4:35 a.m.
The room is silent but for the sound of his bushy hair bouncing against his bedsheets. With one foot planted on the floor and his calf flat against the ground, Izuku leaned into the side of his bed with a weary acceptance. He would not be sleeping on the night of his U.A. orientation.
Izuku's arm lay across his stomach as he clutched his opposing ribs, his eyes locked onto the object teetering on the dresser. Hanging off the ledge by the forearm, his prosthesis mocked him. Last night, after he parted ways with Shoto and Sasami, he'd practically flung the offending appendage off him. Izuku put no care into where the prosthesis landed—only that it was off him, and that was that.
His fingers inched their way up his ribs to settle on his puckered nub. He shuddered.
In recent weeks, he'd taken to wearing his prosthetic more. He had a multitude of reasons… convenience, for one. No matter where he went, if he wasn't with Setsuna, he got stares. Hard ones. Judgemental ones. Rude ones. Most he could sweep under the rug—but not all. Not all.
After his loss against Eraserhead… it'd been more appealing. Before, he'd done everything in his power to own his body, to flaunt his disability as something to be proud of. His prosthetic was an afterthought on casual outings, and out-right ignored on important ones. The loss impaired that perspective.
If he was honest, he hated it. Wearing the prosthetic. Faking an arm. He hated the way it made him feel better about himself, the way it quieted the constant nagging in his brain.
Where is your arm? Move it! It itches, you should scratch it!
Each whisper was like a molten-hot staple pressed straight into his cerebrum. His mind hated his asymmetry almost as much as he did—but unlike his subconscious, he didn't throw tantrums over it. Izuku leant his head back into the mattress, nursing his migraine.
He'd always told himself he'd be a symbol. Just because he lost an arm didn't mean he couldn't become a hero, no matter what Vlad King spit out. There was Psychos, the telekinetic heroine—and lest he forget U.A.'s very own Ectoplasm. Sure, they'd been heroes before their injuries, but they'd managed to continue their work regardless. Surely he could manage becoming one if they could continue being one.
Nighteye wanted him to be the Symbol of Peace—which he understood. It was his duty. His truest goal. But that didn't mean he didn't want to be more, not when his injury made him who he was. He needed to be the Symbol of Peace. He wanted to be a symbol for the disabled, an icon for people like him.
Yet… the more he worked and trained and fought, the more he found himself leaning into the duality Voidlimb offered him. He was at his best using two arms rather than one. With two arms, he could combat titanic machines, destroy armies of miniature tanks, and earn enough points to almost rival Eight's exam record.
With one arm, Eraserhead dismantled him—a man with no special strength, no special power.
Ahead, Izuku watched as the prosthetic wavered on the edge, its stable balance slowly eroding.
Izuku flexed his palm, staring at the grooves. Try as he might, he couldn't quite picture the way his old hand's grooves used to look. Just picturing them as a mirror opposite to his current hand brought him a great sense of nausea, and that was enough to know he'd forgotten. The saying "I would know this like the back of my hand" just didn't quite apply to him anymore.
He pursed his lips, thinking it over. Perhaps, had he been a bit younger or less involved in therapy, he would've burst into tears. Now, however… Well, he was still a Midoriya. A small tear trickled out of his eye, but he held back a sob.
Not for the first time, or the tenth, or even the hundredth time, a question crossed his mind.
Would he have won against Eraserhead with two arms?
It was tough to answer. For one, he had his bias to deal with. In his gut, it felt as though he would've stomped the poor man if he wasn't down an arm. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to daydream.
He threw away his cosmetic prosthetic for a High-Functioning one—one with false nerves and steel framing and elite dexterity. One he could punch with, one he could carry groceries with, one he could hold someone close with.
His imagination ran wild, his mind taking him places he both expected and did not. Of course, it came to challenging Eraserhead—but also the bridge, and Tokage's Grocery. He thought of shattering the concrete slab that had crushed Setsuna's leg with a left hook, of blocking the gunner's bullets when he'd invaded her home—his mind even went back to the forest, where he'd punched a tree with the full force of All Might. Had he done that with his steel prosthetic, then all he would've had to do… would be… replace it.
One for All… he doubted he could channel it through a steel limb. And—with all the time he'd spend developing Voidlimb, he couldn't exactly wear it over a serious prosthetic. The only reason it worked in the exam was because the rubber was flexible enough to bend under the whips—but a real, hard, carbon limb would just shatter.
Plus, he doubted a carbon robo-hand would be half as combat-effective as Voidlimb. But… he still relied on it to fight. An extra limb. Not just for fighting, too—he relied on one for everything. It held back his headaches, it held back stares, it kept him feeling comfortable under scrutiny…
At last, as Izuku's head thumped against his mattress one last time, the micro vibrations were enough to startle the delicate balance of his prosthetic. It toppled over—but before it boomed against the ground, waking everyone, Blackwhip saved the day. With a near-silent thwip, it caught the prosthetic and brought it into his lap.
Izuku turned it over in his hand, catching its wear and tear under the moonlight. It'd been borderline crushed under Voidlimb during the exam, but it was a sturdy rubber and bounced back well enough. There was a small gash in the forearm, but it was fine other than that. Even the fingers, the most delicate parts, were fine.
He didn't want to wear it. It would make him feel better. It would get in the way. It would make things easier. Wearing it too long agitated him. Not wearing it made him anxious.
It was a conundrum—but one he needed to have.
Orientation was in—Izuku checked the clock, seeing 5:20 a.m.—three hours.
Tossing aside the rubber limb, he got to his feet and stretched. Snatching some underclothes, he slipped into the hall—past where his uniform hung, ironed and creaseless—and hopped in the shower.
He was quick, but thorough. The water came blazing hot at first, drawing him in, before he gathered the courage for a cold rinse. After so many ice cold showers, he'd managed to accept the freezing shock—but he doubted he'd ever grow accustomed to it.
Hurrying back to his room, he slipped on U.A. 's pants and his favorite pair of sneakers. Now, faced with putting on a shirt, his conundrum confronted him one last time.
Prosthesis or no prosthesis?
Mulling it over for a few seconds, he decided…
He didn't know.
No matter how much he pondered and considered, finding the sweet spot felt impossible at dawn. While on one hand he knew he couldn't hide it for long, the other gave him a comfort that he could not describe, literally.
All he knew for certain, in this moment, was that he wanted to make a good impression on his peers. Izuku wanted to seem confident, powerful—likable, and he knew he was at his best with two arms hanging by his side.
With quick fingers and practiced deftness, he slipped the prosthesis sleeve on and then the arm itself. Over it, he slipped U.A.'s white button-up and silver blazer on, leaving only the loose cloth of his tie.
Grabbing his backpack, he stuffed his tie in his pocket before slipping out of his room, careful to close his door quietly. It was still early in the morning, after all.
Izuku stepped into the living room with great care, avoiding every squeaky board and creaking door—but it was for naught. His mother was already watching the morning news, the static of the television dull in his ears. His heart dropped, seeing her up. Dark rings hung around her eyes as she stood up from the couch, sipping on steaming tea. Her work wasn't for another three hours, and he'd tried to not bother her—
"Izu baby, did you really think I'd miss your first day of school?"
He bit his lip, feeling foolish.
"I-I… No. No, I guess I didn't."
"Arm?" She asked, checking him over as he stepped closer. He nodded.
"For today."
"Alright then, I hope you have a good day—" His mom jerked to stop, her eyes narrowing in on his neck. "—Where is your tie?"
"Uh—well, I can't r-really—"
Her expression softened as he pulled the red cloth from his pocket, offering it with an embarrassed hand. He didn't know how to tie a tie—and even if he did, he doubted he could without the extra arm.
Without a word, she took it and wrapped it around his neck with surprising efficiency. A few seconds later, she tugged on the tie's bottom and it was perfect around his neck.
