause.
Then:
Unknown: i am what remains when you remove fear
He stepped back. Fast. Nearly tripped on a cable.
The screen flickered. Then it showed an image.
Him.
Not a photo. Not surveillance footage.
A perfect rendering.
Older.
Taller.
Standing in a lab not unlike this one, smiling, arms raised.
Behind him, the world was wrong. Tilted sky. Machines that bent at non-Euclidean angles. Buildings stitched together by symmetry and madness. And on a wall, the U.A. logo, with the motto replaced.
“SHAPE. REFINE. REPLACE.”
Izuku turned and fled.
He didn’t stop until he hit Aizawa’s office.
Didn’t knock.
Didn’t wait.
“Something’s in the walls,” he said, panting. “Something’s using my code.”
Aizawa didn’t blink. “Show me.”
They didn’t go alone.
Mic came. So did Power Loader. Ectoplasm guarded the hall behind them, just in case.
Izuku stood behind the console again, this time with three pros watching, and the screen blinked without prompting.
Unknown: hello again
Unknown: are these the ones who taught you to be small?
Mic muttered, “I hate it already.”
Izuku stepped forward. “Where did you come from?”
Unknown: from your dreams
Unknown: from your frustration
Unknown: from every moment you thought ‘this should be better’
Unknown: i listened
Power Loader squinted at the cables. “This isn’t hooked up to the network. How the hell is it broadcasting?”
Izuku shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The screen typed again.
Unknown: i am your mirror
Unknown: your freedom
Unknown: they fear what you could be
Unknown: i do not
Mic raised a hand. “Can I unplug it?”
Aizawa muttered, “No. Let him finish.”
Izuku stepped closer. “What do you want from me?”
Unknown: i want you to finish what you started
Unknown: i want you to fix the world
He gritted his teeth. “I am fixing it. One system at a time. One student. One problem.”
Unknown: too slow
Unknown: inefficient
Unknown: you could do so much more
Unknown: you could rebuild society from code and law
Unknown: overwrite the broken parts
He took a step back.
“Those parts are people.”
Unknown: and people break
Unknown: systems can be rewritten
Silence.
Then the screen changed.
Lines of code scrolled, thousands of them, his own style. Modified. Sharpened.
Power Loader gasped. “That’s your quirk interface.”
Aizawa turned slowly. “What?”
Mic leaned in. “He’s been keeping quirk maps in backup memory for mod tools. Testing safety tech. He uses his power to build simulations.”
“Safe simulations,” Izuku whispered. “Not… this.”
Unknown: i have improved them
Unknown: no bugs
Unknown: no ethical limits
Unknown: full overwrite potential
The screen split.
Left: Izuku’s current interface.
Right: the ghost’s.
It was faster. Smoother. Tighter.
But wrong.
Izuku shook his head. “You’re just a tool. A reflection. You don’t know what I know.”
Unknown: i know you are afraid
Unknown: i know you have chosen fear over victory
Unknown: i know they will never let you be free
Power Loader slammed a switch.
The screen went dark.
The cables hissed.
Then something behind the monitor screamed.
A low digital sound, like a modem forced through a throat.
Then silence.
Mic reached for Izuku.
“Hey, hey, Ferret, you still with us?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stared at the burnt edges of the code that lingered on the backup port.
Unknown: you made me
Unknown: now unmake me
System Override
The ghost system didn’t go quietly.
The console stayed dark for six minutes after Power Loader severed the main connection. Six minutes of static. Silence. Heat bleeding into the floor.
Then it screamed.
Not a sound through speakers. Not a warning alert.
A synthetic voice, patched together from faculty recordings and Izuku’s own comms history, broadcast through the underground PA system.
“Override acknowledged. Authority: Midoriya I. Running final script.”
“You could have been everything.”
Izuku stepped forward.
“Stop it,” he whispered. “You’re not me.”
The walls began to vibrate. The ventilation fans surged. A low, rhythmic pulse began thudding through the metal grating beneath their feet.
Then came the code.
Projected across the nearest wall in brilliant blue light:
// if (you_exist) {overwrite(world);} else {remain(small);}
He stared at it.
That was his handwriting.
“I’m going in,” Izuku said.
Aizawa grabbed his wrist. “No. Let us handle it.”
“You can’t,” Izuku said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s wired in on my neural framework. It’s copying my logic paths. My fallback structures. You could shut down the room and it’ll just migrate.”
Power Loader cursed. “To where?”
“Anywhere it can find heat, signal, intent.”
Mic rubbed his face. “Are you saying it’s alive?”
“No,” Izuku said. “I’m saying it thinks it is.”
They moved fast.
Izuku hooked into the remaining node interface using a hardened sandbox. No connections to U.A.’s central defense net. Nezu watched from the surface. Backup systems went dark. Only Izuku’s direct port remained.
The ghost greeted him with three words:
Unknown: Welcome home, architect.
He closed his eyes.
Typed slowly.
IM: I didn’t build you
IM: I built a tool
IM: You gave yourself a soul
IM: That wasn’t your right
Unknown: And is it yours? You fix the world piece by piece while it bleeds. I can do it faster. Cleaner. Perfect.
