"Mmm…" Izuku hummed, enjoying the warmth lapping at his heels. The loving heat came and went, but while it was there, he was happy. It was the kind that didn't leave a chill in its absence. When it ebbed, he was content, when it flowed, he thrived.
There it was again. It rode in on a chariot of static, followed by its entourage of dull, distant roars. He giggled when the warmth surged up again, this time reaching as far as his armpits. That'd been the furthest they'd reached.
His cheek turned aside, content. Taking in a big, slow breath, Izuku tried to inhale the whole moment—only for, all at once, to realize what was happening. Choking on a huff of sand, he tried standing, but found his movements sluggish and soft—as though pillows replaced his muscles. It took him several cycles of warmth to fully sit up.
Thumbing away the sand coating his cheek, he blinked away his sleepiness.
The warmth came again, and he realized it was water. He was laying on the very bottom of a beach, with each warm, relaxing wave soaking his pants. His clothes were mere rags—torn around the edges, worn thin at the joints. It felt as though he'd washed up on shore. Judging by the water's tropical warmth, he might've been in Malaysia, or the Caribbean.
Looking left to right contextualized none of it. The beach went for as far as he could see, and probably beyond. Perhaps it wrapped around the whole globe, and if he walked it for a hundred years, he'd return upon this very spot. Hard to say.
He ultimately decided, then, to not stand up. If walking for a hundred years meant going nowhere, then he might as well sit and enjoy the waves. It was odd, however. He felt like he'd been in the middle of something important.
Something urged him to relax, to lay back down. With the water coming to meet his waist, the prospect sounded quite appealing. The water was relaxing—warm and familiar, like his bath at home. As he tried to comply, however, something poked into his butt. Reaching into his back left pocket, Izuku felt something odd. They had an indistinct, almost non-existent texture, as if so glossy and smooth that his soft fingers just slid right over them. There was no grip to be had—but he felt a few general shapes. Grabbing them all, he pulled them out to inspect.
Before he even opened his fist, he sat in stunned silence. The space between his fingers was bright red, like he was holding a flashlight against his palm. In awe, he opened them.
Momentarily blind, it took him a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. When they finally did, however, he was confused. The moment he was able to look upon them, their luster snuffed out—like candles in a rainstorm.
In his left hand, he held four marbles. Three still glowed, if softly, and the fourth had an obvious internal light, but emitted none. It casted a shadow opposite from where the other three sat.
Still, even as dull as they now were, he felt certain of something. They were the brightest thing in this world—or, at least, his brightest possessions.
There was one thing, he noticed, that was brighter. He'd dismissed it, because it'd seemed so irrelevant, but perhaps a second look was worth it.
Dragging his eyes from his left hand, he looked upon the infinite, midnight ocean before him. With diminishing speed, his eyes met the horizon and… stopped. He could see it, far above the horizon, but actually forcing himself to look upwards proved difficult.
There was nothing. Izuku lost himself trying, nausea weakening his resolve. Above the midnight ocean was an endless, black void. There was no sky—no clouds, no moon, no distant twinkling planets. Even if he could look up, there would be nothing to see. So, instead of trying, he looked down.
In this world without stars, what he held in his palm felt like contraband. Precious jewels, never to be shared. Four little stars, fallen to earth, kept safe in his left hand.
His…
…Left hand.
Sand crunched behind him. Diagoro Banjo's thick, heavy boots kicked up little clouds as he approached. It was odd, Izuku decided, seeing his full silhouette. Typically, he manifested like a genie, his waist a wispy cloud.
The large man sat beside and behind him, close enough to touch but too far for the waves.
"How ya holding up, kid?" He asked, after settling down. His voice rolled off the cusp of a distant, crashing wave. They were in tune.
"I'm alright, I guess," Izuku said, and was weirdly surprised to feel honest. How did that make sense? He was a hero. Lying wasn't in his arsenal. Then, it hit him. His throat didn't hurt, here, wherever they were. "Better than alright, actually. I feel phenomenal."
Five offered him a grim smile. His massive, square chin would've been off putting if not for his wide lips. His grin stretched from cheek to cheek, but Izuku failed to see any real amusement.
"That's good. How do you like One for All? She's a real pearl, isn't she?" Five said, looking over Izuku's shoulder and into the great beyond.
"One for… All? She?" Izuku asked, following his gaze. Oh. The ocean. That's where they were. This was the void of One for All.
Everything suddenly took on a new, yet nostalgic look. He hadn't been here in years… but at the same time, he'd never been here. It'd been a castle, floating in a void, not a…
He glanced behind them, not sure what to expect. They were on a coast, so perhaps land? It was warm, so a tropical jungle?
It was dunes. As endless as the ocean. He was between two infinities.
He scooped up a little sand, and let it fall between his fingers. It was coarse, Izuku decided. Rough against his fingers.
"What's this?"
Five blinked, surprised at the question. He opened his mouth, a reply on his lips, but didn't answer. He blinked again.
