Author's notes: Hello guys! Thanks for giving this fanfic of mine a shot. This is actually my first work in over a decade and I'm so excited to finally join the BNHA/MHA fanfic community. I hope you get to enjoy what I've written so far as much I've enjoyed writing it.

A word of warning, the letter ahead might seem like a Major Character bashing but please continue on reading because there's a reason behind it. Bakugou happens to be my favourite character and the letter addressed to him does not necessarily reflect my own opinion (just the character writing to him).

Also, I chose to use Kami/Kami-sama because it's my way of trying to censor the word for G-d for those who might find it offensive. It is by no means my attempt at trying to flaunt my skills in speaking Japanese nor is it my way of trying to claim Japanese ancestry. And just for the record, my mother might be Japanese but I can only really speak English so there's that.

That said, I hope you guys hang on for the bumpy ride ahead!

Epicentre

(This Chance I've Been Given)

Chapter 1: Along the Precipice of Oblivion

Dear Bakugou Katsuki,

Has anyone ever told you that you're a Grade A asshole?

You know what, on second thought, nobody ever had, right? Because if anyone had the actual balls to tell you just how utter trash you are at being a functional human being, you wouldn't have had your own head stuck up so far up your ass that the only person you could see as being worthy of respect and basic human decency was yourself, no?

Kami, were you able to actually look in the mirror and convince yourself from day to day that anything and everything about you was. . . oh, I don't know. . . normal!? Because, I swear to Kami, if you were honestly delusional enough to think that, well, I have something mind-blowing to tell you, buddy. You're nothing more than a jerkwad with a hella messed up mind!

Like, how twisted can your screwed-up brain be? Did you seriously think that having the party trick ability to somehow produce sparklers from your sweaty-as palms made you a cut above and beyond everyone else? Like you're some sort of Kami's gift to humanity!? Well, newsflash, bastard: it doesn't! And it never will!

Oh, and for the record? I know first-hand how devastating your quirk can actually be. After all, I had a front row seat to the destruction it was capable of causing. And no, I wasn't just talking about what happened at that high-end shopping district, either.

But . . . while I'm at it . . . holy hell! Talk about a lack of self-control, you dick! Did it ever occur to you that your life was no more important than those you put in danger by letting off those explosions at full force? That others could've potentially died had one of those explosions veered off in the wrong direction!? Oh, wait a second . . . a few civilians almost did, right? Like that one fruit vendor who happened to be quite close to your sorry ass? But then, who am I kidding? It's not as if you'd remember any of the details of that day, right? Of course not.

Gotta hand it to you though, you lucky bastard . . . Because even after all you've done, you won't ever need to deal with the fall out of your actions. No, you just had to dump all of that responsibility on me, right, asshole? But . . . that's not that point I'm trying to make right now so . . . I'm going to vent about that some other time.

(It's a promise I don't intend to break either . . .)

Say, did it ever cross your mind that there could've been another way of escaping your hostage-taker besides using your quirk without a care in the world and screaming your head off like some rabid animal? The answer would be a resounding NO, wouldn't it? Kami, I swear I could bet my second lease on life that you'd do the exact same thing every single bloody time and I wouldn't even have to worry about an early death all thanks to your idiocy and pigheadedness.

Even then (and I can't believe I'm even writing this down right now) did you know your mindless group of bootlickers still hold onto the belief that you're all sorts of intelligent? That you're the only one from this Kami-forsaken school who somehow still had the best chance of getting into that bigshot heroics high school? Like, really now? What sort of magic mushrooms had they been munching on all this time? Because, Bakugou, I think I might need a double dose of what they're on to even begin contemplating you're nothing more than a sea urchin in my eyes. And guess what, brat!? Sea urchins don't have brains. What an apt description, wouldn't you agree?

But, enough about that! Let's go back and discuss that thrice-damned quirk of yours, shall we?

Now, I would like to state right here and now that, for the longest time, I had thought I was incapable of truly hating something or someone. Being around Mum and Icchan made sure of that, you know? Sure, I've disliked many things throughout my life like peanut butter and cheese sandwiches or those pesky shrine tourists who come to Nagano once in a while, but never to the point of abhorring them with all my being. But you, Bakugou, I've gotta congratulate you! You and that quirk of yours earned the privilege of being the sole two things in this world that I hate with a burning passion.

Wanna know why? No? Well tough luck, you mongrel, because I'll go ahead and let you know anyway.

