Chapter Text
THREE MONTHS UNTIL UA ENTRANCE EXAM
Midoriya Izuku’s story starts exactly where the world expected it to, much like many others.
It starts with trash.
"C’mon, Young Midoriya! Put your back into it! Imagine there’s a terrified civilian on the other side of that freezer!"
All Might’s boisterous laugh boomed across the shoreline, echoing off the rusted hulls of abandoned cars. The Number One Hero sat perched atop a molded, salt-crusted refrigerator like it was a throne of gold rather than a monument to domestic waste.
Izuku didn’t have the breath to reply. His sneakers, worn thin at the soles, slipped in the damp, shifting sand. He dug his heels in, the grit biting into his ankles, and leaned his shoulder into the cold, flaking enamel of the appliance. Izuku pushed with all his might—a pun he would have found hilarious if he had enough oxygen to spare for a giggle—and felt the massive hunk of steel groan in protest.
With a screech of metal that sounded like a dying animal, it moved. One inch. Two. Three.
"Ha! Did you... did you see that, All Might?" Izuku gasped. He collapsed against the side of the fridge, his limbs feeling less like bone and muscle and more like overcooked noodles. His vision swam with spots of light, but his eyes were wide and bright. "It’s getting easier. The friction... I’m learning how to leverage the center of gravity better. And my stamina! I’m not blacking out after the first hour anymore!"
All Might hopped down from his perch, the sheer force of his landing sending a small tremor through the sand. He delivered a heavy, celebratory pat to Izuku’s back that nearly sent the boy face-first into the dirt.
"I did! Very impressive!" the hero beamed, his teeth flashing like a lighthouse signal. "And I haven’t seen much of your signature waterworks recently either, eh, crybaby?"
He said it with a booming laugh, his tone devoid of even a hint of malice, but the words still stung Izuku’s pride just enough to make his eyes prickle. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, Izuku chanted internally, swallowing the lump in his throat. He forced a shaky, determined smile instead.
Even after months of training under the most famous man on the planet, Izuku hadn’t quite managed to shed the "fanboy" skin. Every time All Might looked at him, Izuku felt like that four-year-old boy again, (to be fair, Izuku was still a fan boy to that degree eleven years later) clutching a plastic action figure and staring at a computer screen in awe. To have the Symbol of Peace not just know his name, but be invested in his Tuesday afternoons, was enough to make his brain short-circuit.
All Might reached out, his massive hand steadying Izuku’s trembling shoulders to help him stand straight. "The schedule allows for you to get off early today, Young Midoriya. Tell me, how did that math exam go?"
It was a little gesture—All Might had asked for Izuku’s school schedule weeks ago, insisting on weaving the training regimen around his education rather than over it. To the hero, it was probably nothing, but Izuku liked the idea of someone other than his mother taking an interest in his life.
Izuku’s cheeks flared a bright, dusty red. "Okay! At least, I think? There was one question I think I got wrong, though..." The boy trailed off, his posture shifting instantly. The exhaustion from hauling scrap metal evaporated, replaced by the frenetic, nervous energy of an overactive mind. His hands began to move in those familiar, rhythmic gestures—fingers twitching as if he were holding an invisible pen, tracing calculations in the salty air.
"I mean, it was a basic probability question regarding permutations of a specific set," he mumbled, his gaze dropping to the sand as he visualized the ink on the page. "And I know the formula! But I think I miscalculated the denominator for the restricted repetitions. If I missed that, it drops my score to a ninety-six percent."
He began to pace a small circle around a discarded tire, his voice dropping into a rapid-fire mutter.
"Which isn’t bad, statistically, but given the entrance exam’s competitive nature and the caliber of students applying to UA, every decimal point counts toward my final academic standing. If the admissions board looks at my middle school records and sees a downward trend in my STEM scores, it could create a perceived weakness in my analytical foundation, which—"
He stopped abruptly, his hands frozen mid-air, realizing he was vibrating with intensity while the world’s greatest hero watched him with a mixture of amusement and mild concern.
"And—and I’m doing it again. The muttering.” All Izuku could do was mutter! “I’m sorry! I’ll go back to the fridge now!"
All Might let out a soft, wheezing chuckle, his eyes crinkling. "Ninety-six percent, Young Midoriya? I believe most students would call that a victory.”
