A.N.: The Dark Below, penned by DarthPeezy (on ffnet), serves as inspiration for this story. I've pulled several things from their work which, for the sake of avoiding spoilers, will be brought up after they appear. I would highly recommend their story as I enjoyed it immensely. In addition, I pull heavy inspiration from the Dark Souls franchise (though most notably from the first game) as well as from Dungeons and Dragons. Pairings, if any, are undecided; I am open to suggestions (both via reviews and PMs) and, at a later date, may introduce a poll involving such – but, as the author, I maintain final say on such matters – and, lastly: I don't do pairings not involving the main character; I just don't like them. Izuku will be the main character of this story, so any pairing will involve him.

This story contains: LGBT character(s)/themes, swearing, self-harm, graphic violence, character death, depictions of mental illness, and suicide. This warning applies to the entire story.

This story is written in first person past participle; I feel as though this pairs well with the content and themes of the story. It will stay like this throughout.

Chapter 1

"They say that approximately twenty percent of the world's population is without a quirk – and, while factually correct, this is an extremely misleading figure: like any trait that proves itself advantageous in its ability to increase the likelihood of someone passing on their genes, the percentage of the following generation to have said trait increases. Having a quirk is a more severe case of this – when those without quirks find themselves facing increasing levels of hardship in their ability to have children (be it do to financial instability, discrimination, or other such factors) the number of quirkless individuals passing on their genes and therefore the non-quirked genome falls sharply; because of this, the vast majority of quirkless individuals are members of past generation: over half of all quirkless people are over the age of sixty-five. In truth, the rate of quirklessness for the current generation is estimated to be under one percent, but over one-half of a percent." -The Truth of '20%', Dr. Nagase Hidemichi

"As you can see here," the doctor said, gesturing to the small toe on my right foot, "you have the vestigial joint present only in those without a quirk… now, I –"

Whatever he had to say next was all together irrelevant in the face of the debilitating blow I had just been delt; my ears began to ring as I stood, transfixed, with my gaze locked to the thin sheet of film that robbed me of my future. I wanted to interject – to object; 'there's no-way that's me!' or 'there must have been some mix-up…' but I knew he was right.

I had spent the better part of a year meticulously experimenting and testing myself for any sign of a quirk. I had acquired no less than a hundred burns of various severity in the hopes that my quirk would be like that of my late father – having given up on the idea of fire breath after an entire week of screaming myself horse. I had suffered a similar number of stress induced headaches, nosebleeds, and burst capillaries trying to exert any amount of telekinetic force. I had run the preverbal gauntlet of potential powers in the aftermath: epic powers like flight or superstrength – even more minor things like enhanced senses or reflexes. I had gone so far as to access the public version of the quirk registry and check myself against all the registered quirks in Japan. There were, of course, no matches.

The ringing refused to quiet down; I could hardly hear my own thoughts over the insufferable droning, much less the callous words of the doctor that had been so kind as to crush my dreams and life-long aspiration with the same indifference as someone brushing off a less than irksome bug. I tried to voice this grievance – but the vice clamped so securely around my heart had, apparently, made me forget how to breathe.

The doctor carried on with his speech, either not noticing or not caring that I had stopped listening after his first sentence. Nor did my mother notice as the room began to sway gently and spots of inky darkness began to encroach on the edges of my vision. One, two, three sharp spins and the floor was suddenly far too close.

The car ride home was entirely silent; we spent the transit without exchanging a single word and with the radio mercifully silent: I believe that, if I had been forced to listen to a single broadcast involving a hero and any matter they had seen to, I'd have broken through the shock I had fallen into and thrown myself from the moving car.

No words, still, were exchanged when we arrived home – as if treading water, I slowly wandered my way out of the car, up the four flights of stairs, into our apartment by way of the key I had been entrusted, into my room, and then into my bed. My mother attempted, valiantly, to rouse me from my nest of self-loathing and suicidal ideations, but even All Might could not have done so in that moment. I skipped dinner, breakfast, lunch, dinner again, then once more all the way until Monday morning, the doctor's appointment having been on Friday.

