Prying his tired eyelids open, Izuku's blurry, frayed vision snaps between subjects.
His head throbs with searing pain.
Just blinking hurts.
Waiting for his eyes adjust, Izuku realizes he has no clue where he is - both in regards to his location and his current orientation.
In front of him, what appears to be a white, plastered wall. His hands are firmly planted against the wall, as if bracing himself against it for support.
Wh...What situation would I be in... To pass out against a wall?
Inspecting his hands attachment to the wall, a sudden wave of overwhelming exhaustion envelops his body, striking every one of his nerves.
And when… Did I.. Get so…. Tired…?
Izuku's fingertips remain firmly attached to the plaster as his body gives into the desire to rest, tearing chunks of the popcorn roof with his grip.
Falling towards the ground, unconscious, Izuku's body plummets like a brick, unaware of its own plight.
As he descends, his body is enwrapped and gently swaddled by Eraserhead's restraining bond onto the plastic couch below him.
Placed against the crinkling slip wrapped around its cushions, Izuku's forest-green hair is pressed against the couch's armrest. Slowly drifting to his side, his head falls against the seat of the couch, his mind drifting off into a much needed sleep.
A young Izuku stands determined, his freckled face bruised and scratched, emerald eyes brimming with determination and grit despite the tears bubbling around them. Behind him, another child hiding behind Izuku's small frame, crumpled into a ball, blood trickling from a small scrape on his knee.
Izuku holds a fist out, clutching it close to his body as the child behind him whimpers in pain.
"That's mean, Kacchan!" young Izuku shouts, defiantly standing against his childhood friend, Katsuki.
"What'll you do about it!" His old friend smirks, a beaming smile revealing his signature fangs.
"Anything I can!" Izuku shouts back to Katsuki as the young boy enters a fighting stance.
"You should just give it up," a mustached doctor instructed Izuku. The doctor's dark glasses reflect the sickly fluorescent light of the office, his skin pallid and wrinkled.
Izuku wasn't sure what any of it meant, too young to grasp what made any of this so different.
A joint in his pinkie toe?
But! But that's the little piggy that got to go home!
How naïve.
It never struck him then, the gravity of what it all meant flew over his young mind at the time.
At that time, he was just upset he didn't have All Might's unique quirk.
He had no clue what society had prepared for him.
He still doesn't.
"I'm sorry Izuku! I'm sorry!" His mother sobbed into the green rats-nest he called hair.
What did she do wrong?
Even now, he still holds the same belief.
None of it was her fault, she shouldn't have to chide herself for such.
Just the luck of the draw.
She never denied him, never sold him off as some useless member of society, to her, Izuku was always destined for greatness, quirkless or not.
I was still her son and she's still my mother.
That's all that mattered to Izuku.
"Izuku is quirkless!" A child screams.
Surrounded by mindless kindergarteners, Izuku was the prime choice of meat in this feeding frenzy.
"What does that mean?" Another asks.
"It means he has no quirk! He's useless!" A young Kacchan excitedly adds on.
"Ew!" All the kids screech out as they circle the sobbing Izuku, teachers rushing to break up the mob of children.
From the get-go, huh? How did you end up with someone as kind as Ochaco…
"No!" Eraserhead cruelly hisses at Izuku. His hair fell gently across his face, those crimson eyes peering directly into Izuku's soul.
What's eating you up inside, Eraserhead?
A feeling of spite had bubbled up in Izuku at that time.
A choice to rebel.
Perhaps I still could be a hero…
Held in Eraserhead's hands, Izuku's body lay broken and bloody.
Nothing new.
"Kid?" The hero had asked so vulnerably.
His eyes were filled with a burning pain, unlike anything Izuku had prior seen.
What do you regret?
"Hey! You forgot about me!"
His voice rattled with such defiance.
Carried by his spite, his anger at the world that had rejected him for so long.
Now I get to be the hero.
Standing up to his goliath, Izuku had never felt so… Big.
I could get used to that.
A soft light trickles in, dancing across Izuku's closed eyes.
Slowly, sound breaks into Izuku's world.
Birds chirping.
Water boiling, bubbles rising to the top.
The clanking of a metal spoon against a ceramic teacup.