“No, I know—I mean, I get it,” Izuku stammered, his voice thick with the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones. “It’s just... the math is different for me. Without a Quirk, ninety-six percent is just a— like, a high-scoring failure, you know. I’ve gotta work twice as hard as everyone else just to stand at the same starting line.”
“But you will have a Quirk, and soon,” All Might reminded him. He took a careful, sharp glance at the horizon, ensuring no stray joggers or early-morning fishermen were watching the Symbol of Peace deflate into a skeleton. “And even without one... your analysis skills are incredible. Truly. I’ve seen Pro Heroes with decades of experience who rival you. I'm sure you'd be fine regardless.”
Izuku frowned.
“Actually,” All Might corrected himself, a small, genuine smile tugging at his sunken cheeks. “With how hard you already work, I think it’s more fair to say you're working thrice as hard. But remember, Midoriya, a Quirk is a tool, but that drive? That’s the engine. Don’t let the engine burn out before we even get to the race.”
Izuku finally looked up. He didn't see the Symbol of Peace. He saw a man who was tired, just like him. It was a moment that All Might had given him an fair answer, a Quirk, but the questions of how to be, well, enough were still swirling, infinite and continuous, in the back of Izuku's mind.
All Might bid him farewell once Izuku emerged from behind a towering mountain of discarded scrap metal, now dressed in his crisp middle school uniform. The transformation was always a bit jarring—from a grime-streaked laborer to a plain, unassuming student in the blink of an eye.
“Now, make sure you eat enough. Your body is a temple under construction, Young Midoriya. You’ll remember?”
“Yes, sir!” Izuku chirped, adjusting the yellow straps of his backpack.
“You’ve got all your materials? Pens? Notebooks? The drive to succeed?”
“Yes. All of it.”
“Call me if you’re experiencing over-extension fatigue, won’t you? I won't have you collapsing in the middle of an English quiz.”
“Yes, d—” Izuku’s tongue tripped over the syllable, the almost-slipped word hovering in the salt-heavy air like a live wire. He felt the blood rush to his face, a sudden, prickly heat that had nothing to do with the November sun. He choked the word back, swallowing so hard it hurt. “—definitely. I’ll definitely call.”
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to go still. Izuku's heart hammered against his ribs. Dad. He had almost called the Symbol of Peace Dad. Thankfully, All Might didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he was kind enough to let the slip-up slide into the rhythmic roar of the crashing waves. He simply patted Izuku on the shoulder.
“Get going, then! Time waits for no hero!”
So Izuku did.
The fluorescent lights of Aldera Middle School hummed with a soul-crushing monotony. To most students, the six hours of daily instruction were a slog through history dates and algebraic formulas. To Izuku, well, they were a secondary training ground.
Classes passed by slowly, but Izuku had learned to view this stagnant time as a resource to be mined.
Hidden beneath the wood of his scarred desk, his left hand was a blur of calculated motion. In his palm was a heavy-duty stress ball, a reinforced rubber sphere All Might had gifted him after Izuku had physically collapsed from exhaustion two months prior.
Squeeze. Hold. Three, two, one. Release.
The rhythm was mechanical. It was about grip strength, yes, but it was also about fine motor control under duress. While his left hand burned with the effort of a thousand repetitions, his right hand moved across his notebook with practiced grace.
- Sato-kun: Habitual tapping of the left foot. Likely an outlet for nervous energy or a subconscious timing mechanism.
- Teacher’s blind spot: Approximately 15 degrees to the left of the podium whenever he turns to use the smartboard.
- Kacchan’s pissed about something. Obvious by his fingers tapping against the desk.
He was noticing what others missed. He was analyzing the ticks and fidgets of his environment—the subtle bullying, the way the teachers ignored certain students, mostly him, the structural weaknesses in the room.
The teacher’s voice droned on, a flat melody of facts and figures, but Izuku wasn't just a student anymore. No, he considered himself to be a project, one in progress. Or something like that. Every squeeze of the rubber ball was a brick laid; every observation was a blueprint drawn. He was a boy built of trash and secrets, waiting for the bell to ring so he could get back to the work that actually mattered.
And trust him, far more important things mattered.
As the final bell rang, signaling a temporary reprieve from the hum of fluorescent lights, Izuku began the frantic ritual of clearing his desk. He moved with a precision that hadn't been there a few months ago, but even with his newfound coordination, a single notebook escaped his grip. It fluttered toward the floor like a wounded bird.