By the time Monday rolled around, I had finally stopped crying – and on that day, I made a vow: never again would I cry, for what could shake me enough to warrant doing so after having my sole reason for living taken in hand, sundered in two, and shoved down my throat? Coincidentally, I had not slept, so, upon leaving my dwelling, my mother was faced with the horrid visage of a child that had spent several days, without pause, sobbing. If ever there was a reason to miss school, that was it.

It is unlikely that my mother knew the exact depth I had fallen to; as loving and dotting of a parent as she was, she was also a widow left to care for a child; the pension she received for nearly a decade of my father's labor was the life-raft we clung to for many years. Without it, even working two full-time jobs, we would have been unable to maintain the standard of living we did, meager as it was – so, for the duration with which I was forced to reevaluate my entire life plan, she was busy keeping food on the table and the lights on.

I stayed home on that fateful Monday morning – although I thought it as good a day as any to face the never-ending dredge that would be the rest of my life, my mother thought otherwise; she called out for the day, which was something she very rarely did, and personally pulled me from death's door. I had not left my room for three days. I bathed, I ate, I drank, and we spent a rare day in each other's company; ensconced on the couch admixed some inane program or another, I was just glad that she was there. She comforted me as best she could, and it was this brief respite that enabled me to endure what would come tomorrow.

I had known Bakugo Katsuki for as long as I had been alive. Our parents had been close friends and, when both of our mothers ended up with child around the same time, it served as the catalyst that transformed their adolescent friendship at the hands of convenience to one of choice and shared circumstance. Bakugo and I were largely raised together; prior to my father's death, it was nearly a daily occurrence that we would all be together, be it at a nearby park for a day of outdoor activity or a rainy day spent inside with good company.

Ever the timid child, Bakugo was perhaps made to compensate with raw force of personality: I was quiet and thoughtful; he was loud and rash. My nearly pointed pacifism and passivity was matched by his affinity for violence, minor though it was, which worked out rather well as children; due to my nature, I painted an easy target for anyone with self-esteem issues or qualms of self-worth. I was a proverbial magnet for bullies. Although it never progressed past childish insults, that was still too far for Bakugo; much of our early childhood was spent with him protecting me.

Bakugo was older than me – not by much, though he lorded it over me as if it were an insurmountable chasm; similarly, he was always bigger. A few inches taller, a few sizes larger, a few pounds heavier… not much, were we adults, but that makes a world of difference when you're a child; whether it was because of these factors, an earnest desire to protect me, or potentially the direct meddling of parents, it's irrelevant; we had a dynamic not dissimilar to that of siblings. I wonder, often, if this was the product of his desire to be a hero, or if, instead, it was the origin.

Perhaps beyond the friendship of our parents, as a cementing factor, was a shared dream; although I believe it was for different reasons, there was a burning desire to be a hero – in truth, it might have been Bakugo's dream first: watching him, near every day, standing up for me is as good an inciting event as any for my aspirations to be a hero. We spent years playing hero together; one of us would play a hero, whoever caught our fancy for the week, and the other would play any villain that came to mind. After every game or so, we'd swap sides. Like any game played by small children, athletic ability was an undeniable boon. But in the realm of fantasy, this imbalance could be mended with ingenuity. This was something I had in spades, even as a child, and would always have over Bakugo; though he wasn't unintelligent or otherwise slow-witted, he had a nasty tendency of losing himself that served just as well.

When I arrived at school on Tuesday morning, it was to jeers and insults I could not have anticipated. On Monday, news of my quirklessness had spread through the entire school – I believe Bakugo was to blame for that; there was little our mother's kept from each other and a few words let slip was all it took. Overnight, it had spread through the entire district. When I made it to class, everyone there knew that I was the only kid in the entire district that didn't have a quirk.

Bokugo had been glaring at me since class had begun. So, when he cornered me at recess, I already had an idea as to what was going to happen. That didn't make it hurt any less.

"I can't believe I wasted my time with you!" Bakugo snarled. "The others, they're extras – but you? You aren't even that! Background characters, at least they do something. You're worthless."

I was no stranger to Bakugo's strength; while I was seldom the target for it, I was often a witness. I had watched as Bakugo fought groups of boys – sometimes boys older than us, as well – be it due to an errant word that summoned ire from those around, in a bid to protect me from playground bullies, or because it was fun to him; Bakugo's prowess was something I was intimately familiar with. But never once had he hit me. Even when we would wrestle or otherwise roughhouse, it never came to blows.