"Too tight?" She asked, her voice still sleepy. He shook his head and pecked her on the cheek.
"Thanks. I'm gonna go snag Set now."
A small giggle escaped her as he slipped past her.
"Are you sure she's even awake? You're kind've an early riser, you know."
Izuku couldn't help the small smile that sprung to his face at her jest. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his actively-buzzing phone. A glance at it showed 34 messages.
"Are you kidding? She's even more excited than I am. I'll tell you all about school tonight, alright? I'm gonna spend some time with her and Shoto after school."
"Alright, good luck sweetie! Call me if anything happens!"
Izuku told her he would, and he closed the door on his way out.
Those first steps out of the apartment were strange. Alien. But there was a happiness to them he couldn't describe, and he found his muscles begging to move—and who was he to refuse them?
As he jogged from his house to Setsuna's, a thousand questions slipped through his mind. What was school even like? What would he do? Would he make any friends? He had faint memories of elementary school, but the intermediate years had washed away much of his life beforehand. When he thought of school, all he could remember were splashes of blond, explosive pops, and long, droning explanations in long, droning lectures.
He slowed to a stroll once he reached Setsuna's street, her house reminding him of Vlad King's message. What he'd said was true—he'd completed his highschool credits earlier this year. So… what did that mean for him? Would his classes look the same as his peers? Would he have to re-learn these things? That seemed… not daunting, but tedious at the very least. And wasteful.
Much of U.A. was still a mystery to him. He wasn't even sure who his homeroom teacher was—and today was orientation! All he had to go off of was his class designation: 1A.
When he tried to step within the threshold of Tokage Groceries, Danger Sense flickered to life. For a moment, his instincts went into overdrive—but he was quickly relieved as Setsuna flew out of the store foot-first. Almost on autopilot, he plucked her ankle out of the air and almost threw her—before realizing she was in her best skirt, and he didn't want to scuff her uniform.
Before they collided, however, her ankle came off in his hand alongside most of her appendages. Her shoes came to a stop mere inches from his nose. Reconstituting herself quickly, she began hopping around him in a circle, barely maintaining her balance as he kept her ankle close to his chest.
"C'mon man, it was just a joke! Gimme my foot! If I trip and fall and ruin my makeup, I'm going to hurt you!" She said, swatting at his left shoulder before pausing. "You're still wearing your prosthetic?"
Izuku nodded, tossing back her foot. He took a second to watch her face as she slipped her ankle back on, wanting to see her makeup. If he had to give it a rating, he'd put it around a ten—though if he had enough time to properly appreciate it, then perhaps a fifteen.
"Just for today. I wanna ease people into my appearance."
"Oh sure," she replied, leaning into his left shoulder like she did when he wasn't wearing one. "You're just sad that you don't have me around to distract people from it. I think you're just spoiled."
When he didn't deny it, she swatted the back of his head.
"Don't be an idiot, Izu. You've got nothing to hide from anybody. You could probably curl anyone in your class anyways—you've more than made up for the lost dexterity."
Izuku chortled as they began walking to the station, the humor of her compliment not lost on him.
"I don't think biceps can tie a tie. I needed my mom to get this thing done."
"Practice makes perfect, man. I can teach you the technique later."
The walk to the station felt longer than it was in reality—and he appreciated that. Every step with Setsuna was another step in her glow, and her excitement slowly grew on him as they made their way to U.A.
They chatted on the train for a long while, even as it came to a stop. Stepping out of the station and into the streets, their discussions circled around to school.
"What do you think your teachers are gonna be like?" Setsuna asked, leaning into Izuku's shoulder as U.A. 's tallest buildings appeared on the horizon.
"Not sure, though I've got the weirdest feeling… Have they told you about 1Z's teachers?"
"Nope. All I've been told is that they're pretty high-profile. Also, apparently their official titles aren't "teachers" but more like "field-mentors."
"I guess that makes sense. You're already 90% there in the skill department. They're more so polishing diamonds than making them."
She gave him a side-eye, a hue of pink on the tip of her nose.
"We're already diamonds, eh? What happens when 1A tries to make a diamond out of a bigger, pre-existing diamond?"
At that moment, his physical loss frustrated him. He really wanted to return her smack, but the attempt would've been too awkward.
"I doubt much. I'm not staying in that class for long, you know. No offense to 1A, but I don't think my time there will be particularly valuable."
"Ooh…" Setsuna cooed, a soft laugh in her voice. "Am I smelling a hint of arrogance from little Midoriya? Hehe."
As much as he wanted to play-shove her and follow her good mood, he couldn't help the way his spirits dimmed a bit. Arrogance was what got him into this mess. He doubted it was going to get him out. Setsuna seemed to notice how his energy depleted, but before she could comment, they came upon U.A. 's gates.
There was a small, but steady trickle of students filing into campus. Together, they took a few seconds to absorb the sight in silence—watching as some students came in clumps, others in trails, and sometimes by their lonesome. He felt a small tug on his shoulder, and he realized Setsuna's fingers had curled around his prosthetic's. Few people glanced their way, and he was glad for it, given the warmth on his cheeks. Even without the sensation of touch, he was hyper aware of her.
His mind cleared as he leaned into her heat, accepting it as his own. A speck of pride had turned his first semester of U.A. into a mess, but it wasn't his pride's fault alone. His complications came from a million places, and his arrogance might've been the least impactful aspect.
Already, he was down an arm and wearing more expectations on his shoulders than any kid should. There was a fear in his bones that ran deeper than his marrow, but he'd swallowed that fear to be here. Ghosts and memories be damned, he would go to the greatest academy in the country because he deserved it—because he'd earned it. Izuku would not disgrace Eight's legacy, despite how everything, even his exam score, reminded him he wasn't there yet. He'd made his statement in his exam, and now he just needed to reiterate it until they couldn't deny his right anymore.
No matter what, his time here would be a mess. He just had to make the best of it—and share the best with everyone who'd helped him along the way. His mother. Nighteye and Gran. The Todorokis. The Fujimakis. The vestiges. Even the Utsushimis—and the girl holding the rubber tips of his cold hand into the warm palm of her own.
"Yo, is that you, Midoriya!?" A voice called from the gates, and neither green-haired teen had the time to separate before Kirishima barreled into him, bumping his free shoulder. "You made it? I got 1A, how about you?"
"Uh-uhm—yes! Yes, I'm in 1A. Kirishima, this is…"
With an amused glance to Izuku, Setsuna granted Kirishima a bright smile. He smiled back—but then twitched. His eyes shot to her teeth, then Izuku, then trailed down to their half-connected hands.
"You're the one with the sharp teeth! I didn't know he had—"
"Someone as cute as me? Surprises me too, sometimes. Nice teeth, by the way."
"Thanks! Are you gonna be joining us in 1A too, or..?"
"Actually, she'll be heading over to the 1Z building with me." A familiar voice said from behind them, and Izuku's smile grew upon seeing Shoto. Kirishima's eyebrows shot to his forehead as he took a step back, reassessing who he was looking at. Izuku threw out a palm for Shoto to slap before sidestepping to join Kirishima. Breaking away from Setsuna was like prying his hand off livewire—the sting stuck with him, but he had to deal with it.
"Take care you guys. I'll see you tonight."
"For sure! Arcade?" Setsuna said, and Izuku nodded. He turned to Shoto, expecting a nod, but only found a serious gaze leveled on him.
"Uhm..?"
The heterochromatic boy took a step towards him and planted a firm finger in his sternum.
"Don't waste too much time in that class, Izuku. You know my father won't stop giving me shit until you're where you belong."
With that said, he turned heel and walked to the gate, Setsuna not far behind. She waved her hands in a frenzy for as long as she could before the growing crowd swallowed her.