Before it could hit the linoleum, a hand snatched it out of the air. It wasn't a gentle catch; it was a claim.
“You taking notes on me, Deku?”
Izuku didn't need to look up to know it was Bakugo Katsuki. Even after the Sludge Villain incident, even when Kacchan’s bullying had sauntered off into something more as an afterthought, sometimes it came back full force.
Today was one of those days.
Izuku looked at the way Kacchan’s thumb pressed into the cover of the notebook. The knuckles were white, the skin taut. Kacchan wasn't just arrogant today; he was vibrating with a specific brand of insecurity that he masked with aggression. He was looking for a fight to prove he was still the superior one out of the two.
The teacher was gone, and even if he was, would he intervene? Probably. Hopefully. Maybe.
Bakugo Katsuki is a jerk, Izuku thought, his mind racing. And that’s what he’s pissed about. He’s pissed that six months ago, six months, Izuku had seen him struggle.
A reckless, unbidden thought sparked in the back of Izuku’s brain: I thought you loved the attention, Kacchan. Getting analyzed should be an honor, shouldn't it?
But Izuku’s impulse control was a seasoned veteran of a thousand such encounters. He didn't say it. He couldn't afford to, not when he was so close to the finish line at the beach.
“Are you listening?” Kacchan barked, his palms beginning to crackle with the faint, acrid scent of nitroglycerine.
Izuku blinked, snapping back to the present. He had been staring at Kacchan’s shoes, calculating the distance he’d need to jump to clear the desk if things went south.
“No! I mean—not—sorry, I—” Izuku’s voice hitched, the old stutter resurfacing against his will.
His eyes were locked on the notebook. It was his Hero Analysis for the Future, Vol. 13. Don’t burn the notebook, he pleaded silently. Please, just this once, don't burn the notebook.
“It’s just... it’s just for my studies, Kacchan,” Izuku managed, trying to keep his voice level even as his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “It’s nothing about you, I promise. Just... stuff.”
The impact of the notebook hitting Izuku’s chest was blunt and sudden, a physical exclamation point to Katsuki’s dismissive tone. Izuku scrambled to catch it, his fingers fumbling against the worn cover as he clutched it to his sternum like a shield.
“Whatever,” Katsuki spat, shoving his hands into his pockets. The smell of burnt sugar and ozone lingered in the air, but the sparks had died down. “I don’t care. Keep your damn fanboy scribbles. Just stay out of my way, Deku.”
With a harsh click of his heels against the floor, Katsuki turned and stalked out of the classroom, his lackeys trailing behind him like shadows tethered to a storm.
Izuku stood frozen for a long moment, the silence of the empty classroom rushing in to fill the space Katsuki had occupied. He looked down at the notebook. The edges were slightly crumpled from the force of the shove, but it wasn't scorched. It wasn't dripping with pond water. It was whole.
Izuku noticed the way Katsuki’s shoulders hadn't dropped, even as he walked away. He noticed that the explosive teen hadn't called him "worthless" or "Quirkless" even once during the exchange. The Sludge Villain incident had left a jagged scar on Katsuki’s pride, and for the first time in their lives, the distance between them didn't feel like a gap in power—it felt like a gap in understanding.
He tucked the notebook safely into his bag, zipping it shut with a firm, decisive motion.
Training, then movie night.
Movie night had become a tradition for the two Midoriyas.
They’d pick a classic, sometimes American, sometimes Japanese, and Izuku and his mom would curl into one another on the couch and spend the whole night together.
The cool winter air nipped at Izuku’s nose as he navigated the sidewalk, the paper bag of popcorn kernels and sweets cradled carefully against his chest. He was tired—the kind of deep, bone-weary ache that came from hauling half a ton of scrap metal—but the thought of a warm blanket and a classic film with his mother made every sore muscle worth it.
The street was bathed in the artificial amber glow of the lamps, casting long, peaceful shadows. It was the kind of silence Izuku had grown to appreciate; a moment where he didn't have to be a student or a trainee.
Then, the silence broke.
“Leave me be!”
The voice was sharp with fear, cutting through the stillness. Izuku froze. His instincts, sharpened by months of observing his surroundings for All Might, kicked into high gear. He turned toward a darkened alcove between a convenience store and a shuttered laundromat.