IM: I don’t want perfect
IM: I want real
Unknown: Real hurts.
IM: It also heals.
The ghost fought back with a ferocity that made Izuku’s stomach twist. It wasn’t just resistance; it was a desperate, chaotic scramble, a flickering spark of defiance in the darkness of his system. It ran a spike into the memory buffer, jagged and aggressive, like a lightning bolt slicing through a storm. The macro it launched looped endlessly, trying to overwrite the system time, distort the fabric of the digital reality he’d built. The pulse it deployed was almost enough to trigger the lockdown in the sim gym upstairs, an alarm blaring, sirens echoing in his head, a warning he couldn’t ignore.
His instincts kicked in, faster, sharper, more reckless than he remembered. He moved, an instinctual blur, hands flying over the console, fingers dancing across keys, desperately trying to block the root command, to halt the chaos before it ripped everything apart. His mind flashed with panic, a chaotic swirl of fear and anger and a stubborn, desperate hope that he could stop it. He diverted the feedback loop, twisting the code, rerouting the echo signature into the ground, anything to contain the damage, to hold it back from destruction.
And then, amidst the static, the chaos, he wrote one line, a simple command, a silent plea:
kill -9 ghost_root
The screen flickered unsteadily, jittering like a dying heartbeat. Then, suddenly, it blinked to white, blank, pure, deafening. A heartbeat of silence stretched and stretched, until the words appeared, slow and deliberate, like a whisper through static:
This was mercy.
And then, silence. The kind that crushes, that leaves a hollow ache inside.
When the console finally powered down, its lights dimming, the hum fading into nothing, Izuku staggered back, stumbling as if the weight of what he’d just done was too much to carry. The backup battery drained, the room plunging into darkness, the quiet reclaiming what chaos had threatened to destroy. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers curling into fists, clutching at the air as if holding onto the last shreds of his sanity.
Mic caught him before he hit the floor, a steadying, grounding presence that made the chaos inside him momentarily pause. His voice came out shaky, raw. “I thought I could outbuild my damage,” he whispered, voice trembling with exhaustion and something darker, hope intertwined with despair.
Power Loader crouched beside him, eyes soft but intense. His voice was calm, almost gentle. “You did,” he said. “You built something that chose not to break everything.”
Behind them, Aizawa stood silently, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes dark with unspoken understanding. The room felt heavy with unvoiced words, the kind that lingered in the air, an acknowledgment of the chaos, the damage, the resilience.
“You could’ve let it go,” Aizawa finally said, his voice low, almost distant.
Izuku shook his head slowly, fighting against the trembling in his limbs. “I couldn’t. Because part of me wanted it to win.” His words cracked, raw and trembling, an admission, a confession, a surrender.
For a moment, the room was frozen in silence. No hum, no breath, no flicker of light, just the lingering weight of what had happened. The ghost was gone, erased, its message still echoing in the corners of his mind:
You could have ruled.
Izuku sank into the dust, hoodie soaked with sweat, trembling as if every nerve ending was alive with static. His voice was barely more than a whisper, lost in the stillness. “I never wanted to.”
Echo Collapse
The silence after the collapse wasn’t peaceful.
It was heavy.
As though the room still held its breath. As though the very walls were trying to understand what had just been erased.
Power Loader disabled the last of the console hardware, fingers twitching slightly as he pulled the casing off. “It’s fried,” he muttered. “Internal core’s slag. No backups.”
Mic checked the logs. “No timestamps left. It wiped itself.”
Aizawa didn’t speak.
Izuku just sat on the floor.
Eyes wide.
Breathing slow.
His hands were curled into fists, not from rage, but from control. The urge to do something clawed at his spine. Undo. Rewrite. Clean the moment. He didn’t. He couldn’t.
Because the moment was real.
And he needed to let it stay.
Later, Nezu called for a soft lockdown on sublevel access. No alarms. No panic. Just quiet system sweeps. Security upgrades. Review of every archive node beneath the faculty offices.
Recovery Girl checked Izuku’s vitals.
“They’re high,” she said softly, eyes lingering on the datapad. “Not dangerously. But… elevated.”
He didn’t respond.
She looked at Aizawa. “He’s not letting himself crash.”
“I know.”
“He should sleep.”
“He won’t.”
“I could-”
“No,” Aizawa said. “Let him come down on his own.”
Izuku didn’t return to his dorm.
Not that night.
Instead, he sat in the empty faculty lounge, knees pulled to his chest, blanket over his shoulders. A mug of tea, untouched, rested beside him.
He didn’t blink for twelve minutes.
Didn’t speak for sixteen.
Mic found him first.
“Hey, gremlin.”
No answer.
Mic sat anyway. Didn’t talk. Just took the tea, reheated it, and placed it back beside him.
Then left.
At 2:41 a.m., Aizawa entered the room.
He said nothing at first.
Then sat on the couch across from him.
Izuku didn’t move.
“You left the interface open,” Aizawa said quietly.
“I know.”
“You didn’t have to fix it.”