"Pleasure as always!" Izuku called, and then he was alone with Kirishima. Glancing at him, he found the boy sporting the most confused expression he'd ever seen on a person's face.
"I… you? Was he cool, or..?"
Izuku nodded, a little flushed. He supposed Shoto's abrasiveness was an oddity in public schools.
"He's cool. Do you know where the class is?"
Like flipping a switch, Kirishima brightened.
"Yep! Let me lead the way!"
As it turned out, he did not know the way—but that was fine. Izuku was early, and wandering campus a bit put his mind at ease. As they walked around, Izuku kept his eyes peeled for a map. The longer they spent walking around, however, the more intense the hallways became to navigate. Soon, Izuku found himself having to fight his way through crowds, only managing thanks to Kirishima's bullheaded, direct approach.
Clusters of students kept congregating in the most inopportune spots, he noted—though a surprising jolt of nausea tainted his notes. The more Kirishima led him straight through throngs of students, the more Izuku grew uncomfortable.
At last, when Kirishima grabbed his wrist to pull him through one more, Izuku didn't allow himself to be pulled. The strength of their sudden halt almost pulled Kirishima off his feet—but before he could fall, Izuku snatched his wrist in reverse and pulled him aside to a bathroom.
"What's—" Kirishima tried to ask, but trailed off. Shoulder checking the bathroom door, Izuku nearly fell over himself as he turned on the cold rinse of the sink. Dipping his hand under the faucet, he let the cold water gather in his palm before smacking his own face with it. The red-headed boy just watched in silence as he rubbed his face with the cold water.
"S-sorry," Izuku said, turning to Kirishima after a moment. "I… crowds are a bit much for me."
"Bah," Kirishima said, glancing away and waving him off. "Don't apologize. I didn't know you weren't a crowd-guy. It's more manly to admit when you're in over your head than to try and… hey, check it out!"
Shuffling aside, Kirishima slipped past and took a gander at some laminated paper on the wall. Turning to see what the boy was after, Izuku felt a smile break out on his face.
On the wall was a campus map, with their little bathroom highlighted. With a careful finger, Kirishima traced their path to their home room.
"A left, skip two halls, two rights… skip a hall…up the stairs to the second floor… first door on the left! Boom! You good to go, Midoriya?"
Izuku nodded, before double-checking Kirishima's path. It looked correct, but…
Pulling out his phone, he checked the time. 7:50. He blinked, tripled checked the map, and then watched as his phone's clock changed to 7: 51.
A quadruple check confirmed his rapidly growing fear: They were on the opposite side of campus.
Without a second thought, Izuku grabbed Kirishima by his bicep and tore out of the bathroom. His explosive dash garnered deep laughs as Kirishima just barely trailed behind. With a single glance, Izuku redoubled his speed, his embarrassment fueling him upon realizing whose hall they'd wandered into. The members of 3B all laughed as Izuku borderline trampled his seniors in his mad-dash to get to class on time. One familiar laugh echoed louder in his ears than any other.
"Good luck Izuku!" Was all Izuku managed to hear before escaping earshot.
What might've been a fifteen minute stroll turned into a five minute sprint—and by the time Izuku caught sight of the 1A banner, Kirishima was feeling it.
Huffing and puffing, he shook Izuku's steel grip off as he bent over himself, raising a hand in surrender.
"D-dudeh! One… one second, puh-lease… hah…"
Izuku blinked down at him, surprised at how Kirishima seemed to crumple in on himself. His heart was racing a bit, but had he even broken a sweat? Wiping the back of his palm against his forehead told him no, which only left him more confused.
An overhead analogue said they still had a handful of minutes left—thank god—so Izuku took the time to observe the boy he'd spent almost half his morning with.
Kirishima was of medium height with a slim waist, but that didn't stop him from being heavy as a rock. The dude was pure muscle—though Izuku suspected his traps and wings were underdeveloped. Despite his physique, Izuku couldn't help but notice his meager stamina.
"Hey, do you jog?" Izuku asked, studying the way Kirishima slowly stood back to his feet, his breaths seemingly taking more energy out of him as they did replenishing. The boy shook his head with surprising vigor.
"Hell nah! Cardio kills gains, man. Since my quirk is so lame, I have to focus on bulking to get any power at all."
Izuku felt his eyebrows scrunch in response, even as they made their way over to their classroom. That was a kind of down-talk that he didn't appreciate—especially since it was false. From what Izuku saw, Kirishima's quirk was actually quite a treat, so—
Kirishima took no sacred time before barging into 1A, his hesitation and heavy-breathing cast to the wayside. By association, Izuku found himself falling in line with the boy's confident steps even as liquid nitrogen waterboarded his insides.
Stepping within 1A's threshold was like taking your tenth step into the sea—the hardest part of swimming was getting your waist wet. The fear that would've otherwise frozen him instead slammed into him like a storm's waves against a seawall.
Instantly, he felt his heart in his stomach as people glanced at him. He tried to shift, to hide his arm from scrutiny, but found… he didn't need to. A few people nodded at him. Others went back to their phones. Some didn't even acknowledge them. Only a handful gave him a second glance—and none gave his arm a third.
It was all too overwhelming. Kirishima's exuberant entrance did nothing to aid him, in this case, as he crashed into the nearest familiar face—the round-faced brunette, Uraraka.
"Yo, Uraraka! You made it!?" Kirishima asked, and her face lit up upon noticing the two of them. Despite himself, Izuku found his raging insides calming at the sight of her. The last time he'd seen Uraraka, she'd been hauled off from Ground Beta in a stretcher. He made to speak with her, to ask her if she was alright, when his eyes settled on the boy behind her.
Shinso Hitoshi stared up at him with dead eyes, his sleep-bags twice as dark as his mother's this morning. Uraraka was saying something to him, but it fell upon deaf ears as he stepped past her. Without missing a beat, he followed Vlad King's advice.
"Thank you for your help back there. Seriously. You saved them and enabled me. I can't thank you enough." He said, meaning every ounce of it as he bent at the waist. He pinched his left sleeve with his forefinger and thumb, holding it so it didn't hang limp by his side. The bow wasn't incredibly deep, but with the way he suddenly became the room's object of attention, it must've seemed so.
The otherwise dead-to-the-world boy's face flushed as he swatted his bow away, glancing from side to side as whispers broke out.
"What are they talking about?" A pink girl asked, glancing at her droopy-eyed acquaintance. The girl shrugged, her hunch highlighting the act. Beside them, a blonde boy with a black streak crackling through his hair asked the same question. Opposite him, however, sat the bird-headed Tokoyami, and he held no such illusions.
"Midoriya destroyed the Zero Pointer while… I believe his name is Hitoshi? He evacuated Uraraka and another boy out from beneath. It was a real emergency. Surprised you haven't heard about it."
Behind them, a dark haired boy's jaw dropped to the floor.
"For real? I thought that was a rumor…"
Hitoshi scoffed, throwing Izuku a small glare as he righted himself. Izuku returned it with all the sincerity he could, and while Hitoshi's will put up a fight, his guard dropped within seconds. His anger remained, but he directed it at the floor.
"Don't mention that crap, man. It's embarrassing."
"I don't think so. It seemed brave to me—even though I was… preoccupied, I noticed. So, thank you."
Conversations around them fell silent at the exchange, the class's attention on them. Uraraka turned around in her seat and nudged Izuku's waist, nodding at Hitoshi.
"He's right, you know. Y'all literally saved my life. You brushing off his thanks is like saying my life wasn't worth saving, ya feel? I appreciate you, so I'd like you to appreciate me."
Behind them, Kirishima wiped a tear away, muttering about how manly the exchange was.
Izuku nodded in agreement with her, but his ears latched onto something she said.