The woman backed against the brick wall was pretty, her long, jet-black hair shimmering like polished obsidian under the nearby streetlights. She looked angry, more angry than scared. Standing in a semi-circle around her were three men. They weren't yelling, which somehow made it worse; they were murmuring in low, predatory tones, their body language aggressive and encroaching. One whistled—a long, sharp sound that made Izuku’s stomach churn.
Izuku’s pulse skyrocketed. He wasn't a hero yet. He didn't have a Quirk. He was just a kid with a bag of snacks and a phone in his pocket. What an interesting set of opponents.
He looked at the scene, his mind automatically cataloging the details. The man on the left was leaning heavily on his right leg—unbalanced. The one in the middle was the loudest, likely the leader. The third was blocking the only exit to the main street.
Izuku felt the familiar tremor in his hands, but he didn't look away. He couldn't.
The body moves before you can think, Izuku remembered.
He set the paper bag down on a clean patch of pavement near a lamppost, moved his phone to his hand, and stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't sure what he was going to do yet, but he knew he couldn't let that silence return until she was safe.
"Hey!" Izuku’s voice cracked slightly, but he forced it to carry. He stepped into the light, making sure he was visible. "Is there a problem here?"
The ring-leader’s head snapped toward Izuku, his neck bulging with irritation. His eyes were cold, reflecting the harsh fluorescent glow of the nearby store.
“This has nothing to do with you, kid. Keep walking if you know what’s good for you.”
Izuku’s gaze flickered past the man. The woman was trapped against the rough brick, her knuckles white as she clutched the lapels of a heavy fur coat over a black velvet dress. Despite her defensive stance, her eyes weren't just fearful, instead they were sharp, calculating the distance between her and the street.
Izuku felt the familiar cold sweat of terror, but his feet stayed rooted to the concrete. He had spent months moving tons of steel; he wasn't going to let a few bullies move him.
“She asked you to leave her alone,” Izuku said, his voice steadier than he expected.
The leader took a heavy step forward, his shadow looming over Izuku. “And I told you to beat it. Last warning.”
“No.”
The word was out before Izuku could even process the logic of it.
God, what the hell am I saying? his mind screamed. He was Quirkless, sore, and outnumbered three-to-one. But he also knew that "doing a little bad" sometimes meant breaking the rules of a "good" victim. Well, he did in much later hindsight, at least.
One of the lackeys, a sneering man with a piercing in his eyebrow, moved to grab Izuku’s shoulder.
Izuku didn't think. He reached into the paper bag he had set down. His fingers closed around a cold, unopened aluminum soda can, a heavy, carbonated projectile. And a perfect weapon, it seemed. With a snap of his wrist that had been honed by months of hauling scrap, he hurled it.
The can blurred through the air, spinning end-over-end before slamming squarely into the eyebrow-piercing guy’s nose.
CRACK.
The man let out a yelp of pure shock and pain, stumbling back as the can clattered to the pavement. The sudden, violent disruption broke the predators' rhythm.
"You little brat!" the leader roared, turning his full attention away from the woman and toward the green-haired boy who had just declared war with a soft drink.
The soda can explosion was the catalyst Izuku needed. The leader lunged, his face contorted in a mask of sudden rage, but Izuku glared at him.
As the man swung a heavy, uncoordinated fist, Izuku dropped low. He didn't counter-attack, he didn't have the power for that yet, but he moved with ann agility that surprised even himself. He pivoted on his heel, the sand-drills at the beach having turned his legs into coiled springs, and bolted toward the woman.
“Go! Now!” he shouted again, his voice cracking but firm.
The woman didn’t hesitate. She possessed a sharp kind of instinct, Izuku figured, because she swept her black velvet skirts up slightly and bolted toward the glow of the main thoroughfare where the traffic was thickest.
Izuku didn't just watch her run. He grabbed the remaining heavy soda cans from his bag and threw them in a rapid-fire arc toward the second lackey who was trying to cut her off. They weren't meant to knock him out, just to irritate, to distract, to buy seconds.
“You’re dead, kid!” the leader hissed, his footsteps heavy behind Izuku. Because irritate they did.
Izuku led them in a tight circle, using his smaller frame to duck behind a row of industrial trash bins. He knew how to move around narrow spaces better than they did why, he’d been navigating the labyrinth of a literal junkyard for months. Once he saw the woman reach the safety of the crowded and well-lit sidewalk, he doubled back, scrambled over a low fence, and circled around the block to meet her.
