Nighteye watched with tired eyes as Shouta Aizawa stepped into the light, as nonchalant as his file hinted. The first time he'd seen him do it, fear had frozen him. Not of the mortal danger kind, but of the instinctual "Oh shit" variety that all humans feel at least once. Since then, reservation had usurped his fear.

Like a movie on double-speed, the scenes flickered behind his eyes almost faster than he could process. In a blink, Izuku sprouted his Blackwhip arm, and in another, he collapsed, exhausted. He became aware of the events in between by more feeling than logic, but after thirty years of practice, he'd learned to decipher those vague suggestions.

Across the grand hall, Present Mic's voice came to life.

"...He's the practical teacher of 1A, known for his efficiency, professionalism, and insomnia. He's the final hurdle, he's the alpha, he's the omega, he's the king of the underground, he's ready to rumble…!"

Shouta Aizawa made no show of himself. He weathered the crowd's attention in the same way Izuku did—by ignoring it. Unlike for Izuku, however, there wasn't a single voice in the crowd worth listening to. To him, the only people who mattered were already in the ring.

"Why do you insist on the introduction, Hizashi? They've already got my name. Just start the count already. Oh, and Midoriya." He said, his eyes swaying from Present Mic to Izuku. "You should forfeit now. Part of being a hero is knowing your limits, and I say you've met them."

Nighteye shuddered as the words reverberated through his spine. There was a second layer to them, like two people speaking at once—but Nighteye knew only he could hear the second man. Future memories layered over the world like an ugly camera filter, fudging reality just enough to be annoying. It didn't matter much to Nighteye, however. The picture became clear again by closing his eyes.

He watched as Izuku flinched at the words, but found his footing anyways. He stood there for a moment, gathering himself, before letting out a slow exhale. Nighteye didn't need Foresight to tell him what the boy did next—for him, it'd become instinct.

Over the last eight months, he'd sharpened One for All to a razor's edge. Izuku's new favorite technique revealed itself like an unholy flower blossoming in front of the crowd's eyes. Blackwhip grew from his nub, braiding itself into a sturdy trunk that Izuku wore like an eldritch gauntlet. From his back came spider-like limbs that wriggled with a sentience that they still didn't understand yet; they were longer and more wild than the whips that constituted Voidlimb, but he had that covered.

Next, he would flare his nostrils and allow Smokescreen to flow. He'd twisted the quirk once dedicated exclusively to camouflage far beyond its base potential—now, he used it for offense, defense, and here, damage control. Green gas crept up each independent limb like a second skin, holding them steady under Izuku's guidance. With the reinforcement, Izuku brought the wild quirk to heel. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it got the job done.

Nighteye could only imagine the sheer sensation Izuku processed in this moment. Danger Sense had never been a static ability. Though Izuku usually kept the quirk on low-power, at times like these, Nighteye was sure that Danger Sense was pulling its weight. At any moment, Izuku could feel around him by a few feet, but even Nighteye couldn't say what its upper limit was now. Hell, Nighteye wouldn't be surprised if the kid would flinch if he pinched his own leg right now.

Cracking an eye open confirmed it. Blackwhip and Smokescreen wriggled around him like a revolving door, acting as a perfect Shield-and-Spear combo. Even now, he wasn't done. If Nighteye closed his eyes again, he could see the way Izuku formed two smoke orbs in each hand, polishing them with pristine care.

He could also see the way Eraserhead just stood there, silent and apathetic. Nighteye's lips parted just as Midoriya spoke up, his instincts syncing the words as if they were his own.

"Start the countdown, Mic. I already told you, I'm ready!"

"Are you sure?" Aizawa repeated, not budging an inch.

"Yes! Count! Ten!"

Nighteye could empathize with Present Mic as he began the count, sullen and quiet.

"...Ten…"

Aizawa didn't bend so easily, however. It was one of the many reasons Nighteye respected the man… and feared him, in this moment.

"I think you've made a mistake here, kid. It'd be in your best interest to cancel this now, before it gets ugly."

He almost wished they could, Nighteye thought.

"...Nine…"

"It's like Setsuna said! You shouldn't underestimate us, sir!"

It would've been fine with anyone else, Nighteye thought. Literally any other member of the staff could've walked into the ring and Izuku would've walked out the victor. The boy… despite his deficiencies, his reflexes were electric. His strategies were sound. His technique was unheard of for his age—and Nighteye made a personal guarantee of it. He'd drilled Izuku ruthlessly, and he'd taken to it like a plant in the summer sun.

He struggled to picture many teachers leaving the ring in anything but a stretcher. Midnight would've fallen to Smokescreen. Powerloader to Blackwhip. Hell, Snipe would've struggled against Danger Sense. Only Vlad or Thirteen honestly stood a chance, and they'd already lost! Not to discredit Setsuna, but Nighteye was certain Izuku could've managed the same.