"Y'all?" He asked, glancing down at her. The girl's natural blush popped like a bubble, expanding to cover her whole face as he raised an eyebrow. "Are you from the country?"
"Wuh?—uhm, ah… n-n—"
"You're from the countryside as well, Uraraka?" A girl from across their column asked, her lengthy, vine-like hair swishing against her uniform. "I thought I'd be the only one. Were you a church goer, perhaps? Maybe—ah, no time for that. I'm Ibara. Shiozaki Ibara."
"Y-y-you… g-guys two?" A strange, strangled voice asked from the opposite column. Izuku glanced at the source and felt his eyes widen—a girl sporting a gorgeous set of horns had spoken up, and he found himself intrigued as she continued to speak. "Eye… m-my language isn't v-very good yet. Eye… came from Texas. Name is Pony Tsunotori.
Izuku found his eyes drawn to the seat behind Pony as a rather large student leaned forward, raising his hand—or rather, his appendage. Before his very eyes, the large boy's hand morphed into a mouth, and from it came an appropriately deep voice.
"Mezou. I too come from the country. I hope we can all be friends."
"Girl." The pink girl said, scooching her chair over to get closer to Pony. For a moment, her sudden involvement confused Izuku, but then he noticed what sprouted from her scalp. "I love your horns! What kind of care do you give them? Mine love a lavender lather, but I don't wash them outright—oh, I'm Mina Ashido, by the way! If you need any help with our language, ask me! Just pay me back in some American stories, capisce?"
Pony nodded very enthusiastically, and began chattering a mile a minute—only half of which Izuku picked up on. Not for lack of comprehension, but for her sheer speed. In Japanese, she tumbled over herself, but she was demonic with her native tongue. Ashido, for her part, just smiled politely and nodded at everything she said.
Izuku glanced back at the people he'd been speaking to just moments prior, and found himself surprised. Hitoshi relaxed the moment the attention left him, but Uraraka? She seemed totally different—there was a glow to her that was missing when they entered, like she felt safer knowing other outsiders were attending with her.
He made to go ask them something, but froze.
Danger Sense tingled, but did not outright activate. One by one, the class around him hushed. Some hadn't spoken in the first place. Others ceased quickly. Then there were others, such as Mina and Pony, who didn't stop chatting until the very last seconds until Danger Sense clicked.
"It took you all of four minutes to silence yourself after the bell. You've wasted 240 seconds, and I have half a mind to expel the whole lot of you for it. Being a hero is punctuality, and if a life was on the line, they'd have died a hundred times over before you kids even thought to save them."
The voice was muffled—half asleep and drier than an autumn leaf—but so familiar as to leave Izuku's whole frame as soft as spring grass. Izuku was slow to turn around, unable to look at the speaker too fast. His movement was so sluggish that he managed to make eye contact with over half the class, and it occurred to him that he was the only one still standing. Even Kirishima had found his seat before Izuku did.
When he, at last, gathered the courage, he faced what he'd been dreading since three a.m.
A thick, robust yellow sleeping bag hugged Eraserhead, and there was an exhaustion to his eyes that exceeded even Hitoshi's. In fact, it was so drained of any energy or empathy that he scarcely recognized the passionate man who'd dismantled him in the colosseum.
They made eye contact, and Izuku almost broke. His stub burned—as did his lower rib, right where this man had broken it.
"...Eraserhead? You're my homeroom teacher?" Izuku asked, and felt a sudden weight settle over his shoulders as the entire class stared at him. Eraserhead, for his part, seemed to take Izuku's ire like he did Izuku's punches: with relative ease.
"In this room, I'm called Mr. Aizawa." He said, his dull eyes staring straight through him. "And, Midoriya, since you're the only one standing, I'll have to ask you to leave."
His words slammed into his gut like a sledgehammer. Izuku gaped, confused, his mouth parting and closing in confusion.
"W-what? What did I—"
"Midoriya." Aizawa said, cutting through his blabber with a scalpel. "You're wasting time. You're not expelled, not yet. Take a uniform, change, and lead everyone to the track and field. I heard on the grapevine that you and Mr. Kirishima got very intimate with the school's layout recently."
A spindly black arm slipped from the yellow cocoon to tap a cardboard box's edge. Glancing behind him, feeling the stares of the class, he shuffled to the box and leaned over it. He blinked.
Reaching in, he retrieved a medium uniform and held it up for the class to see. Like a spell had broken, the rest of the students stood up and copied him. As they filed out of the room, a few called out questions.
"Ribbit. What's going on, Aizawa sir? What happened to orientation?" The girl with a hunch asked, holding a girl's small in her large left hand.
"Orientation is for people whose time isn't valuable. You should treat your time as a precious resource if you want even the slightest chance of making it out alive today, Ms. Asui."
"How are we supposed to get a feel for the school if—"
Eraserhead cut the following string of questions off with a glance, and the class fell silent. Izuku was quick to gather the class and guide them down the hall, his feet wanting to escape Eraserhead as fast as possible.
"Oh, and if you're late, you're suspended!"
At that last call, Izuku redoubled his speed. He walked like at knife-point, the sharp gaze of Eraserhead's gaze never softening on his back. The class was on his heels as he pointed out the girls' and boys' rooms, and soon Izuku found himself staring at the uniform in his hand, still folded. Kirishima tapped him on the shoulder, saying something, but he couldn't hear it over the dull ringing in his ears.
Eraserhead was his teacher. Eraserhead was his teacher.
The mantra repeated in his head, echoing louder and louder with each iteration. This… this is what Nighteye wanted, right? For this wild man to act as his lid? In case One for All went psycho, that man could shut him off in a blink.
He shuddered. Old bruises long healed stung. The chill of Erasure, the freezing cold without One for All… it clung to him. Izuku thought back to the man's blows—his kicks, strikes, knees—and he felt his gut go queasy and nub go itchy.
His eyes bounced from the uniform to the locker before him. Already, some of the boys were stripping, but Izuku just stood frozen. Under his sleeve, the prosthetic sleeve burned like a solar flare. He hadn't worn a compression suit—not only had he not expected to need it, but the exam destroyed his favorite one. If he took his shirt off, everyone would see.
Eraserhead was his homeroom teacher. Everyone was about to see his arm. Setsuna was far away, probably enjoying her new classmates without him. His nerves were so bad he wanted to throw up—or go to the bathroom. …Bathroom.
The bathroom!
Bobbing and weaving between half-naked teens and discarded uniforms, Izuku just managed to slip his way into the locker room's singular toilet unit.
He flung the uniform off in a single movement, slipping on the gym outfit in two. Tugging the short sleeve as low as it would go on the left side, he returned to his peers nursing his elbow. By now, he'd grown used to talking to people with his profile, and he hoped no one would notice the slight discoloration between the rest of his skin and forearm. It was a shame the scar was on the opposite cheek of his prosthetic—if he had it his way, he'd hide both at once.
Kirishima gave him an odd look as he joined the boy at his side, but it was Izuku who was the most surprised between them. In his absence, Hitoshi and Tokoyami had joined Kirishima. They did not speak—but when Izuku arrived, they muttered a greeting. It was strange, walking out of the locker room with such a group—he'd never really had someone to speak with in a locker room before. Sure, there was Togata, and while his personality was big enough for two, even he wasn't more intimidating than three kids Izuku's age.
He tried to hang on the left flank of their little group, but Hitoshi and Tokoyami stood around him more so than Kirishima. Stepping into the hall, he found the three to be more like satellites than a crowd. He wanted to wither under their attention, but he swallowed the fear down. He'd never been in such a situation; not even in Elementary school. People avoided him back then—at best, he would've been the satellite instead of the core.
Slowly, careful to avoid drawing attention, Izuku let go of his faux-elbow. Tokoyami and Kirishima were chatting, and while Hitoshi did little more than stand around, Izuku felt at ease. As they joined the girls in the hall, Uraraka slid into the boys' orbit.