Creaking unmistakably caused by footsteps against wood.
A monotonous voice slowly cuts into this morning orchestra.
Is that… the news?
Stirring in his slumber, Izuku's eyes are still far too heavy for him to bother opening them.
His every movement invokes dozens of crinkles.
Crinkles like… plastic?
The crinkling sounds remind him of the brute he had just faced down. The snapping of black leather from his movements. Transported momentarily into that alley, Izuku sits perfectly still, mimicking his actions when faced with Balaclava, afraid to move.
The voice becomes clearer, snapping through Izuku's trance and dragging him back into reality. Everything becomes sharper, more focused. Crisp.
"If you have seen him, please call the number on the screen. His mother is anxious for any news," the newscaster drones on.
What lack of emotion he carries.
"Told you he'd already be breaking news," an elderly woman croaks out.
"I can call the number," a raspy yet familiar voice responds.
Wait.
"Perhaps. His body is still far too weak to bring him home safely, he needs to recover for a bit. And that's not even considering the possibilities of a quirk," the woman responds.
Was... Was that about me?
Izuku stirs again, trying to push himself into waking up.
The plastic creaks and cracks from underneath him.
I have a quirk?
Movement.
More cracking.
"Aizawa! He's waking! Get back in here!"
"Is he up?"
"Not sure, he's stirring though. Here, here, use the phone on the wall!"
"Chiyo, you know how I feel about phones…"
"Aizawa! Now is not the time for your government conspiracies! Besides, you used to work for them!"
"That's exactly the issue! Used to!"
Izuku stirs in place again.
Why... am I so... tired?
With a titanic effort, Izuku slides an elbow underneath himself for support and pushes his head onto the arm-rest, brute forcing his eyes to open.
An elderly woman leans over him, investigating his every movement, and…
Is that…
Eraserhead?
His vision momentarily blurs.
A second image crashes into his sight.
Two Eraserheads?
Blinking rapidly, Izuku tries to clear the image before him.
Probably just the morning grog…
With a stinging pain, Izuku opens his eyes.
There's now four.
Four Eraserheads.
His vision is fragmented, organized in a diamond-shaped pattern.
The old woman snaps a finger inches from Izuku's face.
His body jolts back despite his exhaustion, his eyes darting towards her hand, analyzing every twitch of her joints.
His stomach curls.
It's so disorienting.
She reaches forward.
Chills blast up his neck, the hair on his arms standing up on end.
Lunging upwards, Izuku blasts from the couch once again.
Within a moments notice and without his own realization, Izuku clutches to the ceiling, his feet and the palms of his hands resting against the popcorn plaster.
Looking down at the two strangers, his blurred, disorienting vision sends his brain into overdrive.
Eraserhead moves a finger.
Izuku's eyes single out the moving digit.
Ring finger, left hand.
The woman slowly cranes her neck towards the hero.
Every movement of every ligament and tendon becomes clear to Izuku.
His head throbs with a searing pain, like a migraine collided with a concussion.
Wait.
Am I on... Am I on the ceiling?
With a crack in his voice, Izuku calls out, "Wh-What's ha-happening!"
Eraserhead turns towards the elderly woman, "He has a quirk alright. I'm going to get him down now."
"Do it carefully! He doesn't know what he's doing!" She comments, raising a hand to point at Eraserhead in hopes of directing him.
Izuku's eyes focus on her moving hand, the hair across his body stiff and jagged. Even the hair atop his head is standing, sending cold chills across his body.
Eraserhead's hair lifts, his eyes peering at the boy with his familiar shade of crimson.
His hair gently droops back down towards his skin. The cold chills that had been ravaging his body have ceased.
Following this relief, Izuku feels his grip loosen against the ceiling.
Suddenly, he's tumbling towards the ground.
Relief has been replaced with panic.
Eraserhead, in an attempt to soften the landing, snaps the restraining bond to wrap around the hapless teen.
In a sudden and impulsive reaction, Izuku shifts his body through the air, miraculously dodging each band of the bond, his hair once again standing on end. Cold chills transfer across Izuku's body, as if he had been slammed into an ice bath without warning.