Why? Was it his fault? What could he have done—hell, what could anyone have done? Who'd sanctioned Shouta-fucking-Aizawa into a glorified quirk showcase? Hell, Izuku wouldn't even have had to win to get in. All the exam required was a good performance, not a decisive victory. Thirteen could've devoured all of Smokescreen, and he'd still get a pass for his versatility with Blackwhip. Vlad could've captured Blackwhip, and Izuku would've gotten by on Danger Sense's reflexes.

But with Aizawa, that all went out the window. Nighteye couldn't wrap his brain around it—Why?

"...Three…"

Across the arena, Eraserhead slipped his golden goggles over his head, his red eyes glowing through the gaps.

"You get one final warning, Midoriya. Release your hold over your quirk. Forfeit."

Izuku, true to his determination, didn't reply. He only slipped deeper into his stance, his focus honed to a knife's edge.

"...Two…"

Nighteye thought back to that last second, that last moment he could've said something. For a moment, he wondered why he didn't tell the boy. It wouldn't have been hard, to explain Erasure's function. He wondered why he allowed Izuku to walk into the fight blind, and he blamed himself.

He shook his head, standing to his feet in the same moment. It wouldn't have mattered if Izuku had known about Aizawa's Erasure or not. Fate was definite. Once he foresaw it, it was set in stone. Only one man had ever shattered his fate, and they were dead for it.

Izuku was a great student. An excellent fighter, a brilliant tactician, and would be a great Ninth one day. In any other timeline, Izuku would've taken 1Z by storm. But fate had made its decision to break him, and there was nothing left to do but pick up the pieces.

Closing his eyes one last time, he allowed the reel of Izuku's future to play one last time. At this point, it was less to decipher what happens, and more to steady him for what was to come.

It was a glorious fight, for what it was. Without the use of One for All, Izuku had to do things the old-fashioned way. He'd bob, weave, and put his everything into dancing away from Eraserhead's attacks—and for a time, he would. There would be an undeniable resistance in Izuku's defense… but it wouldn't matter, in the end. Aizawa would leave the ring as untouched and cold as he had entered.

He cast one last gaze out to the ring, and then to the teacher's entrance behind it. The question still stood; who'd sanctioned this? Because, to Nighteye, it seemed…

"...One!"

…Like someone had wanted him to lose.

[x]

For a brief second, Izuku wondered if this was what the full weight of One for All would feel like. Like being pulled in every direction—like being destroyed and remade every second. Like being brimming with uncertain power, like he could crumple steel with a glare.

It wasn't sheer power that fueled him. None of All Might's herculean strength blessed his frame, none of his unyielding might coursed through his veins; yet he felt it. It was there, in his body, filling every inch of him—yet it also wasn't. He could almost see it, but it didn't recognize him back, like a one-sided mirror. Instead, this wildness that made his feet light and heart hammer was something else: exhilaration.

He could count the amount of times he'd let loose on his hand, and even then he wouldn't need all the fingers. It dawned on him, staring into Aizawa's goggled glare, that this was everything he'd trained for. Eight months of hell layered upon years and years of quirk conditioning.

There was nothing he could do about the smile that sprung from his lips. This was joy.

Countless nights had him up, begging and wishing for a power—a quirk, something special in him he could use to bring light to the world. And… now he did. It had a steep price—but he paid it, and with it, the red carpet of his future unfurled beneath his feet.

Voidlimb hung from his shoulder like his original arm once did, docile and obedient. Smokescreen's finesse had tamed the wildest of Blackwhip's limbs. Danger Sense hummed a peaceful melody in his ears. Float, his ever elusive prize, hung just around the corner. He could feel it.

One for All was an incomplete automaton, but Izuku had taken what functioned and polished it into a well-oiled machine.

The only problem—the mystery of Eraserhead's quirk—fell to the wayside. Izuku took comfort in his quirk, in his training. In the real world, he'd rarely know a villain's quirk before engaging them. This was just another exercise.

He took a real breath—not one to bolster Smokescreen's strength, but one of pure oxygen refreshment. His imagination ran wild with the air, bringing him to places stranger than the colosseum. In one blink, he was in the arena, and a second put him in a classroom. Setsuna sat on one side, Shoto on the other. They were top of their class, a big three of the first years. Pinned onto their U.A. uniform was a badge—1Z.

In another, he was out on the street, thugs and gangsters and villains crumpled below his boot. The sun shone without a cloud in the sky, and there wasn't a frown in sight.

He blinked again, and he was back in the arena.

"...One!"

Without wasting a moment, Izuku flung his Voidlimb backwards and allowed the orb nestled in its palm to burst. The explosive force propelled him towards Eraserhead as his loose Blackwhips latched onto the ground and colosseum walls. Together, they pulled as Smokescreen pushed, launching him to Eraserhead in a blink.

He'd end it in one hit—one big enough to knock the Pro out, but not to kill him. For the fraction of a second, the world was beautiful. Colors tore at his peripherals like smears of paint, the shapes of the arena warping as he tore through the air like a bullet.