"Is this everyone?" She asked, and the resident red-head nodded.
"Hundo! Now, let's go to the field!" Kirishima said, and pointed off down the hall like a ship's lookout might do. Unfortunately, the land this lookout saw was a trick of the sea. Izuku, without thinking, grabbed the boy's wrist and swiveled him in place, his arm still fully extended, to the correct direction.
Izuku felt his cheeks flush as he garnered a few giggles—even beyond his nearby acquaintances. The pink haired girl, Ashido, alongside the electric blonde doubled over at his jest. He gave them a small smile; he hadn't meant to make anyone laugh, just correct Kirishima, but he supposed it was a bit humorous.
For a moment, he stood still and tried to imprint the moment on his psyche. He used the moment to smother his anxiety, to internalize their laughs.
Without realizing it, the collective of the class began pushing towards Kirishima's pointed finger, and they swept Izuku up with them. It was here Izuku recalled Eraserhead's final threat, and in the slightest green *poof* he began running down the hall, leading the charge.
His mind's eye led them down the hall, and with the whole class on his heels, they made good time. They were down on the track and field within a minute. Arriving first, Izuku could hardly believe what he found—Eraserhead's yellow sleeping bag was zipped up the front and on its side, Eraserhead's face the only visible feature.
For a moment, Izuku panicked, unsure if the man had tripped or had a heart attack or—soft snores met his ears, and he nearly tripped in surprise. The man was sleeping? Here? Now?
…Izuku couldn't help himself. He closed the gap between himself and the sleeping man, looking down on his slumbering features. This wasn't the closest he'd ever been to the man, if he recalled correctly, but this was certainly the easiest way he'd done so. It'd been hell, last time, trying to get close to him—yet now the man slept, defenseless.
Seeing him like this, Izuku almost felt confused. Was this really the same man who beat him senseless a few weeks ago? He seemed so… tired. Dark rings hugged his eyes, his cheeks were paper thin, and by the smell, there was no way he'd showered in at least a week. If he wasn't at U.A., he would've assumed Eraserhead was just a… dead homeless man.
Behind him, Kirishima and Mina caught up first, though the former clearly felt it more. Before he could warn anyone, Mina spoke up.
"So… if he isn't awake, does that mean he gets fired?"
Without missing a beat, the sleeping back bent to a right-angle, Eraserhead already sitting up and half-way out. Izuku stumbled back, erasing the inappropriate distance between them. Aizawa didn't even seem to notice as he glanced at the pink girl.
"No. But if you had let me sleep, then I'd be speaking to the dean about having you switched to General Education."
Mina gaped at him, but before she could squeak out any complaint, he slipped out of his bag. When he got to his feet, Izuku couldn't help but stare. Literally moments ago, he could've sworn the man was dead—but now, with him standing at attention, that was the last thing on his mind.
Aizawa wore baggy clothes, but it couldn't hide the sheer life that clung to his bones. He was fit beyond reason, yet every movement screamed conservation. The man was a walking paradox.
"Hey!" Uraraka said, finally catching up to the rest of them. "You shouldn't be threatening kids like that! It can't be conventional."
"If you came here expecting the conventional, then leave. Now," Eraserhead said, standing to his feet and gesturing out to the field. From his sleeping bag, he procured a single baseball and an odd remote-looking device. Uraraka gave him a confused look as he walked over to a dirt patch in the middle of the field. "Midoriya. What was your best throwing distance in middle school?"
Izuku stepped forward from the crowd before he even realized. A jolt of fear stole his tongue, and his embarrassment impaired him even further.
"I-I didn't… I didn't go? Uh, I-I was homeschooled?"
Eraserhead gave him a blank stare.
"...Okay. Well, as the top scorer on the exam, throw the ball. All your strength—but use your quirk."
All at once, chatter broke out behind him as Eraserhead tossed him the baseball. He almost fumbled the catch, but a finger-lengthed Blackwhip snagged it as it slipped past his hand. While some people muttered about his stance as the best scorer—something he didn't even know—one voice rose above the rest.
"Wait!" A dark-haired boy said from the back of the crowd. Twisting in his seat, Izuku was surprised to see that his bare elbows looked to be some sort of circular joint—almost like tape dispensers. "We can just… use our quirks? Like for real!?"
"Yes, Sero." Eraserhead replied, and Izuku winced at his tone. Sero, however, didn't seem to pick up on it—and neither did Ashido.
"Heck yeah! This is going to be so fun!"
Ice flushed through Izuku's system at the words—though the source was not from Ashido, nor Sero, nor even Todoroki, who he knew to be less than a mile away. No, it came directly from Eraserhead's glare.
"...Fun? Did you say fun, Ms. Ashido?" Eraserhead asked, and the pink girl's celebration snuffed out. Izuku dry swallowed as the man took a half-step forward. "Fun? Is being a hero about having fun, for you? Because it isn't for the people being saved. It isn't for the saviors. So, tell me, Ms. Ashido, who are you to have fun?"
The girl withered at the words, each statement seemingly sucking decades out of her lifespan.
"N-n-no—"
"Being a hero is a nightmare. The era of peace and convenient fun are long over—if you think there's a safety net, you're delusional. All Might is dead, and it will fall to your shoulders alone to live or die at a supervillain's hands" Eraserhead said, pointing to Izuku. "Midoriya. You know this. Show them. Full strength."
Eyes turned to him and he couldn't help the way his arm shot to his faux-elbow, his body twisting away from the crowd. But by turning his prosthetic away from them, he bore it to Eraserhead, and the clash of anxiety in his gut nearly destroyed him.
"Midoriya." Eraserhead repeated, tapping his knuckles against his jaw. "Full. Strength."
Izuku's eyes widened, seeing the gesture. Like a rope harness attached to his back, he felt yanked backwards, his mind pulled into the moments before his own knuckles made a permanent impression on Eraserhead's chin.
He felt himself relax, if only a bit, and squeezed the ball.
Voidlimb expunged from his shoulder, wild and full and robust. It grew over his prosthetic, just like the exam. Taking the baseball in Voidlimb, he willed a bit of Smokescreen to build up within the arm. It only took a few seconds to feel the swelling of pressure around the ball, and it'd only take a few more before—
Crack.
As quick as lightning, Voidlimb dispersed, and the ball fell to the ground. It took everything Izuku had to not crumple under his class's confused stares, and it took even more to not whither under Eraserhead's candescent eyes.
Biting his lip, he crouched down with great care not to disturb his prosthetic. Scooping the baseball up with his fingers, he spun it around. Staring at its faces, he struggled to smother the daggers of nausea sheathed in his gut.
Whispers carried on the wind met his ears, and he felt himself wilter.
"Is he really the highest scorer?"
"What's wrong with his quirk?"
"Why is he taking so long?"
He was glad for the ball. It's… fascinating surface made not meeting Eraserhead's eyes easier.
After a moment, he took a breath. Carefully, very, very carefully, he willed blackwhips to form on his right shoulder. Any more Smokescreen pressure or any Voidlimb and his prosthetic would shatter. That crack nearly gave him a heart attack.
Blackwhip twisted around his arm like a sleeve, concentrating around his hand. Between his palm and the ball, he made an air-tight pocket, which he began to fill with smoke. After a few seconds, when the pain became too great to hold, he simply… let go.
The baseball evaporated in a green explosion, stirring the breeze and blowing aside the grass around him in a circle. He couldn't track the ball's flight, but he knew its arc thanks to the green trail following it. Behind him, the whispers of the class turned to shouts of surprise, and he felt his racing heart ease. Letting Blackwhip retract, he placed a casual hand on his prosthesis and joined them. His hand hurt, but the fear of his prosthetic falling apart was even greater.