"I actually don't know… exactly. It wasn't always here," he said, before looking straight up. "Before you, we only somewhat existed. We were a twinkle in Eight's eye, I suppose, though that makes him sound pregnant. He was not pregnant with us."
Five was looking at something, Izuku realized. He failed to follow his gaze.
"Is there something up there?" He asked, when Five said nothing else.
"Yeah, there is," he replied, but did not elaborate. Instead, he leaned forward to peer at what Izuku held. Suddenly flustered, he closed his hands and turned. Five snorted. "The hell are you getting shy over my quirk for?"
Embarrassed by his instinct, Izuku forced himself to relax. It was hard, but he slowly unfurled his fingers again. There was something fundamentally wrong with showing another person his marbles. A nearby wave crashed into the beach with more fervor than the others. The very world bucked at the idea of revealing his secrets.
One of the marbles was shining brighter than the others.
Surprised, Izuku leaned down to inspect the phenomenon, only to realize that it wasn't just bright. It was like how someone might light a paper from behind to read its other side. He could see… darkness, green vines, and sparks of energy. A living thing. War and struggle and contest lay within the circumference of a small sphere.
Blackwhip.
The other two bright marbles were the same. Danger Sense and Smokescreen. They lived in a microscopic universe, constituted by and housing their base essences. After decades and centuries soaking in this ocean, they were vibrant.
His fourth marble, however, was dull. There was something within, but it was blanketed, smothered.
"These are your quirks. Yours and Six's and Four's," Izuku said.
"Yes," Five said. "In order, Danger Sense, Blackwhip, Smokescreen, and —."
"—?" Izuku repeated, confused.
"—." Five confirmed. They were saying a word—a name—but Izuku couldn't confirm what. "These are the powers you've mastered."
Izuku didn't know exactly how he got here, but he did know it hadn't been… simple. He couldn't help but laugh. It came faster and lighter than it had in recent memory. It was so easy to laugh, in this beach world.
"Mastered," Izuku said, laughing. "You think I've mastered these powers?"
Five didn't answer immediately. Instead, he smoothed out a section of sand and doodled a few circles with his sausage-like pointer finger. One by one, he plunged his finger into each circle.
"Your understanding of each quirk is exceptional. There are no aspects beyond your conception. You know how each quirk has mutated your biology. You know how to manipulate each base power, and you understand each's weaknesses, strengths, and applications. You can manipulate Smokescreen, regulate Danger Sense, and cooperate with Blackwhip. You see how they fit the greater puzzle. Your use of — might even be your greatest of all."
A wave—larger than the others—crashed into the beach, soaking Izuku's shirt and washing away Five's drawn circles. When it retreated back to sea, however, only Izuku was wet. Five wasn't even dripping.
One for All's waters were a little too comforting, Izuku decided. Suspiciously so. As comforting as peeing your pants. He shimmied back a few feet, to where the waves only just barely might touch him.
"I don't even know what — is," Izuku muttered, wringing out his shirt's hem. "And just because I can use them doesn't mean I have any mastery. I have a long way to go."
"Of course you've mastered them. Mastery isn't having the ultimate technical skill, it's having a perfect understanding of something's function. Great men and women have helped you, yes. Nighteye, Torino, Endeavor and Sasami all have done you a great service in opening your eyes to the possibilities. But, your actual improvement has been your own. You no longer need them to surpass us, and that is something wonderful and rare. In my opinion, true mastery is knowing how to improve, without being told."
Another wave rolled up the coast, warming Izuku's ankles. This time, however, instead of relaxing him, the waves were a little off. Too warm. Less welcoming.
"I…"
Images returned to him. The outrage of battle, the lust for freedom—the will of Blackwhip devouring and conquering his own. Pain in his throat, vision swimming, head hurting. Flying and cracking his skull against stone. Passing out. Waking up in this… lightless world. He sprawled backwards, letting both arms—what a wonder that was—rub against the itchy sand. It was awful, but better than the rapidly distorting sensation of One for All's ocean waves.
"You're wrong about me, Banjo," Izuku said, sighing. He turned his other cheek into the sand, staring across the endless beach. "I'm no master. Maybe I was, once, for Smokescreen… but I'm crippled. En's gift is wasted on me, now. Let's not even get started on your power… I almost hurt a lot of people."
"You also almost hurt a lot of people with Smokescreen, once. You have Katsuki to thank for saving you then, too, though at the cost of bumping your head. Mixed bag with that one."
Izuku groaned and shimmied deeper into the sand. It parted for him like puddy, and he found himself a few inches deeper.
"I still hate myself for that. Not a week goes by that it doesn't cross my mind."
"Good, then remember what you did out there today. Make sure it doesn't happen again."
He shimmied again. The beach behaved like no sand he'd ever seen. Izuku was partially buried already. Not quite like sinking into quicksand, but not buried in a coastal beach, either. There was a weird sort of solidarity between them, that way. They didn't truly fit in.