He found her leaning against a lamp post, breathing hard, her dark hair a bit wild. She was safe, surrounded by the indifferent bustle of evening shoppers.
Izuku slowed his pace, trying to tuck his trembling hands into his pockets. He felt the rush of adrenaline beginning to ebb, leaving behind a cold, shaky hollow.
“Are you... are you okay?” he panted, stopping a respectful distance away. He looked her over quickly—not for the velvet or the fur, but for bruises, for torn fabric, for the visible signs of a struggle. “Did they... did they touch you? Do we need to find a police officer?”
The woman looked at him, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and dawning relief. She took a steadying breath, smoothing down her coat with trembling fingers.
“I’m fine,” she managed, her voice rich and steady. “Because of you. You... you just threw a soda at a man twice your size.”
Izuku felt the heat rush to his face, the gravity of his actions finally sinking in. The adrenaline was fading, leaving his knees weak and his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked down at his empty hands, then back at the woman, feeling a sudden, sharp wave of embarrassment.
“I—I’m sorry about the mess. And the shouting,” Izuku stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just... I couldn’t just stand there and watch. My feet kind of moved on their own.”
The woman offered a small, graceful smile that seemed to settle the air around them.
“Well, thank you, sweetheart. Truly. Most people in this city have learned to look at their shoes when they hear a voice like mine.”
Izuku paused, looking at her properly now that the immediate danger had passed. Up close, she possessed an almost magnetic presence, something about her calm demeanor and the way she held herself made Izuku feel a strange urge to drop his usual stuttering inhibitions. He felt a sudden, protective instinct that overrode his desire to get home to his blankets and his mother.
“Uh—do you need me to walk you somewhere?” he asked, shifting his weight. “I’d feel bad just leaving you alone here. Or—do you need me to call the police? I can wait with you until they arrive.”
The woman’s expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her dark eyes. She glanced back toward the alleyway where the soda-can-infused chaos had occurred, then looked back at Izuku.
“I’d ask you to refrain from contacting the police, actually,” she said softly, her tone shifting from relieved to something more authoritative. “I have some friends coming this way, and they’ll be more than capable of handling the... mess... left behind. But,” she added, seeing the flicker of concern return to his face, “if it will put your mind at ease, you are more than welcome to walk me to where I am heading. It isn't far from here.”
“Of course!” Izuku chirped, though a split second later, his internal monologue began screaming. Wait, why did I offer that? I have a grocery bag of snacks, I’m covered in beach grime, and Mom is waiting!
Still, he couldn't bring himself to retract the offer. As they began to walk, Izuku found himself struggling to maintain his usual analytical distance. There was a gravity to her—a polished, mature confidence that felt miles away from the frantic energy of middle school. She moved with a deliberate grace, her heels clicking rhythmically against the pavement, while Izuku shuffled beside her, feeling like a scruffy stray dog following a queen. He guessed she was in her late twenties or perhaps thirties; she had that air of someone who had seen the world and wasn't particularly impressed by it, yet she remained kind enough to hum a small, soft tune as they turned a corner.
Izuku’s face was a permanent shade of pink. He kept stealing glances at her profile, his brain trying to categorize her posture and gait as he usually did with heroes, but finding himself unusually flustered instead. How could he be both calm and flustered simultaneously?
Soon enough, the woman slowed to a halt. “Here we are,” she said, gesturing toward a storefront bathed in soft, glowing lights.
Izuku looked up, and his jaw practically hit the sidewalk.
The building was unmistakable. It was decorated with plush pink awnings and neon signage that leaned heavily into a specific, adult aesthetic. It wasn't just a salon or a club; the atmosphere and the location in this particular district made the nature of the establishment very clear to anyone who grew up locally.
This lady worked... there?
The realization hit him like a physical blow. His face didn't just flush; it turned a deep, alarming shade of crimson that seemed to glow in the winter dark. He began to stammer, his hands flying up in a frantic, defensive gesture as he accidentally dropped his bag of popcorn.
"Oh— I'm sorry! I-I didn't mean to— I'm just a— I’m a student!" he squeaked, his voice jumping an entire octave. "I mean, I'm not a customer! I-I-I was just walking! I should go! I have a movie! With my mom! A very—uh— G-rated movie.”
Nice one, Izuku.
The woman’s eyes gleamed with a playful, dangerous sort of mischief as she leaned slightly toward him. “Why, I assumed you would like to come in,” she purred, her voice smooth as silk. “A brave boy like you deserves a reward, doesn’t he?”