Shifting his gaze towards the woman, Eraserhead and her lock eyes, shocked at the recently empowered teen's reaction time.
Continuing his plummet to the ground, and now, having broken Eraserhead's vision, Izuku collides with the wooden floor.
WHAM!
With arms and legs sprawled out, Izuku's body flattens out against the wood.
"Ow."
At least the cold chills have stopped.
The woman approaches the grounded Izuku, "Don't worry young man, we're both here to help. I'm a professional, Aizawa here… also is. We found you on the street last night," she implores to the flattened boy.
"O-Okay… I just… Don't know what my body is doing," Izuku replies, face pressed against magnificently carved hardwood.
Moving to push himself off of the floor, his fingertips stick to the hardwood. Embarrassed and increasingly flustered, after having failed to push himself up once, Izuku budges again, tearing splinters of wood from the ground with his grip.
Pulled to his feet with the momentum of the push, Izuku's eyes can hardly focus.
Attempting to study his fingertips, no discernible result is found. The four separate images of his fingers prevent any proper analysis.
Closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and clenching his fist, Izuku asks a simple question.
"Can I use the restroom?"
Izuku is guided towards a simple, wooden door.
Gently stepping into the tiled room, having opened the door with his elbows, he can feel his toes tearing chunks of fabric off of his socks with every step.
Opening his eyes, the overloading image of four toilets, four showers, four sinks, and four tiled floors shoot through his mind.
Dizzily stepping towards the sink counter, Izuku leans forward, bracing his elbows against marble.
Pushing his head forward, letting his hair fall in front of his face, Izuku attempts to study himself in the mirror.
As he peers at his reflection, his stomach drops.
His emerald green eyes stare back at him, each eye split: Four emerald irises, four pupils. All located within one cornea, arranged in a diamond pattern.
With each flick of his eyes, all four move in unison. If each eye contains four irises, than he has a total of…
Eight.
Which means...
Four separate irises, four separate pupils, four separate retinas.
All located within one eye each.
Together, with both eyes, eight total images.
Holding his hand out, Izuku peers at his digits, the torn splinters of wood still firmly attached to his fingertips.
As a test, he moves his index finger, curling it slowly into his hand.
The upper-most image moves first, followed by the one below it to the right, then the bottom-most image, and finally the left-most.
Processing each image at a different speed, like the movement of a loading circle on a computer.
He closes his eyes.
No wonder everything was so disorienting. My brain can't process each image as it's happening, yet it still alerts me before hand... Like a sixth sense, an extension of sight.
And… my fingers and toes. They stick to things now, I guess.
Opening his eyes again, the four images dance back and forth as he slowly trails his gaze towards his open palms.
Within the lines and folds on his palms, an extremely thin trail of white silk fill the gaps. Trailing up his fingers, closer analysis of his finger tips reveal the same strands.
Across his entire hand, these silk strands fill in every minuscule gap caused by the folds of his skin. From a few inches away, the silk is barely discernible and even at its most visible, along his fingertips, the silk is hard to identify.
Following the path of silk downwards, Izuku's eyes are caught on… Frankly, he isn't sure what to call it.
At the base of his hand, where it attaches to his wrist, two natural ports emerge from both arms.
Small, no more than two centimeters in width, these fleshy ports sit closed against the skin of his wrist, appearing as nothing more than slight holes in his skin.
Touching them invokes no strange or extreme reaction, just the sensation of touch.
Did I… Grow these?
In my sleep?
Curling his middle and ring finger inwards, to touch each port with each respective hands own fingers, an unexpected result.
Blasting from the ports, the same silky substance lining his hands now sticks to the mirror, sill firmly connected to the port on his wrist.
Izuku gulps.
Attempting to move his arm gently, the strand extends slightly, firmly planted against the surface of he mirror.
This feels so weird!
KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sudden sound sends jolts up Izuku's spine, another round of cold chill's just for his own pleasure.
From the shock of the jump, Izuku recoils his left arm, yanking the mirror off of the wall with force and smashing it into himself.
Still intact, the mirror knocks Izuku backwards, sending the teenager onto his back.
"You okay in there?" The elderly woman croaks out.
"Y-Yeah!" Izuku lies.
What the hell is happening?