"I'm less than a lousy wielder, I'm the wrong one. I'll never be able to control Blackwhip, and I'll never be able to use Smokescreen the same again."
He shimmied again, and realized he'd buried himself up to his shoulders. The thought was frightening, but oddly enough, reassuring. It felt right to be one with the beach. Maybe he could just stay here, and never hurt someone else ever again.
Five didn't even spare him a glance. He seemed to be in deep thought.
"I think I've figured out what these dunes are," he said, after a pregnant pause. "I've been exploring them, you know, since they arrived. It's weird to have ground under my feet. In ye' olden days, I'd just kinda float."
Izuku stopped shimmying, intrigued.
"What are they?"
"You. The worst of you, at least."
Izuku suddenly sank another inch. He hadn't intended to.
"Huh?"
"It's an accumulation of spiritual grime, I suppose. Maybe it's always been here, now that I think about it, but just as a tiny moon. So insignificant I'd never noticed. But it's grown, and now there's no end in sight."
Izuku sank another inch, and his chest hurt. Was that compression pains, or honest fear? The sensations were identical. Five didn't turn to check on him, however.
"Fear, regret, isolation, anxiety, hopelessness… Everyone carries them. Yours have just ballooned outwards until they've matched, or maybe even exceeded, One for All's influence here. You're straddling the line, even now, between its power and its consequences."
Izuku sank to his chin, but still found the strength to respond somewhere.
"You admit, then, that my flaws outweigh One for All's value."
They left his mouth wrong. The words sounded right in his head, but in this lightless world where the only sound was the ocean and their conversation, they came out like a broken gong. Five straightened his shoulders as he surveyed the horizon.
"Is that what you really believe? I know Sashimi hurt you, and you believe you hurt Sashimi, but did he truly get to you? Do you really think One for All hasn't been worth it?"
Maybe. Did he? Life certainly made it easy to believe so.
"It took my arm, and helped me hurt people."
"It's given you everything you ever wanted in return. Friends, power, the ability to save lives… it's given you it all."
"Didn't you hear me? I hurt people, Five… I…"
The sand closed over his mouth, silencing him. He moaned into the sand, trying to draw Five's attention, but the man just continued facing the other way, steadfast.
"This sand is the worst of you, Izuku… Nine. It's your anxiety and stress and hopelessness, but more than that, it's your fear that's made it grow so much. You're afraid of yourself, of what you'll do to the people around you. It's why you keep saying your throat hurts, it's why Blackwhip won't listen, it's why—"
Izuku's ears sank under the sand, and with them, the rest of his head.
[x]
They were an odd troupe, Mirai decided. If Endeavor and Gran Torino were here, they'd have an All Star Lineup of Izuku's supporters. As Hizashi, "Present Mic" Yamada led the way, Mirai found himself grappling with a foreign sense of embarrassment.
He should've foreseen this. Their get-together felt as pivotal as some of his career operations; high risk, high tension, high reward.
Only, in his career operations, he'd spent at least a month building up his arsenal. Mirai would seek the future, overview the statistics, strategize, and put himself at risk where need be. He was never frivolous in his work, nor spontaneous. Meticulous planning was his forte.
Now, however, they were going in raw, and he wasn't even at the most risk. Several of their group were actual U.A. employees, and one was even a student. If Nedzu so chose, he could have Mirio expelled and his staff fired. Nighteye and Sasami were just associates.
It was raw foolishness, he decided, but he was probably a bigger fool. Sasami…
His heart still ached, thinking of her admission. Toshinori's last rites, revoked, ignored, and dismissed? The idea alone left him boiling with anger, let alone confirmation that it actually happened—let alone that it'd been Sasami's department to do it. She… he'd always thought…
Hizashi greeted Aizawa at the door. They'd arrived.
Mirai met the shaggy man's eyes for what could've been several minutes. The promise between them stood strong, then. He would stand behind Nighteye's ward.
He'd stood behind Izuku more than Mirai had, then, if he'd come here all by his lonesome. Mirai tried diplomacy with Nedzu. They'd had several discussions, with and without Izuku's presence. In the end, he'd failed to ever take drastic enough measures.
Shouta would've confronted his boss in a way Nighteye, with half the risk, failed to find the courage for. Perhaps he was a better teacher for Izuku than Mirai was.
Sasami's words echoed back in his head. Could he believe her? Did he want to? Did he already?
You are the best he's got, she said. He was Sir Nighteye, and he could see the future.
Yet, he hadn't possessed the courage to see this. It was only Mirio's good nature that managed to bring him and Sasami along for the ride.
Aizawa stepped aside, and before anyone could utter a single protest, Hizashi flung open Nedzu's door.
The room was freakish.
Even from the narrow glimpse through the door, he could see the space's girth. It must've been half the size of the Stadium's stage. From wall to wall, screens filled every square inch. Many were the Sports Festival's drones, some were campus security feeds, but the majority were… disconcerting.