I hate you because you used your quirk on my brother. I hate you because you used it to make Icchan's life a living hell, for the past, what? Eleven odd years? And for what? To make your pathetic ass feel like you're worth something other than your destructive quirk? Because you suspected Icchan was looking down on you that day you fell into the river all because he was concerned of your wellbeing? Well, damn you, Bakugou! Damn you to hell and back, you bastard!

How could you honestly think my brother looked down on you, you idiot!? He saw you as his personal hero, one whom he looked up to more than that Captain America rip-off. Because you weren't just some moving pixels on a computer screen. No. You were there. You were real. You were someone he could hug and laugh with, someone who could and was supposed to be there for him.

All Icchan wanted was to be your friend, dammit! All he wanted was for you to see him as a person, with or without a stupid quirk. All he longed for was for you to treat him like he was worth something! But what did he get in return? Starburst scars that littered his skin, that's what! Ones which Icchan was just able to oh so conveniently hide beneath loose shirts and oversized gakurans. Because despite your assholery, he was still protecting you. He still found something redeemable in you.

But then, physical scars weren't enough for you, ain't that right, Bakugou? No, you decided to break my brother's psyche for almost a decade until he became nothing more than an anxious, mumbling mess who was deathly afraid of receiving any form of physical contact from anyone besides Mum. And just to prove you were more despicable than even I could have ever imagined, you had the gall to tell Icchan to take a swan dive off the roof. For what? The off-chance that he could somehow manifest a quirk? In the next life? How dare you? How dare you suicide-bait my brother, Bakugou Katsuki!?

I hate you so, so much! I hate you and all that you represent! Because of you, because of your actions, my brother is now terrified of me. I hate you because I couldn't hug Icchan anymore without him flinching. I hate you because I couldn't even tell him how much I love him without him looking at me like I've gone insane. I hate you because this was all your fault, you jackass!

And it hurts. It hurts so frickin' much, you bastard! Because I will forever have to live with the fact that I bear your face. Your voice. A part of your name. Because apparently, in another world, in another life, I'd grow up to be someone so horrible that not even death by sludge villain could wash away the transgressions this other me had committed.

And I'm scared, so, so scared that I couldn't undo all the harm you've done. I'm terrified out of my wits because there's now this rift between me and Mum and Icchan which, of course, you just had to bring about into existence didn't you? And . . . I don't know if I will ever fully be able to pick up the broken shards of my reality you unknowingly smashed to pieces.

So, call me heartless, Bakugou Katsuki, but I'm glad you're gone. I'm so, so frickin' glad you're no longer here to torment one of the two remaining people I've ever loved and who loved me back even when I didn't deserve any of it. Good riddance and just deserts, you unworthy piece of trash. You won't be missed.

Sincerely,

Me

Midoriya Katsuki was many things.

He was a homeschooled teen in his final year of high school.

An idealistic hayseed with an admittedly lofty goal.

A proud older brother.

And in his own opinion, a decent enough son.

Oh. Right!

He forgot to mention his sorry-ass was also supposed to be very, very dead, didn't he? Supposed being the operative word here.

Because somehow . . .

He . . . wasn't.

And his mind—his useless, jumbled mind—couldn't comprehend how such a thing was possible.

Because he remembered the thick veil of smoke, the stinging in his eyes, and the burning in his lungs. Even now, the taste of ash still lingered in his mouth.

It tasted of decay.

Of agony.

Of despair.

A part of him—the small, sardonic part that reared its head from time to time—wondered just how much turmeric chai he needed to wash down the bitterness, to drown out the terrified cries of a little boy calling out for help, to block out the ominous groaning of metal.

These memories . . . and they were memories, weren't they? They were real, right? The tiny, trembling hands clutching the front of his shirt, the white-hot pain moments before his world was blotted out by incandescent orange . . . those had all been real, right?

Right?

They had to be real. They just had to be!

Because if they weren't . . . then that would've meant the writhing mass of oobleck now engulfing him somehow was.

No . . .

This wasn't—

It couldn't—

This had to be a nightmare! That's it! A nightmare!

It was the only thing that made any sense. There was . . . there was just no way something straight out of a B grade sci-fi movie could—

Crap!

He couldn't breathe! Kami-sama, he couldn't frickin' breathe and—

"You know brat . . . the pain'll be all over quickly if you just . . . let . . . go . . ."

What the—

What.

The.

Hell!?

Did the . . . thing just—

It did, didn't it? It just talked!

Holy frick—

Had he . . . had he gone bonkers from the lack of oxygen? Because that honestly seemed like a plausible—

Wait—

How long has he been struggling for air since he'd woken up in this sick, twisted dream anyway? Ten seconds? Forty? A minute!?