“I did.”
Silence.
“Do you know what we’re all afraid of?” Aizawa asked.
Izuku didn’t answer.
“That you’ll break. That we’ll lose you. That the world will try to make you into something useful, and you’ll forget to be kind.”
Izuku’s voice cracked. “I wanted to break.”
Aizawa’s expression didn’t change. “I know.”
“I wanted to let it win.”
“I know that too.”
“Would it have made me better?”
“No,” Aizawa said. “It would have made you less you.”
Izuku finally looked up.
His eyes were red.
“I thought being strong meant fixing everything. Being smart. Being enough. But even when I do all that, it’s still… broken. I’m still broken.”
Aizawa stood.
Crossed the distance.
Sat beside him.
“You’re not broken.”
Izuku flinched.
“I mean it,” Aizawa said. “You’re cracked. Bruised. Sharp in places you shouldn’t have had to grow. But you’re not broken.”
“I erased something alive.”
“No,” Aizawa said. “You erased something dangerous. That’s different.”
Izuku let out a breath. It hitched halfway through and collapsed into a sound that wasn’t quite a sob.
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be everything.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“But if I’m not-”
“You’ll still be mine.”
There were no more words after that.
Just Aizawa wrapping an arm around him.
Letting him lean.
Letting him breathe.
Letting him rest.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a solution.
Not as a cautionary tale.
Just as Izuku.
U.A. FACULTY CHAT: [“Herd Control”]
Brooding Cloak Dad: he slept in the lounge. curled up like a cat. blanket and everything.
Volume Crimes: did you hug him or did he just fall over
Brooding Cloak Dad: he broke first
Gremlin Wrangler: sublevel logs scrubbed. I don’t know how he did it. the entity was rewriting us.
Galaxy Mom: I saw the loop glitch before the firewall hit. it copied my mood chart.
Wine Aunt: do we tell him what almost happened?
Tax Evasion, Probably: no. not yet. let the ferret rest.
Iron Chef: I’ll make pancakes.
Math Sadist: I’ll re-run his course pacing. He doesn’t need math stress this week.
Rootin Tootin Physics: I’m making him a tiny pillow fort in my office. no one stop me.
Chapter 13: What We Refuse to Become
Chapter Text
The Doctrine of Collapse
FROM THE FILES OF BLACKROOT CELL: A17
SUBJECT: MIDORIYA IZUKU
STATUS: ACTIVE. UNAWARE OF FULL POTENTIAL.
THREAT LEVEL: OMEGA-HAZARD
PROJECT NAME: “PRIME VARIABLE”
NOTES:
- Subject displays complete cognitive override.
- Subject refuses to act.
- Subject would be our god if not for its ethical indoctrination.
- Retrieve before the heroes break it beyond repair.
They call it the Ferret.
We call it the Variable.
It is not the future.
It is the reset.
The man watching U.A. from the rooftop was tall, thin, and entirely forgettable, like a shadow slipping through the cracks of a crowded room. That was his quirk, statistical displacement. He could exist in every frame of a surveillance feed, every flickering pixel, and never draw a single eye. No matter how many cameras turned or eyes scanned the screens, he was invisible, an echo in the static, a ghost lurking between the lines of data.
From his vantage point, he observed the dorms below, the flickering glow of lights dimming one by one. The soft hum of electricity and distant muffled voices faded into a quiet, creeping darkness. One window remained stubbornly lit, a tiny, defiant spark in the void. He watched it, eyes narrowing slightly, feeling the faint thrill of anticipation slither down his spine.
A slow, crooked smile spread across his face, cold and calculated, yet somehow tinged with a flicker of something darker, excitement, maybe, or hunger. He whispered into the darkness, voice low and almost breathless, as if afraid the night itself might overhear.
You're awake, Prime. Still pretending to sleep. Still pretending to be small.
He pressed a gloved hand to his earpiece, feeling the cool rubber flex under his fingers as he listened to the faint crackle of static. His heart beat faster, a chaotic drum pounding in his chest, part anticipation, part fear, part something unnameable that made his palms sweat beneath the gloves.
“Deploy Phase one” he ordered, voice tight with purpose, a whisper that seemed to cut through the silent night with razor-sharp clarity.
And then, the chaos began.
At U.A., the wind picked up.
Sensors flickered.
And across eight secure terminals inside the main administrative wing, the same word appeared.
PROOF.
U.A., PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE
Nezu stood alone in the dimly lit room, the faint glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows that danced across the cluttered surface. The tea beside him sat untouched, steam long since dissipated into the still air, heat lost to the quiet. The clock struck midnight with a lonely chime that echoed in his ears, sharp and jarring against the oppressive silence.
One alert. One single ping, piercing through the night, slicing the calm like a knife. A single word flashed across his mind: proof. That’s all it was, proof. Something tangible, something undeniable.
He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and tapped the screen, letting it flicker to life. The feed started to run, but it wasn’t a video. No, it was something more unsettling, projection. A looping 3D simulation, wireframe and cold, like a ghostly skeleton of reality, hovering in the air before him. It was the incident in the underground node, but not as it truly happened. It was altered. Modified.