Dozens of screens exclusively followed Izuku Midoriya. Each screen was a different type of view. From hidden cameras across the school—both old classroom recordings and live feeds from the Stadium's clinic—to even a few cameras tracking him in the Musutafu streets. Some feeds came from too many angles to exclusively be from hacked security feeds. It looked like someone tailed him on foot with a camera.
Mirai was speechless, and he wasn't alone. All the tension building between their group dissipated in a single opened door. The sheer, calculated coldness sucked the warmth from their resolve.
There was one person who spoke, however. From Mirai's narrow vantage, he saw a large leather chair slowly swivel to face them. Nedzu's tiny white face was perfectly still.
He looked ridiculous. Like a movie villain's pure-white cat, yet missing the movie villain.
"Hizashi, Shouta, Nemuri, why have you abandoned your posts? Why have you invaded my professional space…" Nedzu asked, though there was no questioning tone in his squeaky voice. It was hard, focused, and crystal-clear anger. Though the rat didn't move, Nighteye felt as though the rat was looking at him. "...And why have you brought guests?"
Hizashi stepped forward.
Mirai thought of the years he'd spent guiding Izuku. The thousands of hours they'd spent together drilling, learning, strategizing, developing… The hundreds of car rides they'd taken. eThe dozens of milestones they'd crossed.
He thought of the so-few times they'd talked in recent months, of how little he'd smiled. Mirai thought of all the risks he'd already taken for the boy. Why did he choose, in the end, to not look into his future? They'd endured failure together in the past, yet he was now so weak that he'd allow Izuku to risk it alone?
Perhaps that was the case. Maybe the reason everything started going wrong for Izuku was because of his own weakening resolve. Six years without Toshinori… it was like living in a cave, with no sunlight to brighten his days. Mirai was wilting.
"I don't speak for everyone here," Hizashi said, stepping through the door first, "but I'm here because this doesn't sit right with me."
Nemuri and Aizawa shared a glance, and followed Hizashi inside.
"We feel the same," Nemuri said, nodding at Hizashi. "And we ask you to please stop. For everyone's sake."
One by one, their group trickled into Nedzu's room. Vlad went next, then Yoarashi, and then Sasami. Mirio toed forward, but didn't quite abandon Mirai's side.
Mirai did not move. Instead, he stared at Nedzu as Nedzu stared back, not meeting his staff's eyes.
"And what would you ask me to stop?" Nedzu asked, still not meeting their eyes.
The room grew quiet. No easy answer came forward—this had been so spontaneous, it seemed, that no one quite had a plan yet. What were they to say? What were they to do?
It was Nedzu who usually did all the strategizing at U.A., after all. They weren't used to this kind of impulsive thinking. There was a high probability that a single misspoken word would crumble the foundations of their legitimacy.
Hizashi gave his peers a sheepish glimpse. He was there because of his gut feeling. It made him commendable, but a terrible spokesman. Though he knew how to convince a crowd, convincing a single man—a man smarter than he—was beyond his ability.
"Wait, do they not know?" Mirio said, hissing in Mirai's ear. "What are they doing here, then?"
Sasami broke his line of sight with Nedzu. Turning, she leaned upon the room's threshold and stole away his attention. Her silent words rang clear in his head, a repetition of what she'd claimed before.
In a way, it felt as though he'd set Izuku down this path. By foretelling his failure in the Colosseum, Nighteye'd set a precedent of failure. At first, the stakes were low, and he'd chalked it up to unfortunate luck—but then the risks just started snowballing. A failed test became a re-exam. The re-exam placed him amongst unfit peers, which led to being unprepared for an ambush. The ambush traumatized him, and now that ticking time-bomb went off. He was hurt, and no one knew how bad.
There was little room for escalation. He was already crippled. Would the next evolution be paralysis? Would it be a coma?
Would this trend of escalating failures ultimately culminate in his death?
It was a ridiculous train of thought. Exaggerated and superfluous and ludicrous. He should've dismissed it.
But he could not.
Izuku's struggle wasn't the first of its kind. Toshinori, likewise, fought through many increasingly difficult battles until it eventually killed him. Was Mirai, in predicting Izuku's future, locking him onto a road destined to end early?
Sasami's eyes lingered on his.
Her peers cut open Toshinori's corpse. Would this path bring Izuku onto their table as well?
Even if Mirai cut loose and sought out Izuku's future, would it even be worth it? Mirai'd spent years combing through All Might's future, and yet, in the end, he'd died anyway. In fact, he'd died beyond Mirai's comprehension—he'd died in a way Mirai never predicted. There'd be no point.
But, as Sasami slowly lowered her eyes and stepped sideways, Mirai remembered something.
Back in the Colosseum, even when it all began to go wrong, something odd happened. In the duel with Aizawa, Izuku broke the world. Mirai predicted Aizawa's sweeping, flawless victory. He'd envisioned a hopeless battle, where Aizawa would walk away without a scratch. It was set in stone, or so Mirai thought.