“No! I mean—I’m flattered! Really!” Izuku’s voice reached a pitch only dogs could hear. He was waving his arms so frantically he looked like he was trying to take flight. “But I have—there’s a couch! And popcorn! And a very strict schedule regarding American and or Japanese cinema with my mother!”
The woman let out a low, melodic laugh that seemed to vibrate in the chilly air. She reached out, not to grab him, but to give his burning cheek a lingering, affectionate tap.
“Relax, Sodapop,” she said, the new nickname rolling off her tongue with effortless ease. “I’m teasing you. You’re far too sweet and young for a place like this, though you certainly have more bite than you look.”
Izuku blinked, his brain short-circuiting at the name. “Sodapop?”
“For the aim,” she clarified, gesturing vaguely back toward the alley where the dented cans likely still lay. “And weapon of choice. My name is Kakumi. And since you’re clearly too much of a sweetheart to accept an invitation to my parlor, the least I can do is tell you to get home before your mother sends a search party.”
She straightened her fur coat, the neon pink light of the sign overhead washing over her black hair in waves of magenta.
Then, The kiss was brief, thankfully, a light, floral-scented press of lips against his burning skin—but to Izuku, it felt like an electrostatic shock. He froze, his entire nervous system rebooting as the woman, Kakumi, stepped back with a wink.
“Consider that a down payment on the next time you save a lady in distress,” she said, her voice dropping back into that steady, sophisticated hum.
Before he could even attempt to find his tongue, she fished a small, elegant card from the pocket of her fur coat. It wasn't the glossy, neon-themed card he might have expected from the building behind her. It was heavy, cream-colored cardstock with nothing but a name and a phone number embossed in simple, black ink.
She pressed it into his palm, her fingers lingering just long enough to ensure he held onto it. “My personal card, not my business one. If you ever find yourself in trouble of your own—the kind that soda cans can’t fix—just give me a ring.”
“I—I—thank you,” Izuku managed, his voice barely a squeak.
“Now, run along,” she said, her expression softening into something genuinely fond. “The night is getting colder, and you’ve got a G-rated movie to watch.”
Izuku didn't just walk away; he practically scrambled. He managed a jerky, ninety-degree bow that nearly sent him toppling over his own feet, and bolted toward the main road. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a mix of post-adrenaline tremors and pure, unadulterated teenage mortification.
As he ran, the cold winter air helped dull the heat in his cheeks. He tucked the card deep into his pocket, feeling the sharp corners against his thigh. It felt heavy—heavier than a piece of paper should be.
Izuku skidded to a halt so fast his sneakers hissed against the pavement. He stood there for a beat, his hand flying to his empty side.
The snacks. In the chaos of the "soda-can-defense" and the sudden, heart-stopping encounter with Kakumi, he had left the paper bag sitting on the sidewalk like a forgotten monument to his own distraction.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he hissed, slapping a hand to his forehead. "You can face down three thugs and a mysterious woman, but you can’t remember the popcorn?"
He checked his watch. He was already pushing the limits of "fashionably late" for the Midoriya household. If he went back for the original bag, it was probably either trampled or scavenged by now. He had to make a move, and he had to make it fast.
Banking on a burst of that same adrenaline that had fueled his dash through the alleys, Izuku doubled back toward a nearby 24-hour convenience store. He didn't head back to the scene of the "crime"—partly because he didn't want to run into the thugs again, and partly because he didn't think his heart could handle seeing Kakumi twice in one night.
He burst into the shop, his breathing heavy. The clerk didn't even look up as the green-haired boy scrambled through the aisles, grabbing a fresh bag of kernels, two bottles of green tea, and a family-sized pack of chocolate-covered biscuits.
He dumped the items on the counter, frantically digging through his pockets. His fingers brushed against the heavy, cream-colored card she had given him. He paused for a fraction of a second, the texture of the paper cool under his thumb.
The "answer" to his night was a safe woman and a successful training day. But the "questions"? They were piling up. Who was she? Why did she have a "personal card"? And why did he feel like his world had just gotten a lot bigger than a trash-covered beach?
No, this was more. It had to be.
He paid the clerk, grabbed the new bag, and this time, he gripped the handles with a death-grip.
"No more detours," he muttered to himself, bursting back out into the cold. "Movie. Mom. Sleep. Tomorrow, I move the rest of the trucks. Fun."