In that instant, our entire relationship changed. Years of friendship, of comradery, scattered to the wind like detritus in the aftermath of that first explosive punch. He hit me. First in the stomach, but when I dropped to the ground, he hit me in the face. Blow after blow until I couldn't see anything through the blood. In an instant, my staunch protector became my number one antagonist. I had never had much in the way of friends; Bakugo, whether intentionally or not, kept me segregated from our classmates prior to our falling out. When he abandoned me, I was utterly alone. That first confrontation hadn't broken anything but my heart; the fragmented segments of what had once been whole were gathered and ground to dust.

When recess ended and we clamored back to class, my bloodied face was noted; when questioned, I claimed to have fallen off some piece of schoolyard equipment. I was sent to the nurse, an old woman that didn't particularly seemed to care for me, my condition, or the pain I was in. After a cursory examination, they called my mother. She, however, was unable to leave work; calling off so suddenly the previous day had put her in a precarious enough position at work. In the end, Mrs. Bakugo, listed as the emergency contact right below my mother, was the one to get me. I waited at their house, being fussed over by the mother of my newfound enemy and someone who I viewed as second only to my own mother. In the end, I needed stitches; three of them, just under my hairline above my left eye… were it not for the healthcare we had managed to keep from my late father's employer, the next decade of my life would have been significantly worse.

On that day, Bakugo learned a couple important lessons: I would not tell on him for hurting me, and if I was hurt too badly, I'd be sent home. Following this president, the remainder of the year was miserably and involved nearly constant injury. That year, summer vacation was a respite the likes of which could not be overstated – but months without seeing Bakugo made the reunion all the more brutal.

Fridays were always particularly brutal; this was a pattern established quickly: in the face of the weekend, a time both where Bakugo wouldn't have access to me and during which I would presumably recuperate, the limits to what he could do were greatly loosened. Friday, The first Friday of first grade – there was something special about that day.

"You know the kanji for you name can also be read as 'Deku'? As in Dekunobou – I think that's funny: even your parents knew you were good-for-nothing."

I wasn't even aware that I had moved. One moment I was cowering beneath Bakugo, and the next, I was sitting on his chest and raining down blows. I felt the resistance of his nose give way to my fist. I felt, between punches, the bruise forming over his eye. I felt the rush of blood spatter his face and my fists from his busted lip. Then his hands were on my chest and there was a heat that put the myriad of burns I had endured in an attempt to sate my own curiosity to shame… and I was airborne. The sea of woodchips that met my back was anything but gentle, as was the endless stream of small explosions and bursts of unrestrained fire that licked the bruises left by the unforgiving hands of a boy much larger than I. My shirt and most of my shorts were turned to rags by the explosive payload of Bakugo's fist, just as the flesh beneath it was covered in a motley of burns. Over and again, he hit me as our classmates all watched. None of them felt so inclined as to fetch a teacher… but that didn't matter. They were already there, pretending not to watch what transpired. Cartilage cracked, bone snapped, and ligaments tore as he wailed away at me.

I woke up in a hospital bed some time later, covered in casts, and braces, with rods in my bones; Bakugo had nearly killed me. Despite this, Bakugo would face consequences neither from the school nor the courts: they had covered up what he had done to me – what he had been doing to me for months. Aldera had never sponsored a student that become a pro hero – had never gotten a student into a prestigious hero academy. They were underfunded, understaffed, or perhaps they were just greedy; regardless, getting a student into U.A. would launch Aldera and its affiliate schools into the spotlight. Money, prestige, legitimacy where all within their grasp with a single success. Bakugo, with his powerful and flashy quirk combined with his hero-aligned aspirations? He was sure thing, and they weren't going to jeopardize that all for some no-name kid without a quirk. The one silver lining, as small as it was, was that I wouldn't be penalized for fighting Bakugo either; if it went on my record that I had managed to hurt him, he would be implicated as well… and aside, it would tarnish his sterling reputation if someone without a quirk had sent him to the hospital. Anything short of murder would be ignored or, if necessary, covered up.

"What the fuck are you doing, Deku?"

My heart skipped a beat. Anxious, I cast a look around the classroom… only to find it deserted. I had gotten too distracted with the spiral bound notebook in my lap. Before I could get out a reply, an arm darted in and grabbed it.