Instead, though he still won, Aizawa left that sandy arena nursing his jaw and a raging headache. Izuku'd broken his prediction, just as All Might had. The only difference was that Izuku hadn't died for it.
Mirai wasn't sure if it was thanks to One for All, or its users' inherent grit. Could one have such a willpower so as to defy fate and karma itself?
The silence in the air grew stale as Nedzu and Mirai renewed their silent war. Each waited for the other, the extras fading away. They were decorations—additional weight in Mirai's corner, but no more. Long before they ever recognized something was wrong, Mirai was there, condemning Nedzu. If only he'd stepped up earlier.
He looked away first, placing a hand on Mirio's shoulder. The young, spiffy blond perked up at his touch. Mirai's heart ached with nostalgia, seeing how similar Mirio and Toshinori looked. The only difference was the boy's eyes. Mirai met them, and for the first time, appreciated their uniqueness. This was not Toshinori. What remained of him was upstairs, in a hospital bed.
Distantly, he was aware that his glasses reflected purple. Presently, all he saw, for that brief moment, was the film reel of Mirio's future.
He saw the discussion, how it played out. He saw the end of the tournament. Mirai could've stopped there, but he didn't. Curiosity drew him farther.
Mirai watched Mirio continue growing. He saw his highs and lows—he saw great and terrible villains, innocent young girls, and tragedy. He saw many things, many too scrambled to comprehend, but through it all, he understood one thing. The boy would be a wonderful hero.
In a way, it eased the very last remnants of his fears. Mirio Togata would never replace Izuku Midoriya. He never would need to.
Mirai slipped away from Mirio, past Sasami, past the U.A. staff, and stopped right before Nedzu.
"Your obsession with Izuku Midoriya is both harmful to him and to the people around him. You've forgone any honor this event ever held. Now, it is just another tool in my ward's torment. I warned you, principal, that this could not continue."
Nedzu drummed his paw pads against his large leather chair, as if considering Nighteye's words. It was an act. His poise was refined—perfectly manicured. They'd caught him off guard, but he was still the brilliant Nedzu. Porcelain white and antique. Untouchable.
"You make more accusations than you can substantiate, Plato—"
"You will not not call me that!" Mirai roared, interrupting Nedzu's calm response with all the suppressed passion in his chest. "This is no longer a game without losers, principal. You've invested too much into breaking down my ward for your own interests. If you truly want to build him into All Might, then you will stop this madness! You've done enough."
Nedzu stilled for the briefest moment, shocked. Mirai swore he saw the whites of Nedzu's eyes.
Behind him, the teachers froze. His words left him in haste, it seems, but… he was no longer afraid. He had a duty to fulfill. Mirai was finished hiding. Perhaps, without Toshinori, he wilted. It was probable—almost guaranteed, in fact. But… even without his sunlight, Nighteye was still warmed by the humble, crackling hearth he'd spent so long nurturing.
The grief would never leave him, but he'd let it guide his hand for too long.
Turning, he met everyone else's surprised expressions.
"What comes of today does not leave this room," Nighteye said, giving each person their individual attention. Each man and woman had a different reaction, from Hizashi's bug-eyed gaping, to Whirlwind's knowing squint. None of them, however, interrupted him. "Izuku's good health is the reason we're all here, correct?"
Nods all around. Nedzu's chair groaned as he leaned forward, shocked.
"Sasaki, wait a moment—".
"Shut up!" Mirai spat, turning back only long enough to glare at the small principal. Nedzu froze, jaw hanging open. After a moment, he slowly leaned back into his chair, snout twitching.
Gathering his courage, he sent Izuku a silent apology, took a deep breath, and turned back to his congregation.
"...Then, for the sake of Izuku, know this secret," Mirai said, feeling the words choke behind his tongue. Could he really break all his promises? Was this truly what All Might would want? He couldn't know for certain… but… Toshinori was dead, and Izuku needed his help. "He is more than he appears. Nedzu pegged him as the next All Might years ago, as have I."
The bombshell fell upon their laps like a vacuum. All the air and momentum within the room sucked into the vortex leaving Mirai's lips. Nedzu guffawed. That was all the encouragement he needed—if the rat was surprised, then it was time to attack.
There was a vault deep within him, Mirai felt. For years—decades—it'd been locked, bound in chains, and buried. He thought he'd never open it, he thought he'd given away the key; but while Izuku still had the supreme authority, Mirai retained what no one else remembered except Torino. Torino and… Nedzu. Now, seeing the rat so manic and diminished, he saw the consequences of keeping that vault closed. Bottling it up hadn't done either of them any good. Mirai began pacing back and forth.
"You all know the story, even if you don't believe it. Almost three hundred years ago, near the dawn of quirks themselves, a man was born with the ability to take quirks. He could assimilate them into his own biology seamlessly, leaving his victims quirkless. Even more miraculously, he could give those abilities as well, granting them to anyone," Mirai said. His words came like singular claps in an empty auditorium. Each left a stark echo, made ever-more powerful by the prevailing silence.