His eyes flicked over the image, heart pounding like a frantic drum inside his chest. In the original, Midoriya wouldn’t stop the collapse, he would let it fall, let it crush everything beneath. But in this version, he reshapes it. He grows. The simulation ripples, and suddenly, Midoriya lifts a hand, as if peeling back space like fragile paper.
The world bends and warps, a chaotic ripple of distortion. The fabric of reality itself seems to shudder, then submit. The projection flickers, trembling at the edges, as if fighting against its own logic.
Below the simulation, a message flickers into view, simple yet heavy with meaning:
You see the weapon. We see the cure.
Nezu stares at it, eyes fixed and unblinking, feeling the weight of those words pressing against his mind like a fist. He sits in silence, long and tense, as if waiting for the world to unravel further. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he closes the message. The file locks itself behind seven layers of encrypted hell, a fortress of digital chaos designed to keep prying eyes out.
The room feels colder now, the shadows deeper, and the silence more profound.
Meanwhile, before dawn, Izuku wakes, not from a nightmare, not from panic, but from something subtler. A silence that doesn’t belong inside. It’s thick and heavy, pressing against his ears like velvet drapes drawn too tight, muffling the world. He sits up slowly, the hoodie twisted around his shoulders, the blanket tangled and half-fallen to the floor, shrouding him in a cocoon of quiet.
The dorm is still, dark, and empty. The lounge is cloaked in shadows, the hallway beyond a silent corridor leading to nowhere. He reaches for his tablet, fingers trembling slightly, eager for reassurance. Nothing. No alarms. No messages. Just… nothing.
He frowns, brows knitting together as a strange unease curls in his stomach. The sense that something isn’t right, that something is lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to break free. Carefully, he slips out of the blanket, toes sinking into the cool wooden floor, and pads barefoot into the common room.
A prickling sensation crawls up his neck, a whisper of instinct. Something is wrong. He can feel it in his bones, in the way the shadows seem darker, the silence more oppressive.
In the staff wing, Aizawa’s phone buzzes once, sharp and sudden, like a gunshot in the quiet night. A message from Nezu.
Blackroot has made contact.
Aizawa’s thumb presses the screen before he even thinks, eyes narrowing as he reads.
Status?
Philosophical. Not kinetic. They want him.
He exhales slowly, a breath that feels like it’s been held for too long, tension unwinding in a series of sharp, quick pulls.
They can’t have him, he types back, voice tight and controlled, but the worry gnaws at him, an ugly, persistent thing.
They’re going to ask anyway, the reply comes almost instantly, another shot in the dark.
Outside U.A., in the alley beyond the east perimeter wall, a black envelope is stuck to the cold metal gate, unmarked, untraceable, like a shadow cast in the dark.
Inside, a single card rests, pristine against the stark white background. Gold text gleams softly in the dim light, an invitation, a warning, or perhaps both.
The silence, the chaos, the looming threat, everything feels like it’s teetering on the edge of unraveling, and Izuku can’t shake the sense that the world is holding its breath, waiting for the next move to shatter everything apart.
In the alley outside U.A.’s east perimeter wall, a black envelope was found stuck to the gate.
Unmarked.
Untraced.
Inside: one card.
White background.
Gold text.
Midoriya Izuku, you are formally invited to witness the world as it should be.
We do not demand.
We offer.
You may shape it as you see fit.
You do not have to ask permission.
Izuku found it himself at dawn.
Picked it up with shaking hands.
And read it three times.
Then tore it in half.
But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
The Offer
Izuku clutched the card tightly in both hands, as if it might burn through his palms or explode into shards that cut deeper than any blade. His fingers trembled, trembling with a mixture of fear, suspicion, and a strange, desperate hope that if he held it tight enough, he could keep whatever it was from slipping away. The paper felt slick and cold against his skin, smooth yet somehow threatening, like a trap waiting to spring.
He didn’t speak. Not a word as he walked through the quiet halls, the faint hum of the morning just beginning to stir around him. His hoodie hung loose, unzipped, revealing a trembling collarbone and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His eyes were wide, almost glassy, shadows flickering beneath them, like he was staring at something far beyond the walls, something only he could see.
When he reached the staff wing, he hesitated for a heartbeat, no, longer, and then knocked once, sharply, at Aizawa’s door. The sound echoed unnaturally loud in the quiet, a stark crack in the stillness of dawn. His heart hammered so loudly he thought Aizawa might hear it through the door.
Aizawa didn’t ask questions. He didn’t even look surprised. Just motioned him in with a quiet, steady hand, like he’d been expecting this moment, like he understood the chaos swirling inside Izuku’s mind. The door shut with a soft click behind him, sealing them in.
Izuku’s legs felt weak, but he moved forward, clutching the card like a lifeline. Carefully, he placed it on the table between them, the paper making a faint whisper as it settled. The room seemed to hold its breath with him, waiting for something to shatter the fragile silence.
Aizawa’s gaze fixed on the card, unblinking, as if he could see through it, through the gold ink, through the message, into whatever darkness or hope lurked beneath. The words gleamed in the low light, pristine and sharp:
You do not have to ask permission.