Eraserhead stopped tapping on his jaw. He was a stone statue in the middle of the field. Holding out the little remote—a distance tracker, Izuku realized—he showed the class 685.9 meters. If Izuku had been in a better mood, he might've celebrated such a number, but the ice in his gut only strengthened, rather than waned.
His homeroom teacher was staring at him, his face hard. There was no expression on his features, but Izuku imagined that if he tried tapping his face, not even his skin would indent. It was like a stone shell replaced Eraserhead.
When the man's mouth opened, it was like the cracking of granite rather than the parting of lips.
"I see." He said, and Izuku's nausea spread from his gut to his heart. The man's eyes never left Izuku's own, even as he began to address the crowd. "His score was high. From here, each and every one of you will use your quirks to complete a middle-school athletics exam. Your scores will be totalled together and put on a leaderboard. Whoever is at the bottom will be expelled. Perform at your maximum capacity or your positions are forfeit to General Education."
"What!?" The crowd exploded, complaints and shrieks and confused questions piling atop one another—but Izuku couldn't feel any of it. Not a shred of the crowd's sudden bolster affected him, his mind far, far away as his green eyes met red ones.
[x]
"Hmmm…" Shouta muttered, his eyes tracking the current sprinters. The 50 meter dash was a staple of the athletics exam of course… but he'd never cared much for it. Perhaps it was because he almost always lost against his peers for one reason or another. Hizashi could launch himself with his voice. Nemuri could put him to sleep, and even then she could outrun him on her best days. Hell, even Oboro—
He blinked, and the world darkened as a lazy cloud smothered the sun.
This year's batch was passable, by his reckoning. Ms. Asui was incredibly nimble. Mezou was powerful and versatile. Kirishima had the spirit.
Not everyone was quite so… easy, however. The pink Ashido and the tape-boy Sero instantly glued themselves to his radar with their immaturity—and he couldn't help but notice how young Hitoshi fell behind in every exercise.
Still, he had a… good feeling. They weren't exactly special—that wasn't their job. But they were different. In this industry… that could mean big things. Not necessarily good ones; but not bad, either. Not bad.
He shifted, turning his attention to the students still waiting their turn—and winced. His leg nearly gave out under him, but he refused to let it show. The kids were highly impressionable, especially at this stage, and he couldn't allow weakness to shine through.
Wind rustled the hem of his shirt, and with a small regret, he pressed his arm to his side. If his shirt came up even a little bit, his stitches might show. They were still fresh, but if he kept himself still, he could almost pretend they were just bruises.
Then Midoriya stepped up to the plate, and even the piercing ache of his stitches became an afterthought.
He stood there, fidgety, holding onto his prosthetic like a lifeline. His race partner hadn't stepped up yet. Shouta couldn't help but feel bad, seeing the fake arm.
Recalling the moment their eyes first met was as easy as breathing. Meeting Midoriya in U.A.'s Colosseum hadn't been a surprise. Nedzu gave every teacher a rundown on his expectations, and especially picked Shouta for the purpose of failing Midoriya. The kid was, in the rat's own words, "too unpredictable."
So, Shouta failed him. He beat him senseless, criticized his technique, and poked holes in every one of the brat's weaknesses.
His stomach flipped.
He wanted to just forget it. The differences between paper and life. Nedzu's notes on Midoriya were as extensive as they were accurate, but they were not complete. Not by any means. Just by reading his file, one might think him to be a timid, traumatized little thing—yet when he walked into the same arena as Shouta…
Midoriya'd been ready to win. And Shouta crushed that. Of course… Nedzu was always right. He couldn't have just outright refused the man—but after actually meeting the kid, Shouta knew he should've at least offered an alternative.
Still, even following Nedzu's simple plan was tough. Midoriya was not an easy person to subdue, even without his quirk. There was a chasm between their skills, of course, but a smaller one than between himself and the veteran thugs that roamed the midnight streets.
So, seeing the kid stumble over himself as he flickered across the 50 meter mark stung. He clicked his stopwatch—1.05 seconds. Incredibly fast… for a normal person. Yet compared to the entrance exam, it was like watching Midoriya swim through pure molasses.
Why?
It wasn't the first time he'd asked himself that question. Why had Nedzu delegated Midoriya to his class? Why did such a talented soul like Midoriya have to lose an arm? Why would an amputee like him even try so hard to be a hero?
It wasn't like Pyschos, or even Ectoplasm. They'd been heroes long before their tragedies. Their ascensions were awful, terribly hard experiences—and they were starting at the summit.
So, seeing Midoriya drag himself all the way up here from the foothills was incredible. The way he'd moved, back at the Colosseum, the way he held himself and the way he fought all worked together and screamed out passion and determination.
The next event was much the same. Aizawa saw the boy in the rubble of his own creation. He saw the recording, the aftermath, and hell, he'd even heard the actual impact from half a city away. The boy could tear a truck-sized hole through a zero pointer, but when he did the grip test, he barely measured up to Mezou.
When he side-stepped, he held his prosthetic to his chest, and only just managed to scratch Asui's nimble jumps. Every few seconds, he'd speed up—but then as if forgetting the exercise, he'd slow back down. For those brief moments, he'd eclipse anyone Shouta knew personally… but then he dropped to just above average once again.
His long jump began at the starting line and ended just shy of the finish line. That was when it clicked. Midoriya wasn't trying his hardest. Hell, he was barely even putting in real effort.
Long-hardened instincts leapt to the forefront of his mind. Anger came first—then frustration and resentment. How many students with strong talent had he failed for weak wills and pitiful dedication? The answer was too many, and he was sick to his stomach thinking Midoriya would join those ranks—
Then his eyes laid on the boy's prosthetic. They traced the outline of his slumped shoulders, his down-facing chin, and his loose grip. His bangs covered his eyes, hiding the green gemstones within; but Shouta could imagine them, in this moment. Quiet, detached, queasy.
He spent a long time on autopilot, then, cycling through the baseball throws like a robot.
Sero made an impressive toss, setting a precedent for Ms. Ibara and Asui. Each threw the ball in a similar way, to varying results. Others got more creative. Kouda asked a bird to carry it for him. Kirishima threw the ball with a bit more than human force. Aoyama belly-bumped it while activating his navel lazer.
He came out of his reverie as Uraraka took the ball in one hand and gave it a light, underhanded toss. It took a few minutes, but soon the ball was indistinguishable from the sky, and his distance tracker beeped. Infinite.
A few more went afterwards. Tokoyami's Dark Shadow tossed the ball a fair distance. Satou downed half a bag of sugar and tossed it out of sight. Reiko flung it with her psychic powers…
Hitoshi made a valiant attempt, but was ultimately a pitiful shadow of Satou's toss.
He was the last on Aizawa's list, and already the class was gathering around him for his announcement… but it didn't feel right. Sure, everyone had gotten a chance to throw the ball, but there was one person who hadn't been able to give it their all.
Midoriya was in the back of the crowd, his eyes still covered. Whatever he was looking at, it must've been interesting, because no matter how he attempted to gain the boy's attention, his eyes were glued to the grass.
Opening his phone, he found the application that'd bring the robots out with the scoreboard. His thumb hovered over it, but when he tried to press it, he couldn't. Like a thin layer of raw cotton, there was an ever-so-gentle resistance between his finger and phone.
Shouta gnawed on the inside of his cheek, feeling the confusion and impatience well up in the class.
He knew, statistically, that Midoriya was in a comfortable fourth place. However, he knew, empathetically, that Midoriya was anything but comfortable. Instead of that brave, passionate boy in the arena, this Midoriya was hiding. That much was obvious.
That alone was upsetting—but what made everything worse was the knowledge that it was his fault. Even on Nedzu's orders, he'd still been the one to place his hand on Midoriya and push him from the summit of 1Z. Worse than that, it was clear to him that for Midoriya, his hand had never retracted.