"'Quirk Analysis: Volume 2'? The fuck is this?"

"It's nothing," I bit out, far too quickly.

"I don't know, Deku; this doesn't look like nothing…"

I sat there, silently, as he flipped it open and scanned through the pages. After a while, he spoke up again.

"This is pretty fucking creepy, nerd. You some voyeur or something? There're notes on half our classmates in here."

I couldn't help it; a bloom of heat rushed up my cheeks.

"Nothing to say, huh? Then you won't mind if I… do this?"

A bevy of tiny explosions charred a few hundred hours' work in an instant. As fast as I could, I stuffed the rest of my school supplies in the bag at my feet and made to stand up.

"Where do you think you're going?"

A hand on my shoulder saw that plan die a swift death.

"Home, Bakugo."

A smirk broke out across his face.

"No, you aren't. You're gonna sit right there and we're gonna have a little chat about what happened in class today."

I sighed.

"What's there to talk about?"

"You said you wanted to apply to U.A. I am applying to U.A."

"And?"

"And, Deku, I am gonna be the only one from Aldera going there. I'm gonna be the first person from this shithole to make something of themself."

"…I'm applying to General Studies."

The back of a hand struck me across the face.

"Did I fucking ask what program you were applying to?"

I bit back an angry retort for what little good it did me.

Another strike, this one an open hand smack that send me out of my chair and onto the floor.

"Did I fucking ask?"

"No."

He kicked me in the ribs.

"What was that?"

"No, you didn't ask."

He stomped on my hand, digging his heel into the back of my hand.

"That's what I thought. Don't apply to U.A."

This started an annoying phase of Bakugo attempting to beat out what little joy I could scrape together from the abilities of others; any time he caught me writing anything in class, he'd snatch it up and torch it in front of anyone – it soon evolved passed just my Quirk Analysis journals, as well; before long, even my notes on schoolwork weren't safe. In the end, I had to just remember anything taught in class. I'd record it later, at home. My analysis continued in private as well; observations on classmates were relegated to homework, but it continued regardless of Bakugo's wishes.

It was two weeks later that it came up again; our homeroom teacher announced the schools everyone applied to – apparently they had requested our transcripts, so the faculty knew where we applied. As our teacher ran through the list of students and where they had applied, I stared my death in the face. Aside from Bakugo, I was the only one that applied to U.A.

Before class ended, I packed up my belongings; as soon as the bell rang, signaling the end of the day, I practically jumped from my seat and made for the door. I made it all of three feet before Bakugo grabbed me by the back of my blazer. I cast a pleading look across the room, but everyone averted their eyes and filed out. The teacher said nothing as he packed up quickly and left us alone. He closed the door behind him when he left.

Immediately, an explosion at my back propelled me forward and across the desks in front of me. I landed hard on the desk at the front of the row and it followed me as I tumbled to the ground. I hadn't the time to stand before Bakugo was upon me, raining blows with no end in sight. When he was tired of punching me, he began to kick; first my stomach and ribs, then my face. I opened my mouth to say something – anything that could make him stop, but all that did was leave an opening for the brutal kick he had reared back. I felt my jaw break and dislocate; felt my mouth fill up with blood from the tongue I had bit through. He hit me until I lost consciousness and likely longer still. When I woke up, I was in the hospital again: they had wired my jaw shut and said it need to remain so for several weeks.

I was accepted into U.A. – but not really; I had made the grades and had a sufficiently clean record to not be dismissed out of hand; pending an on-campus exam and a psychological evaluation, I had a real chance. I just had to keep my grades at a satisfactory level, stay out of trouble, and bide my time.

Bakugo didn't take the news well: I was well within the qualifications for admittance… but Bakugo nearly fell short. His grades weren't an issue – as I said before, he wasn't unintelligent and, even if he was, it was likely that Aldera would force the grade be acceptable. No, the issue was that Bakugo Katsuki had a criminal record. Unauthorized quirk usage. It wasn't enough for him to be outright disqualified, but it worsened his chances significantly; a few more infractions and his dreams would be forever out of reach. He, of course, took it out on me.

I was walking home when it happened. Under the bridge, from beneath a manhole cover, sprang an amorphous glob of green iridescence and murder. It was pure happenstance that I survived; just as the black spots at the edge of my vision became too much, the pollen-filled spring air rushed into my disused lungs. A colossal gust of wind, a thundercrack, and my would-be killer was handily defeated.