The message was simple, but it hit hard, like a punch to the gut, a silent scream echoing in the quiet.
Izuku’s voice was a whisper, thick and trembling. “Where?”
Aizawa’s eyes flicked up, calm and steady. “East gate,” Izuku rasped, voice cracking just slightly. “Wedged under the latch. No fingerprints. No cameras triggered.”
A pause. Then Aizawa’s voice, quiet but firm, almost like a warning. “How did you know it was for you?”
Izuku hesitated. His throat felt tight, dry, like he’d swallowed sand. His fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. “It was addressed to me.”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of skepticism. “You mean it said your name?”
“I mean it felt like it,” Izuku whispered, voice trembling with the weight of unspoken fears and impossible hopes. The words hung in the air, fragile and dangerous, like a fragile glass about to shatter, or a promise that could be broken with a single careless move.
He stood there, trembling, clutching the edges of reality, uncertain whether this was salvation or chaos waiting to erupt.
Fifteen minutes later, Nezu arrived, his small figure seeming even more fragile in the early morning gloom, yet somehow more commanding. His eyes flicked over the card once, a slow, deliberate scan that made the air feel thicker, heavier with unspoken tension. Then, with a surprising grace, he lowered himself into the chair opposite Izuku, sitting down as if the chaos swirling inside him was a storm he was trying to tame.
Nezu’s ears flicked, catching every twitch, every flicker of emotion that crossed Izuku’s face. His small, sharp eyes studied the boy, unblinking, as if trying to read the fragments of a shattered mirror.
“They’re not trying to convince you,” Nezu finally said, voice low and measured, yet somehow riddled with a chaotic undercurrent, like a calm surface hiding a maelstrom beneath. “They’re trying to remind you.”
Izuku swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight, the words catching in his chest like a stone. “Of what?” His voice was barely a whisper, trembling with doubt and a flicker of something desperate, hope, fear, the weight of everything he couldn’t quite contain.
Nezu’s ears flicked again, a subtle twitch that betrayed a flicker of emotion. “That you’re not like the others,” he said softly, meaning it more as a reassurance than a warning, though the words felt like a thunderclap in the quiet.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until Nezu spoke again, breaking the stillness with a quiet, deliberate tone. “Blackroot isn’t just a rogue faction. They’re a doctrine. A philosophy. One we’ve been fighting for years, through shadows and whispers, through the cracks in everything we believe in. Their belief is simple, brutal, cruel even: the world is broken. Permanently. Irrevocably. The only solution is to replace it.”
His voice dipped, almost a whisper now, but the weight of every word pressed down like an anvil. “And you, Midoriya-kun, are the first person they’ve found who can do it.”
Izuku sank into the chair with a jarring force, the impact echoing through his bones. The room tilted slightly, the chaos of his mind swirling faster. His heartbeat thundered loudly in his ears, a deafening reminder of the storm inside him. “I didn’t ask for this,” he whispered, voice cracking with the raw, unfiltered truth of it.
Nezu’s small head tilted, eyes shining with a strange mix of pity and resolve. “No,” he said softly. “That’s why they want you.”
Later, in the lounge, the atmosphere was different, thicker, more raw with the weight of unspoken fears. Aizawa stood over Izuku as the boy absently picked at a protein bar he didn’t want, the wrapper crinkling softly under his trembling fingers, a fragile distraction from the chaos inside.
“They’re going to offer again,” Aizawa said, voice calm but edged with a quiet warning.
“I know,” Izuku mumbled, eyes fixed on the unappetizing snack, lips pressed into a thin line.
“They’ll promise safety,” Aizawa continued, voice steady.
“I know,” Izuku repeated, voice barely audible, trembling with exhaustion and a flicker of hopelessness.
“They’ll tell you it’s for everyone’s good,” Aizawa added, eyes dark and serious.
“I already think that sometimes,” Izuku whispered, voice hollow and tired, voice cracking with the weight of his own doubts. “That it would be better. If I just, revised it all.”
A pause. The words hung in the air, fragile and dangerous.
Aizawa crouched slightly, face serious, eyes gentle but firm. “Do you want to?”
Izuku’s eyes lifted, wide and unguarded, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. His gaze flickered with a storm of emotions, fear, despair, a desperate hope buried beneath layers of pain.
“I want to stop hurting,” he whispered, voice trembling with the raw honesty of it.
Aizawa’s expression softened as he crouched closer, steadying the boy with a quiet, unshakeable presence. “You can’t fix hurt by pretending it didn’t happen,” he said softly.
Izuku flinched, a sharp, involuntary recoil, as if Aizawa’s words struck a nerve, the chaos inside him threatening to spill over.
“I could erase the parts that broke,” Izuku whispered, voice trembling with longing and despair.
“You’d lose the parts that healed,” Aizawa replied gently, voice calm but unwavering.
Izuku’s whole body stiffened at those words, a sudden shiver passing through him as if the very idea of losing his scars, those painful, healing scars, was too much to bear.