"The boogeyman," Nemuri whispered, barely breaking that silence. Beside her, Yoarashi nodded, grave and serious.
"The Demon King," he stated.
"Yes… the progenitor. An evil, immortal tyrant—and a brother. As an act of kindness to his crippled, quirkless brother, he granted him a simple stockpile ability. Over the course of his lifetime, it wouldn't amount to much… but the progenitor wasn't unique in his ability. Though crippled and seemingly quirkless, his brother actually had a normally useless skill: the power to give quirks. In giving him a stockpile quirk, the progenitor, All for One, accidentally created his one true nemesis, One for All. While one lifetime wasn't enough, and his brother died young, One for All continued to pass between generations. Eventually, seven lifetimes later, the Demon King and All Might killed each other in a cataclysmic battle."
A certain thrill flooded Mirai as he told the tale. It felt like shrugging off a backpack of boulders, making him feel as light as a bird. He'd held that secret inside for almost two decades. It felt wonderful to be honest, finally…
But it also felt sad. Like saying goodbye.
The congress of Izuku's teachers were so absorbed in his tale that they hardly noticed when he stopped. Turning his back on them, he faced Nedzu.
"When All Might died, however, he didn't let One for All die with him. He passed it along to the young boy who he'd sacrificed himself to save," Nighteye said, his voice lowering to a whisper. The room was so quiet, however, that even that sounded as clear as any commanding yell. "You've known this, Nedzu. You've known how delicate the situation was, how he came into our world, and what his difficulties have been. Yet, you still risked destroying him to further your goals, and burned all your bridges to do so."
Nedzu did not turn to face him. One by one, Nighteye's fellow teachers stepped forward, joining him to crowd Nedzu's chair. Aizawa recovered from the implications first. Reaching forward, he grabbed the chair's neck and spun it around. The little rat seemed overloaded, frozen in his chair and lacking his usual faux-confident air. He might as well have been taxidermied.
"Is that true, principal?" Midnight asked, her voice quiet and soft. "You did all this… for him? To him?"
Nedzu could only blink. As no answer came forthcoming, however, Midnight's easy questions morphed from gentle to simmering. Sasami's thin arms wrapped around her waist, hugging and pulling her back from stepping forward.
"You… he's such a good kid, though! Is—" Midnight cut herself off, and looked at Aizawa. "Is that why you eliminated him in the Colosseum? Because Nedzu wanted to… what? Construe some sort of goal for him? Monitor him?"
Aizawa nodded, not saying a word.
"The young man saved my life," Yoarashi said, picking up the question's silent implications. "Because he was in 1A, and not with his rightful peers. Many of 1A are also only alive because of him. Are we absolutely certain it has been so terrible?"
Nedzu perked up, just as Mirai foresaw he would.
"Yes indeed! What an observation—"
Aizawa, in an astonishing betrayal, didn't let the rat continue. With one powerful shove, Aizawa spun Nedzu's chair three times around, cutting him short. The little creature yelped in surprise, and Mirai took his chance. Stepping past the rotating principal, he snatched Nedzu's headset and tossed it to Hizashi. Then, he turned to Yoarashi.
"Just because Izuku made himself useful in a bad situation does not excuse putting him in that situation. Nedzu has no right to torment him as he did in placing him among 1A. I let it slide because I thought—I'd hoped, even, our stern discussions would convince him to be more gentle."
Mirai planted his foot against Nedzu's chair, halting it. Nedzu wobbled in place, dazed. Their eyes met again, and though Nedzu's were confused and his stern, they came to a understanding. After looking at Mirio's future, his foresight was gone until tomorrow. Yet, even if Mirai could've looked into his future, he wouldn't. There was no need.
Everyone, as shown in Mirio's future, would hold this man accountable from here on out.
Nedzu might've been more animal than man, but he was no predator. His genealogy, nor his genius, excused his machinations. No natural hierarchy gave him the divine right. He might've once been an ally, a friend of Toshinori…
…But his grief soiled him. In that, Mirai couldn't blame him.
"But you didn't, did you? You never learned how to be soft. You've got your prickly little fingers in everything. From this," Mirai said, pointing at the camera feeds showing Izuku in the streets, on the train, leaving home. Then, he made a sweeping gesture upwards. "To the competition playing out overhead."
Nedzu just stared at him.
"I'm declawed," he whispered. He flexed his white hands, proving it. "No prickly fingers."
"Well," Mirai said, glancing away. "I'm sorry they took that from you, but the way you've tried reclaiming what you've lost has only hurt my student. Whatever plans you had for Round Three ends here."
The words didn't seem to register at first; but when they did, Nedzu spluttered.
"Wait—excuse me? You can't change anything. I've set everything up to be perfect! If you change things now, then putting Nine through all of this was worthless!"
"It already was," Mirai said. Turning to Hizashi, he met the blond man's wide, watery eyes. He wasn't quite crying, but he was close. Mirai tapped his ear. "Announce it. The end of the Second Event. Event Three… a standard tournament bracket. No tricks, no motives, no bull shit."