His nature as an amputee was scary. Despite being an able-bodied adult, Shouta could empathize with the kid. Erasure wasn't exactly fire-breath, now was it? It was something meant to take away, not add—and that was different. He knew that pressure, that fear of being different, of being lesser, and had felt it in his own way. He was just a human, after all, fighting gods and monsters.
Shouta never wanted a student of his to feel that pressure—and by god, he didn't want them to have it worse than him.
He took a step forward, and the crowd parted around him. Midoriya was too busy staring at the floor, however, and didn't notice him until Shouta's shoes were hand-lengths from his own.
"I'm still calculating the class's scores. Take a breather, kids. Water and bathrooms are on your immediate left in the nearest building." Shouta said, and when the class froze, not moving, he gave them all a sweeping glare. "Call it a bathroom break. Hurry. Up."
A few still lingered—Kirishima, Tokoyami, Uraraka, and Hitoshi, but then Midoriya looked up into Aizawa's eyes, saw something, and then nodded their way.
Soon, they were alone. He didn't say anything for a moment, instead allowing Midoriya his own chance to speak. Midoriya seemed reluctant, at first, but once he realized Shouta was waiting on him, his eyes widened and blinked aside.
"You're disappointed." Midoriya whispered, his chin tilting back down. His tone sounded defeated, then bitter. "You're mad or something. Well? Are you gonna fail me here too? Maybe break another rib? Or just beat on me in general?"
Shouta stared at the boy for a long, long time. He looked at the boy, through the boy, all around the boy, and into the boy—he remembered the boy's master, a glorified fortune teller, and felt himself tap into that role. He imagined a world where this Midoriya continued to exist, and the one in the Colosseum died. It was bleak.
In the Colosseum, Midoriya was the best candidate, bar none. He had spirit, combat training, and a wild quirk he put to exceptional use—but none of that made up for the arm. Not to him. Nor, it seems, did it make up for the obvious psychological damage.
In that regard, Aizawa agreed with Nedzu—it'd be best to place Midoriya here until an assessment on his character was complete. But that didn't take away from Nedzu's ignorant approach—really, the rat shouldn't have let him compete in the first place, and yet he did, and now Midoriya's confidence was as thin in the air as helium.
Now, the consequences of that were shining through. Midoriya fought Shouta with all his limbs, but now he fought against himself with one arm and a lie. Now, up close and personal, Shouta could see how the arm hung at the boy's side, limp and crooked and torn, and he came to understand what'd stopped his first magnificent attempt at the ball throw.
He didn't want to break his prosthesis. He didn't want the class to know him so truly. He didn't want them to glimpse his breaks, and it was driving him backwards. It was unmaking him, deepening the cracks. This was far from the first time Shouta'd seen something like this… but it was the worst.
Just because he was damaged, however, didn't mean he was broken… Right now, more than anything, Shouta wished he could trade his arm for the boy's. He wanted to see Midoriya at his best, and there was no doubt in his mind that the boy might be a whole other monster with a second hand…
But that didn't mean the boy couldn't be something better. His journey to this point must've been arduous and long, he was sure, but it was just another beginning all the same. He had room to grow.
That was, if he could let it go.
"Actually…" Shouta said, drawing it out as he considered the boy's rhetorical question. "Yes, I think I'd like that."
Midoriya jerked in surprise, his bright eyes flashing upwards as he backstepped.
"W-what? You want to fight?" The—"
"Yeah, I think I do."
Midoriya's mouth opened and closed, soundless for a moment. When he found his voice, it came out strangled and confused.
"Where the heck is this coming from? Didn't you hate—"
"The Colosseum was a commercial showboating nightmare. Being a part of it was embarrassing. I think a spar would be nice, however."
"So… huh?" Midoriya asked, taking another step back. His hand shot to his bad elbow, but Shouta wasn't sure he even noticed. "You mean… like right now? I—uhm, I'm not so—"
"No." Shouta said, cutting him off. "Not now. Later, when you're at your best. As you are… it would just be a repeat."
"W-well hey, hold on! If we tried again now, I think'd go a lot differently!"
Shouta raised an eyebrow. Midoriya leaned into him, now, his eyes wide. Off in the distance, he could hear the chatter of the returning class.
"I'm not so sure. You still seem winded after the entrance exam last week—you're sluggish today. Inappropriately so. I'd have to allow you time to rest, then; and let's not forget about giving you time to improve your footwork and timing. Trust me, kid, I haven't forgotten your battle tempo. It needs serious review. That is, if you aren't expelled for being in last place."
Midoriya spluttered at that.
"W-wait, I'm not in last place, am I? I thought I at least performed halfway decently?"
"By what metric? Do you think this test only measures statistics? Is that all heroism is to you? Performing half-way decently? Saving at least half the people you could?"
Midoriya looked like he was punched in the gut—but Shouta knew the alternative was more painful.
"N-no? No! I—"
"Then why are you half-assing it? Is it because you only have half the dexterity? Half the wingspan? What makes it acceptable for you to pace yourself when everyone else is going Plus Ultra? Peer Pressure? Social Anxiety?"
"It's you!" He says, and Shouta gets a taste of his own medicine. It's bitter, but he swallows it down as it comes. "You… you stole my spot in 1Z from me! First you take my quirk, then m-my confidence, and then my spot in the class I needed to be in! They don't know—but you do! I… I only have the one arm. It's all I got. The others wouldn't understand. I figured you would, since you started this, but…"
The green-haired boy turned aside, looking away.
Shouta was silent for a moment. Their time was running short, and his point was floundering, but he had to squeeze this out.
"The girl. The green-haired one in 1Z. She vouched for you, in the arena. She told everyone to not underestimate amputees—and I took her advice."
Midoriya gave him a side eye.
"...What?"
"I heard her, in the waiting lounge. There was a live stream sent straight to the lounge—but I didn't need it. She said it loud enough for me to hear through the hall. So I took her advice, and treated you seriously. It's not logical for me to hold back just because I have a left hand and you don't. In this world, being different can be a curse, it's true. But more often than not, those curses can be overcome with hard work. Your… no… Our problem, then, is that you're falling behind to hide your insecurity. Be honest with me, Midoriya. You didn't think it was fair when you couldn't use your quirk in the arena, right?"
Midoriya shook his head, his face otherwise blank.
"Then why have you been holding back now that you can? It's… it's illogical. I think, personally, after seeing you in action, that the only person who can put you down for good is yourself—and only if you let that be the case."
Midoriya's lips parted, something half-way out, when the rest of class reached them.
"Mr. Aizawa?" Ms. Asui asked, stepping up to them. There was a nervous hitch to her otherwise monotone voice, and her hands fumbled together with nothing else to do. "Have you finished scoring? Can we see it?"
Shouta looked between the green-haired girl and the green-haired boy. His eyes lingered on Midoriya as he tried to ask a silent question, but he was long gone. His eyes were deep and empty, and his grip was back on his elbow—though notably tighter than before. Allowing himself a microscopic sigh, he turned to Asui and nodded.
"Alright. Let's bring out the board."
[x]
It was all he could do—all he could be, in this moment. He squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed. Izuku was his grip. The strength in his fingers constituted his everything—his body, mind, and spirit.
He'd forgotten.
No matter how tight he gripped his prosthesis, however… The pain never came—and as Eraserhead's words hit him over the head again and again, he came to understand it never would. His prosthesis wasn't real. It never would be. These rubber fingers would never move, never feel, never hold.
It wasn't real. It couldn't protect him. It wasn't a replacement—he'd never replace it. The old hand—the one whose grooves were lost to time and memory—was gone. How could he have forgotten? All his prosthesis had done for him in recent days was avert his eyes from a greater issue; all it did was help him pretend. All it did was hold him back.