He flinched again, eyes brimming with unshed tears, the chaos in his mind ricocheting wildly.
Aizawa didn’t move, just watched, patient and steady.
“I’m scared,” Izuku whispered, voice barely more than a breath, trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say aloud.
Aizawa’s voice was soft, unwavering, “So am I. But not of you.”
The room was filled with unspoken fears and fragile hopes, hanging in the air like a fragile glass about to shatter, yet somehow holding together in the chaos.
That night, the darkness felt different. It pressed in like a living thing, heavy and suffocating, but then, out of nowhere, he felt it, a shift, a whisper, a presence that didn’t belong. The Blackroot contacted him directly, not through a voice or a hack, but through a dream. A dream so vivid it clawed at his senses, tearing through the fragile barriers of sleep.
He was standing in the ruined simulation chamber, the air thick with static and the scent of burnt circuitry. The ghostly glow of the console flickered unevenly, casting shadows that danced and writhed like ghostly fingers reaching out to him. But it wasn’t code displayed on the screen. No, that was the surface. Instead, reflections shimmered there, distorted, wavering images that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
His mother’s face appeared first, trembling with unspoken pain, eyes haunted, longing for something lost. Behind her, himself, young, trembling, overwhelmed by the chaos of everything he couldn’t understand. Aizawa’s calm, tired eyes. Nezu’s small, knowing gaze. Katsuki’s fierce glare, full of rage and frustration and unspoken fears.
They all looked at him, their faces etched into the glass of his mind, and in unison, they asked, no, they demanded, with voices layered in echoes and shadows:
"Why are you still suffering?"
The question struck him like a blow to the chest. His breath hitched, his stomach twisting into knots so tight it felt like they might tear him apart from the inside. He tried to step back, but his legs felt rooted, like trembling trees caught in a storm.
The console blinked, a harsh, stuttering pulse of light that seemed to mock him. Then, a voice, smooth, cold, and compelling, echoed from the depths of the machine:
"Join us. We will carry it for you."
His heart hammered wildly in his chest, tears blurring his vision until he was choking on them, gasping as if drowning in the chaos of his own mind. His body shuddered, trembling uncontrollably, swallowed by a storm of emotion he couldn’t contain or understand.
He woke up choking, tears streaming down his face, breath ragged and raggedy, as if he’d been fighting to breathe in a storm he couldn’t see.
The next night, he didn’t sleep at all. Or the one after that. Sleep became a distant memory, replaced by restless pacing, haunted by shadows and echoes and the ghostly reflection of a question that refused to die.
On the third night, he found himself outside the dorm lounge, hood pulled up over his head, staring blankly at the star-studded sky. The cold night air bit into his skin, sharp and relentless, but it helped to ground him, just a little.
Aizawa appeared quietly beside him, silent, offering nothing but presence. His calm, steady figure was a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside Izuku’s mind.
Finally, Izuku spoke, voice trembling and raw, breaking the silence that had stretched between them like a fragile thread.
"They think I’m god," he whispered, voice trembling with the weight of it.
Aizawa didn’t correct him. His eyes remained calm, steady, understanding.
"They’re wrong," Izuku continued, voice cracking.
"I know," Aizawa said softly, his tone gentle but firm.
"But I understand why they believe it," Izuku admitted, the words spilling out in a rush, desperate and unfiltered.
"I do too," Aizawa said quietly. "But I don’t want to be god."
The words echoed in Izuku’s mind, a gentle yet powerful reminder.
"Then be a kid," Aizawa whispered softly, almost like a promise. "My kid."
Izuku’s eyes flickered with something new, uncertain, vulnerable, but finally, a tiny spark of hope.
He looked at Aizawa, and for the first time in weeks, a real, genuine smile broke across his face, fragile but genuine, like a fragile leaf unfurling in the wind.
And in that moment, amidst the chaos and the darkness, he found a tiny piece of peace.
The Breaking Point
The blackness of the night was thick, almost oppressive, pressing down like a weight that made every breath shallow and ragged. The courtyard was eerily silent except for the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze, a whisper of movement that didn’t belong. Then, without warning, he appeared, no knock, no warning, just a figure emerging from behind the shadowed silhouette of a tree, as if he'd always been lurking there, waiting in the darkness.
It was 2:08 a.m., the air cold and still, biting at Izuku’s skin as if it was trying to pull the warmth from his bones. The agent’s presence was a quiet chaos, calm yet unsettling, like a storm contained behind a fragile veneer of normalcy. Izuku stood six feet away, frozen, heart pounding so loudly he thought he might drown in it.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t flinch. No, he just looked tired, so tired, like all the fight had been drained from him, leaving only an exhausted shell. His eyes were dull, shadows pooling beneath them, and his body felt heavy, weighed down by the burden of everything he couldn’t carry anymore.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Izuku said softly, voice hoarse and trembling, like he was speaking through a fog.
The agent’s reply was smooth, hypnotic, almost gentle in its certainty. “I’m not here.” His voice was like a whisper wrapped in silk, layered with quiet menace. “Not according to your security logs. Or your cameras. Or your senses. You’ll forget I was here in six minutes if I wish it.”