Blackwhip sturdied at the last instant, slowing him lest he blow a hole through the Pro. Izuku landed crouched at the man's waist, having broken through his guard before the man could even block. Inches away, he could feel the man's heat. Eraserhead smelled of cat sheddings and sweat.

Time was a mud crawl as Izuku reared back his Voidlimb for the uppercut of the century. Everything was instantaneous, and yet for Izuku there was a fraction of an instant where he could've counted all the hairs on the man's chin, one by one.

What was his power? Would he have to see this man again after this? Why didn't he take any initiative? A million questions like these flashed past his mind's eye, but he pushed them aside. All that mattered was his skill, the torque of his body, the rotation of his hips, the strength of his knees. All that mattered was success.

Coming up from his low-stance, Izuku brought his Voidfist up with the force of his entire body, every ounce of strength dedicated to knocking this man out. Every muscle burned, every gear turned, every piece of him worked together to launch one fist through the man's skull.

Yet when he stood at his fullest height, his Voidlimb extended as far up as he could manage, there was nothing. No reverberation through his Voidfist, no recoil, no quirk backlash. Izuku blinked as Blackwhip wilted, the whips drying out and turning to viridescent ash around him.

His head was pounding—all the buzz, all the life and joy and static of Danger Sense became muted as the subtle heat of Smokescreen went cold. The fortification of his bones liquified, the passive security that One for All provided going dormant and unresponsive.

In a panic, he even reached out to the vestiges—Banjo, Nana, En, anyone who'd listen, but he only received radio silence in response.

"Izuku Midoriya. Age 15. No quirk registration. Temporary quirk-title: Chimera. Can produce whip-like tentacles, gaseous camouflage, and suspected to have a sixth-sense for incoming conflict. Amputee of five years." Aizawa whispered, staring down at Izuku with wide, glowing red eyes.

Any moisture in Izuku's mouth evaporated, his tongue drying out. He looked between Aizawa's candescent eyes and his own puckered nub.

Aizawa's kneecap rocketed into Izuku's gut, slamming him onto his back. The impact knocked the wind out of him, Eraserhead's knuckles cushioning against his liver. He struggled to reclaim it as the older man stepped over him, his hair waving like fire above his head. Izuku clawed at his chest as—finally—it gulped down a paleful of air.

"You don't have a clue what you're getting into. Forfeit now, and save us both from your loss."

Izuku could only stare, his mind lagging behind reality. He willed Voidlimb to form, but nothing happened—no whips answered his commands, nothing warned him of incoming danger, no smoke veiled him away from this demon's gaze. It occurred to him that it was the man's line of sight which erased his quirk signature, but it brought less comfort than it did fear.

Scrambling to his feet, he slipped into an old stance—an awkward one, something he hadn't used in a lifetime. The width between his feet widened as he lowered himself, his right forearm held out in front of him horizontally. It wasn't a very effective style, but it was the best he could work with while missing an arm.

Izuku swallowed another gulp of air, steadying himself. He thought of all he knew on quirks—on suppressants especially, and it didn't take long to find his answer. The man's vision emitted a wave that suppressed the quirked-cells in his blood, forcing his quirk into dormancy. His power was incredible, but it probably only extended to emitters. That clued him onto his lifeline, his win condition. He may not have been able to one-shot the man, but he knew what to do now.

All he had to do was make the man blink.

"Quit looking down on me! I'll show you what I can do!"

It felt odd, rushing at the hero without his powers. Like running through a crowd in his birthday suit—but it was his challenge, and he would meet it. He would not let himself lose to a gimmick ability.

He made the first move, not waiting for Eraserhead's retort. He kept his arm close as he sent a flurry of kicks towards the man, careful not to overextend. The bow of his foot only caught air however as the man dodged, weaved, and ducked under everything he had. Frustrated, he pivoted, backshifting into a spinning butterfly-heel aimed at the man's jaw.

Instead of dislodging the man's jaw from his face, however, Eraserhead froze his ankle with an iron grip. A leg sweep knocked his balance out from under him, his fall worsened by landing on his left ribs.

Eraserhead made no move to advance his attack, only staring as Izuku struggled back to his feet.

"Give. In. If you can't even fight me, you'd never make it in 1Z. You'd be killed as soon as you stepped in line with them. Without your quirk, you're a mediocre punching bag at best."

"...Killed?" Izuku asked, back on his feet. A quick stock of his body didn't leave him feeling better; a bruise was already forming on his ankle, and he might've overclocked his hamstrings.

"Of course. Anybody who can't perform can't be allowed onto the team. You'd just be a burden in the field."

Izuku furrowed his brows at him, his brain not catching on. Before he had a chance to question his meaning however, Eraserhead sprung into action, throwing a barrage of attacks his way.