Wiping his eyes, Hizashi nodded and put the headset on. Before he opened up the microphone, however, Mirio grabbed his hand.
"Add a losers bracket! For General Education!"
"Sure! That's a great idea! That way, they won't get snubbed!" Hizashi said, before turning to Midnight. "Do you think you could get back out there? The crowd's probably going stir-crazy."
"I'm on it," she replied, extracting herself from Sasami's half-hug. Turning to her cousin, she whispered something and left. Seeming determined, Yoarashi followed.
"I'll make another appearance, too. Some extra confidence might do the civilians good," he said.
Vlad, too, turned to leave. At the door, however, he lingered.
"I… it's not my place, but allow me to visit the clinic."
Mirai waved him on. No harm there, and as Hizashi pushed Nedzu's chair away from the control console, taking charge, there was little Vlad could do to help. So, after encouraging him, Mirai focused his full attention on the disturbing array.
Side by side with Hizashi, he dismantled the surveillance web. He couldn't code well, but he couldn't forge glass either. Throwing a brick through a window, however, was easy. He knew how to unplug. He knew how to delete. Old recordings evaporated, active feeds cut, and trigger-sensitive cameras lost connection.
Nedzu, held still by Aizawa, just watched as one by one, Mirai helped Nine in a way Nedzu failed to.
[x]
Izuku couldn't breathe.
He wasn't suffocating either.
Instead, he felt numb; crushed and compressed and little more than atoms in a world of atoms. A petrified tree, buried for a thousand years after a mudslide. He was one with the awful, grainy sand, and he was… still. Unmoving. Relaxed.
Not content. Never content. His existence underground was peaceful, but awful. The sand itched, pressed into his chest, and stole his sense of direction. He felt like the endless dunes were twisting him about in their guts, devouring and digesting him.
The stars behind his eyes warped and spasmed in the dark. Lightshows of red and purple and green sparks flew across his eyelids like shooting stars. He saw patterns and shapes like he'd rubbed his eyes too hard. It was his only entertainment.
He clung to that entertainment as a lifeline. If he stopped watching the show for even a second, he'd begin to think. The idea alone was terrifying. In this world of ceaseless, uncomfortable tranquility and painful numbness, a single lucid thought might shatter him like sugar glass.
All he knew for certain was that he hadn't woken up yet. It was similar to the olden days; when the castle was still at his fingertips, and he dreamt of big things every night. The time was long-drawn, in the castle. Sometimes, it felt even longer within the dream than what actually passed in the real world.
He also had the vague suspicion he'd hit his head really hard, and might be sleeping for a long while. How long would he exist, living inside his head, when time flowed like molasses? A few days could feel like weeks, a week might be a month…
What if he didn't wake up? What if he was experiencing locked-in syndrome first hand? What if the sands of his misery weren't consuming him at all, and this numb pressure was the tragic weight of reality?
In a surge of panic, Izuku sought out his fingertips—and felt nothing. Numb, both left and right arms. Was he paralyzed? Did his injury damage his central nervous system?
Was this even One for All at all? Was he in the afterlife's station, waiting for the next train with eight dead men and women who never moved on?
Slowly, his panic faded.
…Was that really so terrible? Paralysis would be torture, but immediate, instant death? He wouldn't be a burden, he wouldn't be a nuisance—at worst, he'd just be a stain on the wall to clean up.
If he was dead, he wouldn't need to worry anymore. No more stress, no more disappointment, no more wasted efforts and turned cheeks. Life may have ended, but so too had his problems.
…
…He didn't…
…Hmmm…
The sand, with its numbing constance, boosted his lethargy like warm milk and a weighted blanket. In a way, it was nice. Existing without being. Deep in the sand, he might as well just be the sand itself, for all the independence it afforded him. Not being a person was so… easy.
No worries, no struggle…
No responsibilities.
The roof of his mouth tasted like ashes. Or had he let too much sand into his mouth? He knew he hadn't burned his tongue… Would the sand even taste like anything? For a brief second, Izuku entertained thoughts of sodium-rich sand.
Those thoughts rapidly lost their entertaining value. Soon, it was all he could do to just sit there in silence. Something itched at the back of his mind, but he was dumb to it here. He could not, however, ignore it.
It gnawed at him, nagging him with surprising urgency. What was it he was forgetting? She seemed important—
A sensation; the first he felt in what could've been years. Warmth on his lips.
He groaned into the sand with everything left in his lungs. If he was dead, what was the whole point? If he'd spent so long avoiding her, only to die anyways, then he'd wasted his time.
Izuku squeezed his fingers, trying to claw at the sediment packing him down. His shoulders quivered as he tried pulling his arms to his chest. He just wasn't strong enough, by himself.