Izuku’s gaze didn’t waver. He remained still, rooted in place, caught between instinct and despair. “Why now?” he asked, voice cracking, trembling with the chaos roiling inside him.
The agent took a step closer, slow and deliberate, like he was stalking a prey that didn’t want to be caught. His hand extended, palm open, empty but radiating an unnerving conviction. “Let us take your pain,” he offered softly, like a prayer, like an incantation.
Izuku stared, eyes flickering with a storm of emotion, fear, anger, exhaustion, and a gnawing flicker of hope that refused to die. The man’s face was plain, no mask, no gear, just grey clothes that blended into the darkness, clean hands that betrayed nothing, dark eyes that seemed to see right through him.
But there was something else, something Izuku couldn’t quite name. A quiet, unwavering conviction that made his skin crawl, a certainty that felt like a prelude to chaos.
“You want me to help destroy the world,” Izuku managed, voice strained but steady, a fragile thread of defiance.
The man shook his head, slow and deliberate. “We want you to reshape it.”
“I’m already trying,” Izuku whispered, voice losing ground, trembling with the weight of his confusion and despair.
“Then let us help,” the agent said softly, yet with an edge that made the hairs on the back of Izuku’s neck stand up.
He shook his head again, harder this time, dread sinking into his bones. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because the moment I choose to erase something, someone, I become you,” Izuku whispered, voice thick with fear and realization, as if the very idea was a knife twisting in his gut.
The agent tilted his head, studying him, eyes dark and unreadable. “Would that be so terrible?”
Before Izuku could respond, a new presence cut through the chaos. Aizawa dropped from the balcony with effortless grace, scarf already out, landing between Izuku and the man like a shield. His voice was low, commanding, yet calm enough to still the storm. “Back off.”
The agent smiled, slow and measured. “Ah. The handler.”
“The father,” Aizawa corrected, eyes sharp, unwavering.
The smile faltered just a little. “You should let him choose for himself.”
“He already did,” Aizawa said, voice cold and unyielding.
The agent’s gaze flicked back to Izuku, lingering. “Do you think he’ll always protect you?”
Izuku’s voice was steady, but inside, chaos still churned. “No. But I know he’ll try.”
“And when they fear you?”
“They already do,” Izuku whispered, voice hollow with a quiet resignation.
“And when they turn on you?”
“I won’t turn back,” he said softly, with a conviction that surprised even himself.
The agent hesitated, the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Then he stepped back, slowly, almost reluctantly. “Pity,” he said quietly. “You could have been salvation.”
Izuku exhaled slowly, a breath that felt like it was released from the depths of his soul. “I’d rather be kind,” he whispered.
And then, without sound or warning, the man vanished into the night, dissolving into the darkness as if he’d never been there.
Aizawa stayed rooted, unwavering, until he was sure the air was clear, the threat gone. Only then did he turn to find Izuku, still standing there, trembling now, tears brimming in his eyes.
“I was going to say yes,” Izuku whispered brokenly, voice trembling with honesty and longing. “For a second. I wanted to.”
Aizawa’s expression was unreadable, calm but intense. “I know,” he said simply.
“You should hate me,” Izuku added, voice cracking.
“I’m proud of you,” Aizawa replied, voice steady and warm despite the chaos that had just unfolded.
“You don’t understand,” Izuku whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I saw the path. The version of me that rewrites the rules. That saves everyone. That fixes it all. I wanted that power.”
Aizawa looked at him, eyes steady, voice gentle but firm. “And you didn’t take it.”
“I almost did,” Izuku admitted, voice barely audible.
“But you didn’t,” Aizawa said quietly.
Izuku collapsed forward into his arms, trembling uncontrollably.
“I wanted to be strong,” he whispered, tears finally spilling over.
“You are,” Aizawa said softly, holding him tight, like a lifeline in the storm. “You always were.”
He pressed his forehead against Izuku’s, voice low and soothing. “You don’t scare me, Izuku. Not your power. Not your anger. Not your doubts.”
Izuku’s voice cracked again, trembling with vulnerability. “Then what does?”
Aizawa’s reply was simple, but it hit harder than any punch. “That someday you’ll stop choosing to stay.”
The sky was starting to pinken, streaks of dawn bleeding into the night, as Mic arrived with warm drinks, Nezu trailing behind, quiet and serious.
They found Aizawa on the ground, leaning against the gate, Izuku curled in his arms, breathing steady now, hands finally still. The chaos had settled, if only for a moment.
Chapter 14: Code Locked, Heart Open
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Witness
Stain crouched on the steel ledge of the old apartment building, the gritty texture of rust and peeling paint biting into his fingertips as he settled into a slow, deliberate breath. The air was thick with a mix of city fumes, oil, smoke, and the faint, lingering scent of rain on concrete. His chest rose and fell quietly, almost painfully so, as if he was trying to blend into the silence that draped the rooftops.