He barely had the time to register the attack, let alone dodge. Still, he managed to evade the first hit within a hair's breadth, though the next one brushed him due to his over-evasion. It was a barrage—an incredible one, something he could barely fathom coming from a mortal man.

Heels sliced through the air, jabs punctured the dead space between them, and elbows came at him with more strength than should've been possible. The first attack to break his guard at full strength was a palm strike to his lowest left rib, and it sent him skidding backwards. On instinct, he took time to collect himself after the hit— Danger Sense didn't warn him, after all, but the hit had befuddled him, and he forgot the quirk was dormant.

An elbow clocked his jaw, a spear-palm jabbed his shoulder, a knee cracked against his femur, and knuckles buried themselves in his gut. What came out of his mouth was an unholy combination of a scream and dry vomit.

"You might have what it takes to be a future hero, but you're overstepping if you think U.A. will let you into 1Z."

One of his eyes swelled closed as his abused knee gave out, forcing him into a kneel. There was a hint of iron on his tongue, and his ears felt like they were thirty meters underwater. With one half-cracked eye, he glared up to the man who'd done this to him. With his blackfire hair and boiling red eyes, he looked less like a hero and more like a villain.

"H-how? Why? No one else got this treatment! A-are you just singling me out because—"

"Of your arm? It's a major factor, but not the nail in your coffin."

Izuku couldn't fathom why it was so hard to stand back up. His leg had never been this heavy in the past. Awkwardly, he pressed his numb hand against his knee and heaved with all his might, barely bringing himself to stand. He leaned into his good leg, as he glared at Eraserhead once again, confused beyond belief.

"Then there's not a damn reason to hold me back! If it's not my arm, then I'm just as good as any of the other kids—"

"Yet they performed well against their opponents. The logical difference."

"—They wouldn't perform well against you! Your power is just unfair! I've earned my place in your class, now let me prove it!"

He made to punch the man; but by capitalizing on Eraserhead's flinch, he reversed his movement and kicked the floor's loose dirt, sending it straight into the man's face. Immediately, the warmth of One for All drowned him, and he reveled in it.

In a breath, Smokescreen coated his form, blocking Eraserhead's line of sight before allowing Blackwhip to burst forth, commanding it to ensnare the man. Without the time to coat it in Smokescreen, he could only hope for the best, but—

Suddenly Blackwhip tugged Izuku off his feet, ripping him free from his smoke cocoon like a baby from their mother's womb. Whatever was happening outside his cloud, his whips were being pulled, and him along with them. He clawed at the ground, desperate to stay out of Eraserhead's line of sight, but his singular grip didn't have the strength.

He got a brief second to see what happened—Blackwhip bunched together and held by Eraserhead's capture tape—before his eye contact with the hero renewed and it all fell apart. The rush of energy that had reignited his confidence crumpled, leaving an aching void of disappointment.

"Thanks for the chance to blink." He said, pausing as his hair floated up from his shoulders once more. "You're green, Izuku Midoriya, if you think you can go into the field as you are; but since you have potential, I'll shoot straight. You're a good find. Good quirk. Great efficiency. In theory, you're the perfect freshman, bar the arm. But U.A. can't send an amputee out into the field with zero training whatsoever, even if your quirk is serious news."

The weight of the moment crushed his ribs, holding him in a chokehold—but he couldn't stay like that. Not now. Not while all eyes were on him.

"You keep saying that," he grunted out, struggling to his feet. "That thing about going into the field. That's what I'm here for, isn't it? Training for the field, ahead of the normal curve. Why do you keep saying I can't handle it?"

Eraserhead didn't blink—he couldn't, without un-binding Izuku's power—but he appeared to stagger. His lips pursed as he shifted his heel in the dirt.

"Are you certain you're in the right place? I struggle to believe you signed up for 1Z without knowing what it entails."

"W-what? Entail what?"

The hero could only stare, his mouth agape, as Izuku's confusion registered as genuine in his mind. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, the first real example of an expression Izuku'd seen on his face.

"You… don't know? 1Z… it's not just an advanced class. It'll be a team—built from Japan's best—meant to go out onto the streets and work. The only students deemed skillful enough to pass a professional licensing exam by two pros can join—and in two months' time, when the next provisional licensing exam comes around, all of 1Z shall participate. You being here means that a pro has already nominated you, and now you need a second nomination. Myself. And I'm sorry Midoriya, but you won't get one out of me in your state."

The words fell onto his ears like a gong, reverberating straight through his soul. 1Z was a… field-excelerant program?

How did he not know about this? He'd read Nighteye's invitation a million times, and never once did it say anything about the class being on track for early licenses. It seemed like a total violation of their trust… yet he couldn't imagine turning the class down after earning it. It was like a snare trap—you over-train like crazy to get into the exclusive class, but when you actually earn it, you realize all the preparation was just the bare minimum to even function.