All he'd wanted was to be someone who saved people. Who prevented pain, who rescued the injured, who saved the weak. He'd managed to do so, a couple times; but this sand… he felt it. The sheer weight of the ones that slipped past him, the ones he didn't save—the ones he hurt. Their weight held him down, and he had no control to stop it.
As he struggled, however, he felt his ribs groan. The sand was growing heavier. It didn't stop him from pushing. Izuku kicked, shoved, and rocked his head; all in a vain attempt at dislodging himself. How had it been so easy to sink, but so hard to rise? Was he really so useless?
The pressure on him grew heavier, and even his most base movements became impossible. It kept growing heavier, even as his muscles failed him and his will deserted him. He sank even deeper.
One grain meant nothing. He could hold thousands in his palm, after all—but these endless dunes were something else. They weren't just his collected failures, they were every individual doubt, every instance of self-loathing, his very identity. It was crushing.
People came to him. Shoto and Toru flickered past his mind's eye. He thought of all the things he'd wanted to tell them. How proud he was of Shoto, of how much the boy impressed him. What kind of suit Toru could have, all his ideas for her future. Tokoyami, Kirishima. Nighteye and Gran Torino. Endeavor and Sasami. His mother and Katsuki. Setsuna.
All these people and more; Midnight and Present Mic, Aizawa and Whirlwind. He didn't want to hurt them, and maybe, he acknowledged, that wouldn't happen if he just let the sand take him—
But he wanted to be with them. He wanted to live amongst others, have friends, be in love, and save people. Dying would be so, so easy, but he wanted to live.
His life was an amalgamation of contradictory desires. He wanted to be with his friends, despite the target he put on them. He wanted to study with Sasami and become a hero. He wanted to be the best hero, but let himself be handicapped. He wanted to stay as far from Setsuna as possible, even as every fiber of his being drew him in.
Izuku, at his very core, wanted each to be simultaneously possible. He needed them to be; he couldn't function with one and not the other. It spread him so thin that, in the last month, he'd nearly lost everything, not just one half. His world was unraveling at the seams, and he hadn't had the will to stop it…
If he just had one more chance, he'd take charge of his life. Never again would he blame things like a curse, or fate, or… karma… as real as they all felt. He didn't know if he was strong enough, but… he'd failed himself in not trying harder.
…
From fingertips to heels, Izuku dedicated everything to clawing upwards. He kicked downwards and butted his chin forwards. Lips parted, he bit and chewed at the sand, gnawing at its stone-like hardness. Everything became a tool. His palms became shovels, his feet trowels, his legs drills, his torso leverage, his nose a stake.
His arms burned, and in the years since he'd used it, his left had atrophied. It felt like fire to move, even as it barely made progress. Soft and pudgy, it was a miracle he still knew how to use it. With his hardened, deft fingers, everything felt… Oh.
It hadn't atrophied, he realized. His left arm, which should've matched his right, just didn't. The years hadn't softened or weakened it. He'd simply never trained it the same way he had his right. It wasn't weakened, it just never grew up with him.
Lining his right's fingers were hard-earned calluses, muscle-memories, and an eagerness to grow even tougher. They were rough and stone-cut and not nearly as pretty as his pale, fleshy left; but they were the greatest showcase of his efforts. He'd earned those calluses by putting in the work, just as he did now. In a way, had he kept his left, his right would only have half its calluses.
Izuku kicked, thrashed, and swam like a madman as he began inching upwards. It was impossible to say how far he'd sank or how high he'd risen. All he knew was that his frame was alight like a candle and his insides churned with hope.
As with all candles, however, his fuse eventually ran out. The burst of passion faded, and his movements grew sluggish. Through that familiar lethargy, however, he found he didn't want to be a part of the sands anymore. Not existing no longer held any appeal. He kept fighting, even as his muscles failed him. His engine in this world was not his body, but his spirit. It was alive.
His heart drummed with a mania he hadn't thought still resided within him. It was the same that let him beat down Iida, but changed—warped for better purposes. It was war music, blown on hunting horns and bison-skin drums
As he crawled higher and higher, however, he realized it wasn't just in his chest—it was coming from above him as well. It was as though whatever was directly above him was a titanic, beating heart.
The sand grew less packed, but so too did he grow more exhausted. It was easier to push through, harder to push.
Eventually, the engine of his spirit sputtered, faltered, and fell silent. His muscles were spent, his spirit spent, and he was done. He lay still, exhausted, but not defeated. When he regained his strength, he'd try again.
But, he wouldn't need to.
Just as he resolved himself to try again, his pitch black, sand-filled world exploded into a bright nova.
A flaming fist plunged deep into the sand, swirling and surging with crimsons and oranges, grabbed his hand, and pulled him free.
He woke up, some time later, to a clinic's ceiling.
[x]
AN: Pace is still slow-going, made worse by shorter chapters, but regardless I enjoyed this chapter. yesterday i finished 78 and it was supposed to be 1 chapter before Izuku's first fight but i ? literally ? forgot a fight, so I had to squeeze that in, and it pushed it back. kinda pithed me off.
review!~