The tips of his fingers tingle like a thousand needles, and his heart beats a mad race in his chest. As perspiration streams down his temples, Izuku taps his fingers against the window of his small apartment frenetically.

The colors are drained from his vision like a carcass bleeding out in a slaughterhouse, leaving his reality bloodless, anemic. His legs weaken, falter and shake like leaves caught in a storm, prisoner of a hostile gust.

His twitchy gaze sweeps the horizon and the street, and the people, jumping from insalubrious building to scraggy building, from ineffable faces to strangers faces.

Why why why-

His heart is going to burst like a potbellied balloon to which you apply too much pressure, and Izuku will spread his vice all over the city in an acrid, blackish and tarry rain.

I can't, I can't, can't-

It is like a drug, only instead of falling down, it merely goes up, and up, without ever reaching the half-life. And as he rises to unimaginable stratums of consciousness, at the limits of the cosmos, his mind corrodes, and a vicious hunger tears his inside apart and grinds his bones. His brain melts, like a resistor with excessive current, and a terrible itch which cannot (cannot cannot cannot) be relieved makes him scratch his neck until blood pearls. Until his scarred fingers grate his bones and scrape his marrow.

Tears stream down his cheeks, ending up as stains on the rotten floorboards as he lays his head against the cold glass – small respite when his forehead burns like the heart of a supernova – and his mind raves.

He cannot be a hero. After all, a hero with such a Quirk would be anathema and undoubtedly booed, or put behind lock and bars. For the betterment of society. Nothing good can come out of his particularity, only death and desolation. He is a rotten fruit, whose pestilential exhalations do not intoxicate the senses, but pollute, defile and infest.

And he is hungry, oh so hungry, that he could devour the first passerby and it would not be enough with this goddamn hunger which tears his insides in two and spreads him apart, and it itches – god – how it itches.

And he tries to resist, and it's so hard, and he's becoming crazy, completely barmy, and make it stop please, anyhow. Someone.

"Someone please, help! All Might… Kacchan… Mom?"

A sigh at the limits of the inaudible and everything becomes silent.

The world splits and bursts in a diaphanous rain which shows, through distended and misshapen fragments – the thing. And through all these diopters, these prisms of a breaking consciousness, he feels all that it feels. And all its brutality, colossal when compared with the rest of the worlds, invades and flows inside him, pumped in and out by his heart, feeding into his organs. And all of Izuku's apotropaic goodwill is not enough to keep it at bay, and his goodwill wilts, and melts like snow before the sun.

His eyes become two curved slits as a perverse smile stretches his cracked lips. His pupils, usually two beautiful emeralds, are naught but twin vats of acid, ready to dissolve the Heroes reckless enough to cross his path.

"Where are you?"

Yamada Shiro was through and through a lambda citizen, righteous and honest. He was maybe not the most upstanding of them all, but his virtue weighted as much as his good conscience, and he carried out his work conscientiously and methodically, so much so that he had had raises and honors. He had even been promoted to Musutafu Daily's employee of the month, one of the most reputable gazettes in the city, and not only once, but five times in a row. Given the fact he had only been employed for seven months, it was a feat befitting the greatest reporters.

With his trusty camera pressing against his side in his shoulder bag, he was roaming the deserted alleys of the old city, whose taken apart buildings populated the dilapidated roadsides, like as many ailing mushrooms with their roots put down in the cement. Some rusted car wrecks haphazardly spread out were strewn about the asphalt, sometimes embedded in a building (and Shiro had to recognize the impeccable physics which made it stick with equilibrium,) like as many metallic growths.

Night had fallen a few hours before, and it was between dusk and dawn that Erysichthon acted out, and while his name possessed a literal barbarism, he knew of no other person more aptly named.

For Greek mythology neophytes, Erysichthon was a King of Thessaly (a region at the center of Greece, where Mount Olympus culminated in the north,) who, in a fit of madness, or perhaps idiotic bravery, destroyed the sacred grove dedicated to Demeter to gain some territory for his palace. Taking center stage in this grove, a majestic poplar (or oak depending on the version,) favored by the nymphs which he mercilessly struck down. Demeter cursed him to a life of insatiable hunger, so potent that he had to sell his kingdom and his daughter to slavery, to pay for the growing quantity of food he had to ingurgitate.

Legend had it he ate his own flesh in the pointless hope to calm the torment of his voracious appetite.

Why the villain had been named that way? The sole two survivors he had left in his macabre wake had said the same thing. He would not stop muttering he was hungry.

The newspapers had not missed the opportunity of headlining this case and make him famous. Erysichthon, or Ery for short, the Hungering Butcher. The deplorable state of his victims, the lacerated flesh, amputated limbs, broken bodies, etc… It was as if they had been put through a meat grinder, the faces hacked about until they were unrecognizable, and that a careful analysis from the forensics was necessary to inform the family of the passing.