Heat flushed through his cheeks at the realization—that he'd spent so long training for something he didn't even understand. Yet, at the same time, he had trained. It may have not been for the right thing, but his competency was still high. Fighting pros was like the ultimate test, and he was one of the very, very few who could've managed to succeed.

But Eraserhead wasn't exactly a pro hero, was he? In this place, in this stage, he was a soul-crusher, an unrivaled tool for destroying whoever the director chose. Any match would end in failure, since no emitter could ever show off their quirk's skills against him.

That thought halted all others in his mind, the abstract pieces of the exam fitting together like a key and a lock.

"...You're not the one who's failing me, are you?"

What Eraserhead gave him in response wasn't a sad smile. It was an awkward thing—the tug on his lips pulled upwards, but there was no joy or sadness. Only acknowledgement.

"It's as I said. U.A. can't send you into the field without further inspection. The only way you're passing this test is if I'm not awake-enough to say no; and I doubt you could pull that off with your conditioning."

It hurt. There was an acute pain in his chest where the daggers of truth had punctured him, leaving him to bleed out.

"If… you were going to fail me regardless, what was the point in allowing me to test in the first place?"

"To measure you, of course; and I have to say, Midoriya, you've come up short. Had you focused more on your body, and less on your quirk, this conversation might not have even happened. There was always a chance you could've actually beat me and taken your place in the class, but you're just not there yet. You're an alright fighter, but you can't settle for just "alright" when you're already at such a natural advantage. You of all people can not settle for less. Not in the real world—not where 1Z is heading. Your form is sloppy, your attacks are underwhelming—and worst of all, you mask this with the overutilization of your quirk. Now," Eraserhead said, pausing to point at the exit. "You may go. Take the standard exam. If you truly deserve the spot you think, then prove it in the Sports Festival."

Izuku followed the finger's direction, turning ever-so-slightly towards the ring's student entrance. Heartbeats leaped into his throat, his ears straining under the pounding blood in his head. For a moment, he considered it.

At this point, staying had little purpose. Eraserhead had made it clear that something foul was already afoot, and that his chances resided solely in the man's own utter defeat—something which Izuku struggled to even imagine after seeing his skill.

It would save him a great deal of pain, and it would snip the immense embarrassment he'd developed right in the bud. Already, the weight of imminent failure hung from him, his knee shaking under the extra effort.

Yet as his eye crossed from Eraserhead's finger to the exit, it caught onto something—or rather, someone. Two someones.

Setsuna was leaning over the railing, shaking a fist and cheering something that Izuku's numb ears couldn't catch. Behind her right shoulder stood Nighteye, and his stoicism stood in stark contrast to Setsuna's passion. But even through his stone exterior, there was a warmth—and a guilt—that infused Izuku with newfound energy.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he loved both of them very much, and that he didn't want to disappoint them.

When he turned back to Eraserhead, his fist was raised.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm over-reliant on my quirk. Maybe my form is poor and I'm not the strongest. Maybe it's all true. But I didn't work my butt off for eight months for nothing. I haven't heard a bell, and so long as I'm standing, there's still a chance."

"...Fine." Eraserhead replied, raising his own fist as he slid into a stance. "Let me show you how far you still have to go."

What came next was a blur. The pain in his leg faded away. The swelling in his eye stopped bothering him. The weakness of his limbs vanished. He met Eraserhead in the middle when they clashed, and from there came a wildness he couldn't quite describe.

Fighting Eraserhead was like fighting Mirio, but Izuku was underwater. Every movement he made felt sluggish in comparison, yet he somehow managed to evade the worst of it himself. He weaved through punches, danced away from low-kicks, ducked under elbows, and at all times remained wary of the man's capture tape.

Attacks still slipped through his guard, but they came calculated. What hits he sacrificed came at the price of Izuku's own attempts, each brushing against Eraserhead's body, but never quite hitting. Still, they forced the man away, and that left Izuku for another moment to breathe. All of his analytical power dedicated itself to reading the man's movements, and even then he struggled.

Despite his lanky, ragged appearance, Eraserhead was ripped. Long sleeved, loose clothing hid away an incredible physique; something he didn't waste.

"Your feet are too far apart!"

"Your guard is too close to the shoulder!"

"You could've kicked my thigh there!"

"An elbow would've slipped through my guard!"

"Your back-step was too large!"

Nothing Izuku did went unnoticed by the master fighter, yet what might've been scathing to one person was just motivation to be better for him.

He began shaving off awkward movements as the exchange continued. Whereas one of his kicks would land too far forward, he'd make an effort to reel it back in for the second. When his weight swayed too far back, he'd correct his posture just enough to keep the weight comfortable. At one point, when his heel scraped the hem of the man's shirt, he made an effort to lean more into his attacks.

It couldn't be helped. Over the course of their fight, there was nothing Izuku could do about the accumulating damage. Even as Eraserhead's body-blows fell into body-brushes, each contact still hurt. While Izuku's right guard remained almost untouched throughout the entire fight, what damage occurred to his left side made up for it.