He hadn't put even a fraction of his efforts into the physical exam. He'd been too scared… too scared to show anyone anything but his best face. And in the process, he'd shown a worse face than any he'd worn for many a year.
His eyes, far away on the horizon, settled downwards. He thought back to Dr. Fujimaki's recommendation, all those years ago. The prosthetic he wore wasn't meant to replace his arm, or make him truly forget—it was to ease his mind. To lessen the burden of asymmetry.
Yet, now, looking at the bloodless tear in his arm, all he could feel was nausea. This arm… it had long since ceased helping his burden. He was at his best with two arms, yes… but…
It was like his brain flicked a switch, and any lingering comforts faded away. A piercing pain stabbed into his skull, and the pain of his sudden realization became a very physical one. He staggered in place, dropping to a kneel with a gasp. Beside him, he was absently aware of Kirishima's concerned yelp, but his attention was far more narrow than the red-head.
His grip, already too tight, strengthened.
That searing-hot pain in his brain began to return as every nerve in his shoulder screamed, and it occurred to him that he wanted a real arm. Not a fake one—not a rubber sleeve, not Voidlimb, not a robotic prosthetic. He wanted a real, flesh and blood hand—one he could use, could love, could feel—not one that whispered and lied and itched like one, but held none of the benefits. Even now, he could feel where his fingertips might've been, but it was just air, and his brain burned for it.
A hand wrapped around his wrist and tried to pry it off his prosthetic.
"H-hey, man, it's alright, don't hurt… yourself? Hey, hey!" Someone said, but the cotton and blood in his ears muffled their words as he made his decision.
Eraserhead said that the score wasn't based exclusively on stats… and it took Izuku no more than a second to deduce its true meaning. Each test represented a second score, overlaid on the first—from one to twenty. As U.A. students, how far were they willing to take Plus Ultra? Izuku hadn't known, this morning, but now…
With the whole strength of his real arm—from his shoulder, to his bicep, even down to his fingers—he squeezed. He didn't have the symmetrical strength of All Might the nor the two handed-skill of Eraserhead, but he did have one mean-ass arm.
His fingernails punctured straight into the gash from the exam, through the rubber and all the way to the plastic interior—and cracked it. A few sickened gasps rang out around him as his prosthetic's forearm shattered. He'd have to get another one—but he'd never wear this one again, and never at school. A few of his fingernails chipped along the edges, but they were long and could be cut short without repercussions. The hand on his wrist went slack, and pulled away.
When he stood, the class was staring—but the weight of their stares paled in comparison to Eraserhead's—or rather, Aizawa's—whose eyes seemed wider and rounder than he ever thought possible. Beside him, the student's scoreboard stood tall, the placements still shadowed in silhouette.
Not a single person's voice reached him as he stepped forward. With a single tug, the broken arm fell from his shoulders, kicking up dust where it landed.
He pointed at the man with a single remaining arm.
"I accept your challenge… Mr. Aizawa. I want a rematch."
Izuku couldn't know who smiled at him after that. The grin stretched from ear to ear, but there was a shadowed, gray element to it—wild passion etched into stone—and he couldn't tell if it came from Aizawa or Eraserhead. Little crow's feet and dark lids squeezed his crimson eyes, and the person with the name Aizawa retrieved a baseball from his back pocket.
"And what if you lose again, Midoriya? You know what happened last we fought. I'd just erase your quirk the moment you stepped into view, and then I'd have the displeasure of putting you down again. I saw your exam, Midoriya, and we both know you're good with your quirk, but you're at your best with two arms—which you can only have at my mercy."
Izuku took a deep, long inhale. Pivoting a single heel, he placed the ball of his foot on his fallen prosthesis and stepped down. Another decisive crack. He didn't need to look down to know it was irreparable—no turning back, now.
"You may be right, sir. I may be at my best with two arms, and you may win if we fight again… but that doesn't mean I can't try my hardest with the one, does it? It doesn't mean I can't become better than what I am now, and it damn sure doesn't mean I can't become better than you, given enough practice. We can fight again, and I might lose… but then we can fight a third time. And then a fourth. And then a fifth. I'll keep fighting until I win. No more hiding. So! Let me show you my quirk's full strength, and let me surpass you with my skill."
The stone-carved smile seemed to crack, then—and like a matryoshka doll, a smaller, less crazed smile emerged beneath. With a single nod, Aizawa threw him the baseball with an underhanded toss.
Izuku snapped it out of the air with his right hand.
Turning it over in his hand, he thought back to years ago. Gran Torino and his baseball launcher, the Course, the trials and tribulations of learning Smokescreen—and then the headaches and Blackwhip and the bridge and Mirio and everything he'd ever learned. It'd all began with a baseball.
Voidlimb grew from his shoulder wordlessly as he tossed the ball into his opposing palm. It made a dull thud, and his Blackwhip-fingers closed over the ball like a normal hand might a marble. He flared his nostrils.
Smokescreen poured out of him by the gallon, filling the field with coughs and curses as his smoke encompassed his peers and Eraserhead alike. Even as it still spilled out of him, he closed his flesh fist, and it all began to flow within the gaps in Voidlimb.
He was a bit winded from all the testing; his throat was sore and his shoulder a bit numb, but he funneled what remained into Voidlimb. He couldn't quite match what he'd accomplished in the entrance exam—that wasn't practical, here, where he hadn't abandoned metric tons of his smoke. He'd need just as much, if not more time to form the same creation—but he could make a good attempt.
The cloud surrounding everyone collapsed inwards, twisting into an almost tornado-like phenomenon as he channeled the whole weight of Smokescreen into Voidlimb like a lightning rod. After a half minute, Voidlimb was bursting with compressed smoke. A thin sheen of mist seemed to evaporate off where Izuku could not pressurize any further.
It wasn't half a dozen city blocks worth of smoke… but it would be enough.
"Cover your ears!" He yelled.
Whereas the first time his arm acted like the spine of a slingshot, Voidlimb worked as the true barrel of a cannon. Six feet of pure cylindrical fortitude shifted and morphed as more and more Blackwhips shot from his back, digging into the ground.
There was no traditional trigger or fuse. Only his willpower held it together, and only now was he satisfied. With a single shout, he let it loose.
His ears popped as he shot the ball nearly straight into the air—and the only reason his shoulder didn't break was thanks to the suspension he'd created with the rest of Blackwhip. Smoke enveloped him, no longer under his careful control—but after the stress of such a technique, he couldn't find it within himself to disperse it manually.
He was in his own little bubble for a good ten seconds before someone breached it, the glow of his score in hand.
Eraserhead's…no. Mr. Aizawa's face had lost the crazed smile, but his eyes held the energy of a solar panel launched into the sun.
He watched as the numbers ticked up on the device by the digit, rather than by sequence.
80 became 800 became 8000 in a blink, and then the 8 twisted on itself and the whole screen became the infinity symbol.
"Orbit. Welcome to 1A—for however long you'll be here. Pray your stunt hasn't garnered too much attention."
Izuku's breathing was harsh from Smokescreen's abuse, but he couldn't help but laugh.
"I think… on that end… I'm screwed."
[x]
AN: And there we have it. I don't think there's much to change in the earlier chapters, really, just this one. I kinda liked the spice of the old one, but this one makes Aizawa look a lot better I think. I softened a lot of his aggression, I made the core confrontation private, and I let it more be a "holding out an olive branch" type of thing rather than him just being mean until it clicks for Izuku.
Thanks to 23rsmith2, rolandrichardson1, and Drax152.
(In the original chapter's aftermath, Kirishima and Co. all got all their panties in a twist at Aizawa btw. They all got detention, and it was a major plotpoint for like five future chapters. Almost half the time of this rewrite was dedicated to fixing all the chapters I've written for the incoming month lol.)
Review!