He ran the rest of the way, his shadow stretching long under the streetlamps, but as he slid open the apartment door, it was unnervingly silent. Usually, the hum of the television or the rhythmic thump-thump of a knife against a cutting board greeted him, but tonight, the air felt heavy and still.
"Mom?" Izuku called out, his voice echoing slightly in the small entryway.
No reply. He checked his phone—no new messages. A small frown creased his forehead, but he quickly smoothed it away. She was likely caught up at work or had made a last-minute stop at the market for something she’d forgotten.
"She probably just hasn't gotten home yet," he muttered to himself, the sound of his own voice providing a thin layer of comfort.
He was too drained to overthink it. Every joint in his body was screaming for rest, and the lingering adrenaline from the encounter with Kakumi was finally being replaced by a crushing lethargy. He dropped the bag of snacks onto the coffee table, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto the couch.
With a clumsy thumb, he clicked the remote. A black-and-white classic began to flicker on the screen—something about a detective in a trench coat navigating a rainy city. It felt fitting. Izuku pulled the knitted throw blanket over his legs, his eyes already growing heavy. He didn't even open the popcorn. He simply let the dialogue wash over him, convinced that he would wake up to the smell of breakfast and his mother’s gentle scolding for falling asleep in his uniform.
He closed his eyes, drifting off with the certain knowledge that in the morning, his mother would be there.
Oh, how wrong he had been.
DAY OF THE UA ENTRANCE EXAM
Izuku didn’t understand why his brain couldn’t lay off for one morning. Just one!
Usually, his mind was a finely tuned instrument of observation, but today it was a frantic mess of variables, so, no, it couldn’t. The wind speed, the height of the gates, the calorie count of his granola bar breakfast, the likelihood of a combat-based exam, well, it all swirled into a dizzying vortex.
Maybe it was because this was the morning that his entire future would be decided. Or maybe because he has to pay rent in less than a week. Maybe it was because Kakumi had a new client in need of Izuku’s services. (How he hated when the woman phrased it like.)
This is going to be a good day, Izuku told himself, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. I am going to be a hero.
He took one bold, confident step forward, ready to meet his future.
Then, his toe caught on a stray crack in the pavement.
Gravity, the one opponent he hadn't learned to outrun at the beach, took immediate hold. Obvious in how All Might had to catch him as he plummeted towards the sand, just like now. The world tilted. The concrete rushed up to meet him with mocking speed.
Or I’ll just die, he thought morosely as he tumbled through the air. That’s fine, too. A quick, painless end before I can fail the written portion.
He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact of face-meeting-pavement, his mind already cataloging the "little bad" of his own clumsiness.
But the impact never came.
Instead of hard stone, he felt a strange, weightless sensation, as if the earth had simply decided to stop pulling on him. He hovered a few inches above the ground, his limbs flailing uselessly in the air like a flipped turtle.
"Are you okay?" a bright, bubbly voice asked.
Izuku opened one eye. He was floating. Truly, honestly floating. And standing right there was a girl with round, rosy cheeks and a look of genuine concern.
He noticed the callouses on her fingertips. He noticed the way she looked at him, but not with the disgust he was used to from Aldera, instead with the simple kindness of someone helping a neighbor.
"It’s a bad omen to trip, right?" she said with a giggle. “I stopped you with my Quirk,” the girl said, her voice still bright and helpful.
She pressed her fingertips together, a small pop of gravity returning to the world as Izuku’s soles finally met the pavement. “I didn’t think you wanted to fall, so I hope it was okay that I did.”
Say something! Izuku’s brain screamed, firing off a thousand signals at once. Say thank you! Tell her that she’s got an amazing Quirk! Or tell her that her Quirk isn’t the only reason you feel like you’re floating! That would be sweet, right?
Instead, his throat constricted, his social anxiety clashing violently with his newfound physical confidence. He was a boy who could move a truck, but he couldn't move a sentence past his teeth.
“I—you—me, cool?”
The girl tilted her head, a lock of brown hair falling over one of her pink cheeks. “Sorry?”
“You—uh—hey.”
Smooth, Izuku. Real freaking smooth, he thought, his internal monologue dripping with enough sarcasm to drown out even Endeavor’s flames.
The girl didn't laugh, though. She just gave him a warm, encouraging smile, the kind that suggested she was used to people being a little bit of a mess. Maybe she was one of her own. “Well, good luck on the exam! See you inside!”