He . . . he didn't know.

Dammit! He didn't know! He didn't know and it was getting harder to see and—

Crapcrapcrap! He'd read up on this stuff before!

(Fainting some time past the minute mark.

Brain damage by five.

Coma or death by ten.

Possible delirium somewhere in between.)

He . . . he had to do something quick! Nightmare or not, he had to get away from this thing!

Because—

Because he . . . he didn't want to die.

Kami-sama, please . . . not again. Not . . . not a second time.

Not when there was a small chance that this —whatever the heck it was—was somehow real.

With a tenacity shining behind eyes that belied a consciousness teetering along the precipice of oblivion, Katsuki allowed his lids to slowly close shut, letting his whole body go limp in the hopes that the sudden boneless laxity would give the impression he had lost the battle to stay awake.

Ignoring the all too familiar wildfire that was once again spreading throughout his chest, he waited for the reactionary lull in his captor's movements before he started to flail against the restraints of his living prison with everything that he had, fully aware his gambit was using up what meagre supply of oxygen he had left. He knew it was a desperate plan that bordered on foolhardy, had figured it out as soon as the last dregs of his strength began to empty out far too quickly. But despite such a bleak realisation, Katsuki also knew there was no way he was going to give up. No way he could give up.

Because he had a mother and a younger brother waiting for him back home.

Because he had promised them he would be coming back no matter what.

(Because one sunny afternoon in what felt like a lifetime ago, his mum and his brother had their hearts torn apart, and not even the passage of time could erase the feeling of his once-auntie's trembling arms as they wrapped themselves around Izuku and himself like a lifeline.

And when his once-playmate-slash-best-friend had finally understood that Katsuki's parents and Uncle Hisashi were never coming back, Katsuki couldn't forget the weight of Izuku's pudgy face buried against his own aching chest, calling out their names over and over again until his voice had gone raw from overuse.

The remaining members of his family had suffered so much that day, and six year old Katsuki had once thought their world ended along with those they had lost. But the Earth kept on turning, urging all three of them to keep soldiering on in honour of their loved ones. And while it had taken the better part of a decade for their wounds to heal, his family did get better . . . and Katsuki absolutely refused to be the reason they had to go through the same thing twice—)

Eyes snapping open with a renewed sense of resolve, Katsuki knew he had to act now. Clenching his teeth until they felt like they were just short of chipping, he channelled all of his pent up frustration and fear into one full body tug, never letting up his struggle for freedom even as his control over his shaking limbs began to slip.

Like hell he was going to allow some sewage monster to swallow him! He was going home tonight, dammit!

He was going to get checked by an EMT, make a fuss so he could quickly get the clearance to leave the crime scene then take the frickin' Shinkansen to Nagano. And once he's back home, he was going to limp his way towards his mum and Icchan then hug the stuffing out of them. Then, and only then, was he going to bawl his eyes out because, holy crap, traumatic experiences gave him a free pass to ugly cry, okay!?

But despite the inevitable mental breakdown he knew he was bound to have, Katsuki was going to make sure he apologised for worrying his family so much and nearly breaking his promise and for—

Hang on a sec—

Was that . . . was that burnt sugar he could smell?

What the heck!?

Of all the things he could be hallucinating of right now, why the frick would he even begin to think of caramel—?

Oh.

Oh!

He could smell . . .

Which . . . well . . . when he took the next logical step meant he was breathing again . . . or at least, should be able to, right?

But then—

How could he even trust his own oxygen-starved brain right now? For all he knew, this was his body's way of tricking him into taking a gulp of non-existent air . . . one which would undoubtedly lead him to drown in sentient sludge should he choose to heed its—

Whatever conclusion Katsuki's line of thought was about to reach came to a screeching halt when a sudden burst of wind, blistering and acrid, buffeted against his sweat-soaked face.

Dawning realisation quickly took over his reluctance, and after a thunderous heartbeat, Katsuki found himself letting go of that sliver of hesitation he'd been holding on to for so long in favour of tentatively gasping for some much needed air. The fact that he was soon hacking up a lung or two in his haste to stave off the dark shadows creeping into the corner of his eyes didn't bother him as much as he would've expected, because apparently, when faced with the reality that he could finally, finally breathe again, his brain was willing to ignore everything else and focus on the one good thing that has happened to him thus far.