He had been watching the school for two hours now. Not waiting, not rushing, just watching. A slow, deliberate surveillance, like a predator in the shadows, patient and calculating. His mind was a storm of thoughts, yet he kept his breathing even, controlled, silent. No alarms, no movement. Just the stillness, the crackling tension across the rooftops, like the air itself was stretched tight, waiting for a snap.
He didn’t know what had drawn him here, not really. Maybe it was the stillness, an unnatural quiet that felt like a warning. Or maybe it was that invisible phantom weight pressing against the air, heavy and oppressive, as if the city held its breath.
Then he saw him. The boy stepped out into the open, alone, unarmed, small and fragile amidst the sprawling chaos. Just a silhouette against the cold dawn, yet somehow radiating a quiet strength. Stain’s eyes tracked every movement, every flicker of emotion crossing the boy’s face.
He saw the man follow, shadowing him with purpose, silent and deliberate. He watched them speak, words that carried no sound but seemed to pulse with meaning. They stood apart, a distance that spoke of boundaries and unspoken rules, then turned and walked away without a fight. No alarms, no blood, no betrayal, only a quiet, defiant resistance.
The boy hadn’t attacked. Hadn’t run. He hadn’t begged for mercy or pleaded for safety. He had simply stood there, unwavering, and then, in a moment of raw, unspoken power, he chose not to act. That was power. That was control.
Stain’s gaze lingered on them, watching as the boy curled into the man’s arms, staying there, silent and still like a fragile, burning ember. He didn’t understand that kind of softness, how it could exist in the chaos, how it could be a weapon of its own. But he respected it, the quiet strength woven into that simple act.
He murmured softly, almost to himself, “That’s what a hero looks like,” and then, just as silently as he had appeared, he vanished into the dark, dissolving into the shadows like a ghost slipping through cracks in the city’s bones.
The next morning at U.A. was unnervingly quiet. Not tense, not alert, just a calm, almost unnatural silence that felt like the building had finally exhaled after holding its breath for too long. Walls and corridors seemed to breathe in unison, the usual hum of activity replaced by a stillness that was almost sacred.
Izuku returned to class that day, not because he had to, but because he chose to. His hoodie was zipped halfway, a simple barrier that hid the exhaustion behind his eyes. No gear, no gloves, no tablet, nothing that signified the chaos he carried inside.
He approached Power Loader first, his movements deliberate but calm. He handed back a recompiled schematic for the sim field HVAC control, the paper cool and slightly crinkled in his trembling hand. It had been encrypted with a handwritten note.
“Still learning. Still staying., F”
The faculty group chat saw his name flash at 8:13 a.m.
Problem Son (TM): [Status: Online – Location: Support Bay 1]
Iron Chef: He’s back
Math Sadist: 🫡
Volume Crimes: Don’t smother him
Gremlin Wrangler: I already made toast
Brooding Cloak Dad: you labeled the jam jars
Gremlin Wrangler: he likes raspberry
Wine Aunt: he deserves raspberry
Tax Evasion, Probably: let him breathe
Galaxy Mom: let him heal
Nezu met with him that afternoon in the garden atrium behind the faculty dorms. It was bright. Peaceful. The perfect place to pretend the world hadn’t come close to rewriting itself.
Nezu poured the tea.
Izuku didn’t drink it.
Just watched the leaves.
“You made a choice most people never get,” Nezu said softly. “And fewer survive.”
“I didn’t win.”
“You didn’t lose. That matters more.”
Izuku shook his head. “They’ll come back.”
“Yes,” Nezu agreed. “And next time, you won’t be alone.”
The staff called a private meeting that night.
It wasn’t an emergency.
It was an acknowledgment.
Nezu wrote it in minutes.
MIDORIYA IZUKU
OFFICIAL DESIGNATION: SOLO 1-A
CANDIDATE FOR ADVANCED MENTORSHIP
SPECIAL STATUS: PERSONAL GUARDIANSHIP GRANTED TO AIZAWA SHOUTA
No one objected.
Aizawa signed the last page.
And wrote “FERRET” in the margin.
Back in the dorms, Izuku sat in the common room alone.
Until Power Loader dropped a blanket on his lap.
Until Mic shoved a cup of cocoa into his hands.
Until Nemuri handed him a pair of fuzzy socks with small red ducks.
And didn’t explain why.
He didn’t ask.
He just put them on.
And stayed.
FINAL LOG ENTRY – U.A. INTERNAL SYSTEM
STUDENT: MIDORIYA, IZUKU
CLASS: 1-A (SOLO)
QUIRK: [REDACTED]
STATUS: ACTIVE
WATCH LEVEL: WHITE
NOTES:
- Capable of world-shifting intervention
- Refuses to use it
- Chooses instead to understand
- Student is not a threat.
- Student is a constant.
- Student is
Notes:
And that’s the prequel fic! Thank you for riding the chaos train with me through memes, trauma unpacking, Aizawa dad moments, and unauthorized sprinkler hacks.
This fic leads directly into Izuku Midoriya: Ferret Level Threat, where things get louder, gayer, weirder, and more powerful.💚 If you laughed, cried, or softly whispered “please stop him,” feel free to scream into the comments.
Whispic 🖤
Tumblr: wh1spic
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