He stopped being able to kick with his left leg, for fear of igniting the bruised obliques. Counter-attacking became difficult with his fist, as he needed it to guarantee his block.

At last, he couldn't delay the inevitable anymore. He accidentally gave Eraserhead too much space for the man's back-foot, and found it consequently planted upon his sternum full-force, spartan-style.

"See me! This is what you have to shoot for if you want to be a hero, Midoriya! Powers be damned, this is what matters in the end! You of all people can't settle for mediocrity!"

The kick launched him back heel-over head, and Izuku barely had the wherewithal to land upright in a crouch.

Izuku tore at the air for life, the kick having squeezed the oxygen out of him. He could only watch as Eraserhead kicked off the ground into a run, his burning red eyes drilled into his own.

Time seemed to slow as Eraserhead launched himself into the air, his knee pulled up to his chest and he soared straight towards Izuku's skull.

For a brief second, he tried to reach out to One for All. He begged, pleaded, and otherwise forced the entire weight of his willpower into his quirk, but nothing came of it. So long as the man could see him, it never would.

Izuku was a deer in the headlights—the surprised pedestrian frozen before a bullet train barreling toward them. He felt like what he was, in this moment. Just a boy down an arm with something too valuable to waste. The thought crossed his mind—was this it? Should he just lay down and take it the easy way out? Did he even get a choice?

No, he decided, his five fingers curling into a fist. He didn't get a choice. And that was why he couldn't waste the moment. He could never waste a moment again, if this was his end.

What guided him wasn't Danger Sense. It wasn't a vestige. It wasn't the voice of Nighteye or Gran or Endeavor or his own damn conscience. His next movement came from somewhere deep, somewhere he didn't like to visit. Somewhere he hadn't allowed himself to—somewhere he couldn't have, and somewhere he wouldn't be able to again.

Izuku leaned into the kick, allowing the man's foot to pass his head by a hair. Already, he was in a familiar position—deep in the man's guard, the putrid smell of cats and sweat filling his nose. He could see the way Eraserhead's eyes widened, his lips parting in surprise as the tip of his boot clipped his ear before brushing past it, leaving him vulnerable. He could see the whole of the man—cold, iron, calculating, but noble—and the way a wild smile cracked down his face like thunder.

He could see everything as he clunched his buttcheeks with the full strength of his body, and he could see everything as he launched his fist with the full strength of his heart.

The uppercut cracked against Eraserhead's chin, his momentum completely reversed as his shoulders slammed into the dirt, bouncing to a stop several feet away.

Smash.

A moment later, Izuku was also on his back, exhausted and done. It'd taken the last of his strength—but he'd managed to knock U.A.'s ace on his ass.

He was curious what the crowd thought—he'd lost his ability to hear them ages ago, but he imagined they were quite rowdy.

Darkness crept over his peripherals as he wondered, even for just a moment, if Eraserhead would stay down. The hope was a tiny ember, but it would be warm enough to keep him conscious for a few moments longer, so he embraced it.

A second ticked by… and then another, and then a third, and nothing happened. Could he try and get up? Would it matter? If he stood up now, would they—

A hand rested on his shoulder, and Izuku knew it to be Eraserhead's. His black locks lay strewn about his face like wild brush, sweat gluing some to his forehead. His goggles were off, and his eyes had stopped glowing.

"Try not to fall asleep, eh? That's how concussions can kill. I'll admit, you clocked me good. You may have lost, but you have potential, kid; don't forget that, and come see me in 1A next semester. I'll be waiting."

Izuku couldn't bring himself to care, however, and soon found himself drifting off into unconsciousness heedless of the man's advice.

[x]

"Izuku!" Setsuna screamed, already half-way broken apart as she flew Izuku's side. Present Mic's announcement was cotton in her ears—Izuku's failure echoed around the colosseum, but not once did it poison her mind. She didn't allow herself a moment of shock or grief; instead, she focused the weight of her intensity onto the body of her friend.

When she got to him, he was already gone. She spared Present Mic a single glance—one he returned with a silent nod, and she knew what to do. Scooping him into her arms, she broke away at the waist to fly him through the teacher's exit. At full speed, she may or may not have brushed past Eraserhead's filthy shoulder, shoving him out just enough to make it seem like an accident.

The hospital ward was easy to find. The dark hall split into two at the end, and the clinic was well-lit and obvious at a glance.

When she got to the office, she didn't bother to knock. Shoulder checking the door, she burst into the sterilized room, looking this way and that to find a nurse. Seeing none, her eyes locked onto the wide-eyed head of Christmas-hair that was Shoto.

"Where's a doctor?"

"Right here, dearie. Look down, please."

She squawked, almost losing her grip on Izuku as she backed away. A microscopic woman stood just below her, and might've stood an inch or two above her knee caps had she been using them. Her jaw dropped as it registered who she was looking at.