But really, could anyone blame him? For the first time since waking up in this messed up reality, a seed of hope—unbidden, small, and oh so fragile—began to blossom inside Katsuki's heart. It filled him with a heady sort of lightness, a second wind which, against all odds, kept him afloat amidst the ocean of exhaustion threating to drown him. And while experience—did nightmares even count at this point?—told him he really shouldn't allow himself to hope, Katsuki couldn't help but think he might actually come out of this ordeal on a stretcher instead of a closed body bag.

And then he found himself pitching forward.

He was pitching forward and his eyes reflexively screwed shut because Kami-sama, he was now beginning to free-fall towards solid concrete and it was more than likely that he was going to land on his face, and break his nose, and end up dying from a concussion or a caved skull or from pneumothorax because of course he'd get a broken rib or five—based on his luck's current track record, why wouldn't he?—and then—

"The kid's alive! Holy crap guys, the kid's alive!"

"Kid! Hang in there, okay!?"

"Somebody get him away from that monster, please!"

"You idiot brat, get back here! Do you have a death wish!?"

In the span of one of Katsuki's wheezed out breaths, eyes which mere moments ago have been glued shut flew wide open, finally noticing the crowd of nameless faces which must've formed some time during his struggle to free himself.

An ugly feeling of betrayal and hurt raked across his chest and he couldn't help but ask why weren't they doing anything? Why did these people leave him to fend for himself? Did his life really matter so little to them? Oh, who was he kidding? They probably didn't give two hoots about him. After all, who was he to these people? Just a random country bumpkin who had the misfortune of—

"Kacchan!"

His eyes, which were by now prickling from the heat of unshed tears threatening to spill over, soon locked onto a blur of black and green running towards him. Katsuki knew that voice. How could he not when that voice had been a constant presence in his life for almost eighteen years?

I-Icchan?

The heck?

Since when had his younger brother dyed his hair? And out of all the available colours, why did he choose green? Was he going for a head of broccoli aesthetic? Like, what was his brother thinking? Was he even thinking at all? Did Mum even approve of this? How did he even get it done so quickly? Wasn't the bleaching and colouring process done over a period of several visits?

And since when could Icchan even run like an Olympic sprinter? Because last time Katsuki checked, his brother had been wheelchair-bound for the greater portion of his life since his diagnosis and the only time he left the confines of the metal contraption was to make sure his lower limbs didn't waste away.

Better question yet, how was his brother even here in Tokyo? Why wasn't he back home with Mum? Did his brother honestly sneak out to follow him during his university-hunting excursion? Most importantly, where the hell was his surgical mask? Was he trying to get himself killed!?

"G-g-get away from Kacchan, you v-villain!"

Wait, why did Katsuki even bother asking that? Of course he was! Because running directly towards a hostage situation was something decidedly not suicidal, right? Right!?

What the heck was his brother doing? Wasn't he supposed to be the smarter one between the both of them? Where did all his brain cells go then?

Also, villain?

Really, Icchan? Really?

What had his life morphed into, some sort of hero origins narrative? Because if it had, then what role was he supposed even to play in all of this? The damsel in distress? The trusty sidekick in need of saving? A cannon fodder? Heck if he knew at this point!

Now, don't get Katsuki wrong. He would've found his brother's sudden heroic streak admirable and endearing—okay, maybe a bit too extra, not gonna lie—had it been any other time. Any other time except for, well, right now.

Because as it was, Katsuki had the sinking feeling Icchan's brash act of bravery was going be the death of him, his brother or them both . . . in the most literal sense of the phrase. And Katsuki . . . well, he couldn't let that happen, can he? There was no way in hell his brother was going to die for his sake. He was the older brother, dammit! It was his duty to protect Icchan and not the other way around.

"Kacchan! Please h-hold on! I'm a-almost there!"

There had to be a way for both of them to get out of this situation alive, right? Surely, there had to be a—

Katsuki's world turned black just as a resounding crack reverberated inside his head, bouncing between the walls of his skull until he could barely hear Izuku's muffled cries.

Until the ringing in his ears was all that he could hear.

Until he could no longer hear anything at all.

Omake:

In another world, our own, in fact, one fifteen year old Katsuki wakes up in Tokyo Metropolitan Hiroo Hospital after two weeks of being in a coma. He wakes up older (he's apparently eighteen), with a different surname (it's Midoriya) and with memories of another life.

His life, the one where he had a bright future and amazing quirk, where eighty percent of the population had a quirk of some kind, was apparently nothing more a coma-induced dream. He felt so lost because what was he without his quirk? What was he supposed to be if not the top Pro Hero?

He didn't know. Katsuki didn't know and the very thought terrified him.