This is how Shiro found himself in this old, rotten city, in the hope of having the ultimate scoop: taking a picture of Ery. Of course, Shiro was not (only) doing it for the glory. Having such a clear picture of Ery's face would let the authorities and Heroes track and capture him much easier, so justice could be done. And there was no better Quirk than Shiro's to accomplish this task. Indeed, he only had to capture the picture of the monster in his camera, looking through the camera, so that the recipient found himself frozen in place, incapable of moving. It was a little like Eraser Head's Quirk, only that he had to use some medium like a camera to do it.

Thankfully, he was not alone. By his side, seriously inspecting the surroundings while he took drags from his cigarette, Death Arms. His companion was strangely silent, so much so that he had nearly forgotten his presence.

Shiro gazed at him part-curious and part-disparaging as he realized that it was the third cigarette in thirty minutes.

"Nicotine helps me focus," the Hero answered his unasked question.

Shiro shrugged. Focusing on the primary task, he took the camera out of his bag and fiddled with the lens. The focal length was excellent, and the camera was strapped to the back of his hand so that he had optimal mobility, should he have to run.

As they reached a crossing whose single street lamp's blinking light bulb lit the corner of the street intermittently, they saw a boy, who you could hardly give thirteen years he was so thin, green hair so dark they looked black in this low luminosity. He was seated on the sidewalk. His clothes were not very expensive, but they were not torn or dirty, and he looked clean.

What jolted the journalist and the Hero was the fact he was speaking to himself, mumbling and whispering something. They were too far away to hear him, but as they got closer, his words became crystal clear.

"…his Quirk is good, but the energy production is not optimal, -Ah!- and if he uses the generated electricity and turns it into kinetic energy? This lead should be investigated, depending on the power output, it could be equivalent to a strengthening Quirk –urrrgh- need to write that!"

And frenetically, he wrote down in his notebook his observations. Shiro's tensed shoulders dropped. What, it was only a kid! And a Heroes and Quirks fan, probably. He was not even looking at them, focused as he was on scribbling in his notebook. He could not see the contents, but Shiro guessed it was full of information on Heroes' Quirks.

As he was about to call out to him, and politely ask him to go home because it was late, and he undoubtedly had school the next day, Death Arms bumped his own fists. Gazing at him with stupefaction and indignation, Shiro was waiting for the forthcoming explanation.

"Kid, show us what you're writing in your notebook," Death Arms said instead.

At last, the boy's eyes met his, he shivered. Neon green and filled with something almost morbific which made Shiro afright, and had him instinctively step back. Shiro's gaze fell to the notebook the boy was holding out shyly. Inside were not Kanjis, but a drawing of a vivid clarity, on a big A4 format sheet of paper.

Drawn inside, Shiro and Death Arms, the first in a catatonic state while the second was crucified, rusted nails hammered down along his bleeding arms, lacerated flesh, torn out eyeballs, cut out tongue, ribcage open like a blooming, putrid flower – the ribs acting as thorns – leaving visible a pair of lungs whose vesicles were nearly distinguishable.

Shiro became pale as a sheet, his dinner trying to escape by any means while bile was burning his esophagus. He swallowed his salty saliva. The most disturbing fact was that, in the drawing, they were both wearing their current clothes. How long had he been observing them?

The kid watched the Hero, astounded and excitable, while he asked in a bumbling voice.

"H-How did you know?"

"You've got blood stains near the bottom of your shirt," Death Arms answered coldly.

His eyes widened, and he became even more excited if it were possible. He was nearly jumping on the spot with nervous energy.

"Amaz-"

The street light crashed against his face in a devastating side blow which sent him careening like a ragdoll. He bumped against the asphalt, his clothes tearing and his head hitting the unforgiving ground at least thrice. It made indescribable noises which made Shiro shiver with disgust. After ten rebounds, and a good thirty meters crossed, he finally stopped, his limbs broken and bent at impossible angles. Bones were poking through the flesh of his arms, and his neck was forming a ninety degrees angle with his torn body.

Death Arms laid down the street light he had torn out with his bare hands.

"Isn't that a little… extreme?" Asked Shiro, his tone full of disgust and his face sickly.

Death Arms cracked his neck and took out the last cigarette from the crumpled pack he had removed from his pocket. He took the time to light it and took a big drag, letting the smoke come out of his nose. He observed Shiro from the corner of his eyes.

"I don't know if you've seen what this beast has done to its victims. How they suffered. Heck, what I've done is merciful. He died on the spot."

Shiro was about to retort that they did not even know if this child was Ery, because all they had seen was a gory drawing. But he did not, because some part of him deeply buried which he would have liked to ignore, rebelled against the idea of this thing (for it was not human,) breathing the same air as him. Shiro was ready to bet that it was this same primeval instinct which animated Death Arms and made him act like this, foregoing consequences and reason alike.

« Guguulghuuu. »

« What?! »

The cigarette fell from Death Arms' slack jaw, spreading cinders on the ground.

The kid (monster's) ribcage vibrated and inarticulate sounds came of his bent throat, like notes from an out of tune musical instrument. He was… laughing?