"What are you waiting for, girl? Set our boy down." Recovery Girl said, waddling over to the only unoccupied bed. Setsuna was quick to perform, not wanting to upset the legendary doctor. She placed him head-first onto the pillow, shifting the headboard so as to give him the most comfortable angle to lay. Of course, he was asleep, but it couldn't hurt.

Her eyes darted between Izuku's bruises and Recovery Girl as she brought a standing-stool up to the edge of Izuku's bed. There was a distinct lack of band aids or creams, and for the way Izuku's eye looked like a purple swell, she felt off.

"Aren't you gonna wrap him up? Get him ice?" She asked, peering over the woman's shoulder as her thin fingers trailed over his remaining arm. Her fingers paused at his waist, pinching the hem of his shirt. A hard glance over her shoulder had Setsuna floating back, cheeks flushed.

"If you let me do my job, I just might. Now quit hovering. Let me inspect the patient."

The woman turned back to Izuku then, pulling his shirt off his body in the same moment. A heat tinged her cheeks as she turned all the way to Shoto, silently willing her legs to hurry up.

Shoto looked between her top half and Izuku's body, the question obvious in his eyes. For a moment, she considered playing it up, puffing out her chest, and spinning a tale of success and grand attempts—but she didn't have it in her.

"...He lost." She muttered, staring past his ear. His eyes darted down and to the side, his cheek pinching as he bit into it.

"I thought so."

"Yeah…" Setsuna replied, drawing out the word. "That… manecoon of a man, Eraserhead, can turn off people's quirks. He didn't… he didn't even give Izuku a chance! He—"

"If you're going to raise your voice, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This is a hospital." Recovery Girl said, not turning to look at her. Her jaws clamped shut as her shoulders slouched. The floor was spotless, lacking even a hint of dust. She ran a tongue over her low lip, tasting her lip gloss—it was sweet, but there was an alien hint of bitterness. The low buzz of electricity filled the silence as she reconsidered her words

"He didn't give Izuku a chance… not like Vlad. Not like Thirteen. He just erased his quirk and started… started bullying him."

"But…" Shoto began, before slowing to a stop. "Did he at least get a good hit in?"

Setsuna huffed. Of course that's all he had to ask. He—

"Actually, it would be a shame to call it anything but great!" A voice said, rending Setsuna's thought process in two. She whipped around to the source of the voice, expecting a man, but instead finding a small… squirrel? Dog? Rat? It was ambiguously a mammal, but other than that, she couldn't begin to guess its genome. All she could say for certain was that he had white fur, a well-tailored suit, and a devastating scar pinching the skin together over one eye.

That being said, his demeanor was bright—far brighter than anyone else's in the room, and she felt herself shy away from his exuberance.

"Truly, it was a phenomenal end! And I mean, sure, Aizawa would never lose, but he had me worried for a second! How is the lil guy, anyway? Eh, Chiyo?"

"He's got several contusions, a cracked breast bone, a disjointed knuckle, and a mean black eye, but he'll be up in time." Recovery Girl said, not batting an eyelash at the suited mammal. Setsuna's confusion only rose as the woman shuffled over to Izuku's face and planted her lips on his forehead, giving him a light kiss. There was a small glow—one focused on his sternum—and then it was gone.

"I'd like to heal him more," She continued, "but I don't think he has the energy for it. I'll be giving Aizawa a piece of my mind. Ah—but I can't forget about you, can I? This little tournament of yours was just the worst! I've always known you to be arrogant, Nedzu, but not reckless. We're very, very lucky young Midoriya here got the worst of it."

Setsuna suddenly felt very out of place, in this room. Like she wasn't meant to see something. A glance at Shoto told her the same story.

Nedzu… Nedzu Nedzu Nedzu… was this mammal the principal? She'd heard his name a million times, but it only dawned on her now that she'd never actually seen him—scratch that. She had. She just hadn't recognized him as the principal, in the rare public photos of him.

The mammal's shine seemed to dim a smidge at Recovery Girl's remark, but he didn't leave. Instead, he strolled up to Izuku's bed, placed a paw on him, and gave him a light pat. He whispered something—but neither Setsuna nor anyone else could hear it.

"Maybe I'm a little proud, Chiyo, but reckless? Hardly. Look at him. Alive. And he'll stay that way for his troubles. It's what he would've wanted."

All Recovery Girl did was shake her head as she stepped down from her stool.

"You shouldn't have made the choice for him. It's unfair."

"On the contrary," he replied, abandoning his place at Izuku's bedside. "Who better to answer than the one who asks? I created 1Z for a reason, you know. He'll find his place once I'm ready."

"It's always about you, isn't it?" She asked, muttering under her breath. Setsuna's ability to swallow air had disappeared ages ago.

"The school is a reflection of myself, my dear. And I've found that I'd like one of my biceps to be a bit more swollen before getting under the bench. Ms. Tokage!"