All Might, my idol, Japan's number one hero and the Symbol of Peace had come to my rescue. With a blur of motion, the green sludge was gather from where it had begun to slink away; captured in a plastic bottle. I tried to speak, but words failed me – he shot me that trademark smile, patted me on the head, and made to jump away.

"Wait!"

He paused at the last possible moment.

"Yes?"

"…Can someone without a quirk be a hero?

"No."

He left me there, under that bridge. Too busy with things that actually mattered – anything other than a quirkless nobody with delusions of grandeur.

After allowing myself a rare moment of self-pity, I resumed my trek home.

"Let me go, you stupid fucking extra!"

For the first time in years, his voice sent a lance of fear through my heart that didn't pertain to my well-being; it was far off, but I'd never mistake that voice for another. I follow the sound of his voice into the prefecture's shopping district – a place I haven't been in years for fear of running into Bakugo. The closer I get, the more I hear; there's a crowd gathered and Bakugo is using his quirk. I turn a corner and it comes into view; in the crossroads between several shops, a heavy throng of people are gathered in a tight circle. As I approach, a gap forms: in the middle of the circle is Bakugo held aloft by a coiled mass of green slime. My eyes scan the crowd – where's All Might? He had the villain well in-hand when he left.

There were several professional heroes gathered in the crowd, though I didn't see All Might. Kamui Woods, Mt. Lady, Death Arms – no-one even remotely suited to the task. I step closer, but Mt. Lady blocks my path.

"Stay back, kid; let the pros handle this."

I might have if they were doing anything. Just then, a wild explosion tore through the area; it frightened people back a step, but it was weak and unfocused: Bakugo hadn't been so imprecise with his blasts since elementary school. The look of his face told me everything I needed to know; he hadn't done that intentionally. The villain that had gotten a hold of him – it was controlling Bakugo's quirk. After years of experiencing the power of Bakugo's quirk firsthand, it was telling just poorly it was being utilized; it took the villain nearly twice as long as Bakugo to gather and use his sweat to cause an explosion – further, it was even more telegraphed than normal. Every few explosions, as well, it seemed to hunker down for a refractory period; rather than keeping evenly timed dispersions, it was rushing and using all the gathered sweat on the last blast. No-one was doing anything. Bakugo was going to die. Mt. Lady moved off to the side, seemingly to confer with her team. I watched as the last explosion was let off before he was spent. Then I took a step forward and – there was an arm baring my way again. A skeletal man with gaunt eyes, blond hair, and a deep grimace. No words were spoken, but they didn't need to be. He was telling me not to help. Telling me to watch Bakugo die.

I swallowed everything I wanted to say in that moment. Instead of screaming at him, I bid my time for the next round. During that time, Bakugo's eyes rolled into the back of his head and the tiny movements he had been able to eek out ceased entirely. When the villain was spent once more, I bodily shoved my way past the man that had stopped me before.

It was too far. I was too slow. By the time I reached them, another blast was primed to hit me point blank. I had managed, just barely, to fling my school bag in front of me to intercept the explosion. It still bit me, eating through my blazer and button-down, but it only burnt the skin beneath instead of charring it. I slammed into the side of the villain and hedged my bet that it wouldn't blast me from so close; pressed against it, it would hurt us both. And so I dug with my hands, throwing chunks of the villain away from us as it tried to hold onto Bakugo and capture me as well. It was smaller than it had been earlier; maybe two thirds the size it had been hours before. That made all the difference. I managed to rip Bokugo from its grasp, but it engulfed me instead. As it crushed the air from my lungs, I had one final thought: am I still worthless?

It turns out… I was. Bakugo was died.

A.N.: any large quotes found in the beginning of chapters can be skipped; they are not necessary to understand the plot, though do contain lore-dumps pertaining to changes made to the world. They might not be in every chapter, but I'll put one in where I think they're relevant. Also, there will be more dialog/character interaction in later chapters; there was a lot I wanted to get through in this chapter. Lastly: I write sporadically; there's no real way to know when this will be update… but interaction would probably help speed it up. If you made it this far, thank you for your time. BleedingEdge3000 out.