K I L L Y O U R H E R O E S

PRELUDE

If Izuku thinks really hard, he can remember how he got into this situation.

The world seems to be in a standstill as the wind ghosts through his hair, the scent of death and dust carried on its back. The backdrop is like something he saw once, in what feels like such a long time ago, during a school trip to the museum. He takes a moment to remember it; recalling the picture of the dust clouds looming over the aftermath of the infamous 9/11 attack in America decades ago. He remembers the greyscale portrait and the dread and horror it held; and suddenly, the monochrome array is seeping from his memory into the view as every color in his vision is obscured by grey. Dust rolls over the last bits of the shining blue sky and paints it silver and grey, the sun swallowed by the jaws of the smog and stained silver like the moon.

Something collapses by his side, and he hears shouting in the distance; screams of alarm and fear when figures shimmer in his peripheral vision, the bright colors of professional hero costumes contrasting against the bleakness. He finds the situation a little endearing, if not bittersweet. He hears their shouts to restrain him— get him away from his target, and their cries of despair when they realize that they won't get there in time. Not while he has a gun to his head. Not now that he's finally understood what his mentor said to him; what she had meant in her words all those years ago.

Years ago, when he was still so small and so... naïve?

... no, innocent, when he never would have dreamt any nightmare that could have been as cruel and taciturn as this. Here he is; captured by a live-feed drone, being watched by thousands— no, millions— as he stands among the top heroes, but he knows there is no admiration in the masses' eyes. He's come so far and become so strong, but he's not the hero he craved to be. He has the respect of the one person he wanted it from the most. He tries his hardest not to laugh about it— really, he does, but he can't help the faint chuckle that escapes him now.

Here he is, gun pointed at the one person he always admired the most, and his golden hair is tainted by soot and blood.

His eyes are filled with something— fear, regret, acceptance, sorrow— that Izuku tries to ignore. But even his years spent training, observing, steeped in the darkness of this world hasn't staunched the flow of his bleeding heart. His mentor made sure of that, and he's unsure whether to bless or curse her name for it now.

"Any last words?" He asks, because there's nothing else to say; nothing he can think of or drag out from his heart. Not here, in his friend's final moments.

"It's okay," he says, and Izuku relaxes a bit. This will be easy. It will be okay. He's trained his whole life in knowing that it may come to this.

"I forgive you."

Izuku sucks in a breath like he's been punched in the gut, and he wishes that were the case. The gun loosens in his hand.

But he needs to do this.

"Please," Izuku pleads, "Please don't forgive me."

He's not supposed to cry, but he feels the searing hot trails of tears run from his eyes, gathering on his jaw and plopping down onto the scorched earth.

"Please," he almost sobs— he's running out of time; he knows it, but the words fall out anyways— "Please, hate me."

But the man with sun-kissed hair smiles, and Izuku knows his answer.

"You know what you have to do," he says, and it twists the knife in Izuku's gut; churning it and rolling the blade through his heart like a spindle. He hates it. He hates it because he knows.

The gun feels so heavy now; heavier than it had ever been. He tries to pull back the trigger; release the bullet and let it be done with. Be the villain that the world needs, the villain he is destined to be.

But he hesitates.

"Well? Can you do it, kid?"

But there is no time for hesitation.

"Please, Izuku! Don't do it, please!" He heard someone cry. He knows not to look; he shouldn't, mustn't, but he tries to look at her so he closes his eyes and shuts his heart to her desperate pleas, ignoring the sight of her pink, vibrant costume against the grey, burning world. This must to be done.

For the sake of the world... right?

He looks at him one last time, and he remembers. He remembers growing up; seeing the heroes around him and desperately wishing he could stand on equal ground with him. He remembers watching that one video clip over and over and over again every day without fail, scribbling notes and studying until he passed out all in an effort to be worthy of being called a 'hero.' He remembers at time when he could smile and laugh without having to check the lock and key that sealed his lips, or hide the burden that weighed heavier on his shoulders than anything he could liken it to. He tries to feel again how it is to live without worry, to look without knowing, and to feel without guilt.

Despite himself, he allows himself a small, tiny, sad smile.

"Really," he says to no one but himself, "I wonder where, somewhere along the line, while I struggled so hard to be a hero that I became the villain."

But all the man did was smile— and Izuku heard the barrier break, and all of the sounds and colors of the world shattered and broke when the sound of his gunshot rang out.

Silence claimed the landscape. In the moment, Izuku feels like he has died and had turned into a ghost. Watching. Waiting. Knowing the humming of the gunmetal on his skin but not feeling it, seeing the blood flow but being completely blind. Really, where did it all go wrong?

"Can you kill your heroes?"