Before their incredulous eyes, the bones retracted and realigned, his muscles rebuilding and his skin mending fast, leaving behind only an intact epidermis coated with flaking dry blood.

Then his neck bent back in the correct position, and when he turned around, they saw absolutely no damage whatsoever on his gleeful face.

"An incredible reinforcement Quick, inferior to the one used by All Might but still with an impressive impact. Ah, the excitement famishes me. I-It's my turn, now, right?"

His legs bent, and even with this distance, they could see his lower muscles contract and swell.

Acting out of instinct, Shiro brandished his camera and aimed for the young man's face but it was too little, too late. The asphalt became cracked at the starting point. This acceleration… it was not him moving, it was as if space itself was curving to allow him to reach his destination quicker.

Death Arms did not, could not understand what was happening. One moment he was thirty-something meters away, a fraction of second later, only a meter separated them. He did not even have time to react before the boy's fist smashed into his jaw, which took the brunt of the shock.

Now, let's think about an interesting fact. The maximal energy deployed by a punch is equal to ½ * mass * speed². As Izuku had broken the sound barrier, we can estimate his speed to be greater than 340 meters per second. The mass is his fist, arm and all the muscles moving in the direction of the fist. Therefore, his body weight. Let's say 40 kg.

As a comparison, the deployed kinetic energy is equivalent to a 12-pound cannonball thrown at 2236 mph.

The Hero's face structure shattered under the impact, his body thrown around at an incredible speed. The air ripped with a terrible tear, the sonic boom breaking the glasses from the nearby buildings when finally the displacement of the sound caught up to Izuku's. Death Arms' head smashed against a reinforced steel door, one of the many ones in this dodgy neighborhood. His blood and cephalorachidian liquid splattered against the dented piece of metal like watercolor on a ghastly canvas.

"Acceleration Quirk combined with muscles strengthening and elasticity to diffuse the backlash yields fairly good results, but they could be improved by using resilient materials to further diffuse the shock, like carbon fiber reinforced boxing gloves. Of course, that would lessen the impact, but given the generated kinetic energy, a loss of even 20% would be an acceptable margin-"

His ears whistling while his eardrums throbbed with agony, as bile burned his throat, Shiro's body bent over, and he relinquished his hold on his dinner. He could still distinguish the half-digested diced bacon in the vile mush which was coating the ground and part of his shoes. With a trembling hand which was not strapped to his camera, he wiped his face and nearly fainted when the boy laid his chemical eyes on his pale face.

"A-And you, what is your Quirk, Sir?" he asked, almost shyly, but Shiro could not hear him with his split eardrums.

His legs could bear his weight no more with the equilibrium loss stemming from this recent wound, and he collapsed on his butt. He wanted to struggle, but what for? The boy could go faster than Mach 1 for Christ's sake, he could catch up to him more quickly than Shiro could say 'die!'. Shiro's arms hugged his folded legs, and he rested his forehead against his knees, trying as well as he could to forget, or at least blot out the pain.

"I want to go home. Fuck, what a clusterfuck of a night."

Almost feeling sympathetic toward the poor man, Izuku contemplated the best solution to the following problem: a person had seen his real face. Furthermore, killing Heroes was one thing, it was part of the risks of the trade, but killing innocents… He could feel the other Izuku jerking inside, screaming and struggling against the mental blocks keeping him prisoner in his own mind.

"A-Ah… maybe that's enough brutality for tonight. T-Till next time, then."

And without further ado, he left free reins to the other Izuku.

Izuku took one moment to observe the scene, before regurgitating his stomach contents. The only bright side was that the hunger would leave him alone for now, somewhat sated by the libation that had just unfolded. But it would surface again in an eternal cycle of violence.

He wanted to ask if the journalist was okay (of course he wasn't, his ears were bleeding), but the fact that he, Midoriya Izuku, was the cause left him voiceless, the words dissolving into ashes on his tongue.

"Y-You can go, S-Sir," he said, his cheeks flushing with shame.

The man could not hear him, but maybe he sensed his intent, for, with weak legs and shaky steps, the man headed toward a precise destination, certainly his house.

Everything went fast then, much too fast. A congregation of dark particles materialized behind the stunned man's head, and a hand appeared in this opaque fog. Then an arm followed, and the hand grabbed the back of the man's neck. The journalist decomposed literally before Izuku's horrified eyes.

Then the fog which meanwhile had formed the outline of a man dispersed, revealing a youth with light blue hair, fourteen disembodied hands grabbing his arms, sides, and face. He was wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt, as well as dark blue pants and red shoes.

"Rule number one, never leave an eyewitness alive, noob."

His voice was tinged with madness, nagging and grating all at once. It made Izuku shiver with weird, alien feelings. The villain's head left Izuku's form as he observed the boy's handiwork (no, Death Arms!) and he whistled appreciatively.

"I was wrong. You're not a noob, you're a twink. But doing BG at this level is pretty boring, right? Come with us, and level up."

The world tilted on its axis and decayed.