"Yes!?" She squeaked, the last ounce of air squeezed out of her. The rat-dog-man gave her a business smile—all teeth—and pulled three envelopes from his pocket. Two were blue, one was purple.

"Congrats. I hope you'll enjoy your stay in my school—to you as well, Mr. Todoroki. Please, take those blue ones home. Have your parents read the legal bits and bobs; but take a look at the syllabus yourself. It'll elaborate on class expectations, goals, etc. As for the purple one…" Nedzu said, his beady eyes darting from Izuku back to her. "To Nighteye. Chao."

While Setsuna fumbled with the thick envelopes, Nedzu slipped past and walked into a random door—the closet. All she could do was blink as the door closed behind him. A tiny metallic clang rang from within, but after that, the noise ceased.

"Don't worry about it. Just one of his tunnels." Recovery Girl said, gesturing in the closet's direction. "There's one in every room on campus, except the girl's bathrooms."

"Oh." Setsuna said, and she couldn't tell if that was comforting or not.

She glanced down at her blue envelope, rubbing her thumb over her gilded name. Setsuna Tokage. 1Z. It was thick with paper, at least a centimeter. There was an appropriate heft to it, reminiscent of the accomplishment it represented.

It was heavier in her hands by itself than had she held two. She bit her lip—again tasting her lip gloss; but now an overwhelming bitterness drowned out the small sweetness from before. Shoto, the stoic bastard he was, wasn't tear-stricken, but there was a mood to his aura that radiated disappointment.

It wasn't fair.

A knock on the clinic's door drew her attention, the tall frame of Nighteye popping through. Seeing him, dry-eyed and stone cold, she couldn't help it. She stormed up to him, her non-existent legs shaking the tile under their non-existent march, and she shoved the purple envelope into his chest. Within his eyes held a small surprise, but not a confusion. He understood.

"You knew. You knew and you didn't tell him, and he lost because of it."

Even as she said it, the words stung, but they were out and free and she couldn't take them back. He stared back at her—eye level, with her floating—and nodded.

"It was destiny. Nothing I could've done would've changed his fate."

The answer felt like placing her bare hand on livewire.

"He could've! If anyone could've, it would've been him!"

"Hey!" Recovery Girl interrupted, shushing her even as Izuku's low groan grinded against her ears. "Vacate! Take your argument anywhere but here!"

For a second, she wanted to fling herself onto Izuku's body and hold him. The urge to pepper him with love and support and hugs was immense; but more than that, in this moment, she wanted to get out. Shoving past Nighteye, she reunited with her legs and touched ground for the first time since carrying Izuku here ten minutes ago.

"Fine! I was on my way out anyway." She said, before tearing down the hall. Before she could escape the hospital ward, however, Nighteye's voice slammed into her from behind.

"He did!" He said, drilling a hole through her shoulder blades and into her heart. "More than you know, he did!"

When she turned the corner, her eyes were wet.

[x]

AN: And there you have it. A better chapter, undeniably. It was unfortunate that I had to show my hand so early; Nedzu being involved, 1Z being designed for a first-semester provisional license course, and Eraserhead's analysis, but it's out now. At this point, I know I'm still going to get some hate for this; Izuku still loses, it still doesn't feel good, and you may think it still comes out of nowhere, even though it was foreshadowed and hinted healthier for the story overall. But I'm happier with the improvements, and I think I will have won back some trust. Tell me if I didn't, I guess, but I'd rather hear more "You dids" than "You didn'ts"

I uploaded this chapter earlier than I thought; I claimed I'd post a week from now, but I can't force myself to hold onto this even though it's done. I also broke my word on Tenko; I've decided that will happen in the second half of next chapter. This arc will finish with one more scene, and I hope any more doubts will wash away.

To make a final few statements: I'm sorry if it feels like his loss in unearned. I can understand that. I do not quite understand the sheer annoyance at Aizawa being a proctor; because if I'll say it anywhere, anytime, I'll do it here and now. It was never an oversight. The sheer quantity of people annoyed at his existence here forced me to spell it out in the chapter, but he's literally there as a tool to crush whoever he goes against. He's U.A.'s Ace, their Trump Card, their Cheat Code. If All Might had still been alive, it would've been the same exact situation, and the only difference is that Toshi would feel more sympathetic about it. He's there because someone wanted him to lose, and the fact that I have to spell that out so blatantly kind of hurts.

Second of all, I made 1Z for Izuku. Why would I make a cool OC class that Izuku would never get to be in? Why would I permanently separate him from his friends? Have some faith, I'm begging. Give it time.

Finally, I'd like to send out a few thank yous. To the people whose criticism came with understanding and allowances, and whose compliments came with support. Even to that one guy who said I killed my story, I thank you. Some of the replies wanted to make me tear my hair out from frustration, but more often than not they were pleasant and surprising.

Review~ Tell me if this chapter feels better. I think it does. See you next week.