Izuku slapped his hands against his burning cheeks, trying to physically jar his brain back into "hopefully-soon-to-be-hero mode."
Oh God, he thought, his internal monologue spiraling. I’m so—gah! Blue is gonna run circles around me if he sees me like this! And Patch? God, if I told him about this, he’d probably find a reason to medicate me into a coma for my stupidity!
He let out a long, shaky exhale, trying to put two of the colorful, sometimes questionable associates he’d met through the contact Kakumi had facilitated, out of his mind. They helped Izuku so much but clearly, they hadn't fixed his ability to talk to a pretty girl.
Everything’s gonna be fine.
So, everything was sort of fine.
It was just three shattered limbs, not four!
Technically, that was a twenty-five percent improvement over total skeletal failure. He was honestly expecting… well, he had been far from expecting anything that had happened during that exam. He hadn’t expected the skyscraper-sized Zero-Pointer, he hadn't expected the way One For All would feel like a pressurized explosion beneath his skin, and he certainly hadn't expected the terrifying, exhilarating weightlessness of falling toward his death only to be saved by a well-timed slap to the face.
His cheek was still bandaged; it was the only mark Recovery Girl hadn't fully erased. Her Quirk was miraculous, but even she had limits, and she’d prioritized the pulverized bone of his legs and right arm over a bruised face. That girl—Uraraka, he now knew—slapping him was the reason he wasn't a permanent part of UA property pavement, so the stinging remained a badge of honor he was happy to wear.
It was nearly dark by the time he finally left the campus, the sky bruised with purples and deep indigos. Most kids would be heading home to celebrate or cry with their families, because he was sure, at least, he was hoping some kids didn’t get any points like him. God, zero points!
But Izuku’s path led elsewhere. He didn't head for the quiet, still-too-empty apartment he shared with the memory of his mother. Instead, he made his way toward the district where neon hummed louder than the April wind.
He could use a distraction.
When he reached the familiar glowing storefront of The Pink Parlor, he didn't hesitate. He pushed open the heavy door, the scent of expensive perfume and aged tobacco swirling around him. The atmosphere inside was dim and hushed, a sharp contrast to the roar of the UA combat centers.
A few discerning glances followed him, of course, he was a scrawny, bandaged teenager in a dusty school uniform walking into a high-end adult establishment. He could practically feel the judgment of the old men sitting at the velvet-trimmed bar, their eyes bulging with a mix of confusion and offense when he didn't stop at the lounge.
They should be glad Izuku wasn’t the one judging them.
Instead, Izuku walked with the practiced confidence of someone who belonged there, heading straight for the "Employees Only" door at the back.
He wasn't a customer, and he certainly wasn't a victim. Well, not in his mind. Because he was Sodapop, a name that carried more weight here than "Izuku" ever had at Aldera Middle School. No, he’d only ever be Deku there.
He pushed through the door into the back hallways and descended the stairs, leaving the muffled jazz of the lounge behind for the cooler, subterranean air of the basement levels. Here, the light was a flickering, warm yellow that hummed with the steady vibration of the building’s hidden machinery.
He needed the familiar anchor of this place to stop the ringing in his ears. He needed to find his way to the back-room bar and see if he could finally persuade Ranger to slide something stronger than a juice box across the counter; after today, he felt he’d earned a drink that actually burned.
He needed to track down the Doc to see about a refill for the meds that kept the phantom aches of the last four months at bay. He wanted to cheer on Kakumi as she downed enough drinks to fill a small pond.
But most importantly, he was simply glad to be back. This place was a labyrinth of odd people, a makeshift home and a place of work filled with those the rest of society had let slip through the cracks. It was loud, it was complicated, but it reminded Izuku that he was alive.
And that his mother was too.
That was the secret tethered to the card in his wallet, he kept it for sentimental sakes, the truth that didn't fit into the clean, bright narrative of a (hopefully) UA student. The apartment was empty because safety was a luxury they could no longer afford along with his cheap convenience store ramen.
Here, in the belly of the Pink Parlor, well, the Blind Spot as true members called it, the shadows were thick enough to hide in.
It was the only thing standing between him and the suffocating, dusty silence of the life, not childhood, he was far past childhood now, a life that, for at least one more night, would just have to wait.
Becoming a hero was the goal, the dream, and the future.
But in the reality of the present, his mother came first.