Stendhal has been in the bathroom since the moment he burst through the window of the apartment. Just below the rush of running water Izuku can hear him muttering and cursing through the door. Something must have gone really wrong, if the trail of blood and the shouted order to get ready to go are any indication. It's not the first time the man has come home bloodied from a job, so they have an established routine. Izuku has already packed up his meager belongings and wiped down any surface he can reach, but he needs Stendhal to reach the top shelves and there's still blood all over the man's discarded jacked and he's not sure what to do with it.
It doesn't usually take him this long to clean up and get ready to go, though.
The minutes pass with no sign of Stendhal being done, and the muttering is just getting louder and more frantic. Whispers of blood and crumbling society, of becoming pillars and something more filter beneath the door, muffled and nearly incomprehensible. Izuku chews his bottom lip worriedly, trying to jam the torn pieces of the puzzle he has together into a picture that might make sense. Eventually, Stendhal seems to gather some of his scattered thoughts and Izuku can just make out coordinates and lists of supplies and contacts whose names Izuku has never heard before spilling from the gap. The door is locked when he tries the handle, so he taps lightly to get the man's attention. The cursing cuts off briefly before starting up again, louder than before. Izuku has the weird feeling that Stendhal had somehow forgotten he was there.
He cringes, but softly calls, "There's a first aid kit under the sink."
There's no response. Worry is beginning to prickle along the back of his neck and make his stomach writhe. His guardian is hurt and acting stranger than usual, which is saying something considering his weird mood the last time Izuku saw him. The whole apartment reeks of blood and bleach and, though he couldn't get a good look when Stendhal came crashing into the apartment, he's pretty sure his injuries are more than just a flesh wound.
He wonders if they were caused by Koichi and that other man in the alley. He hopes they're both okay.
"They're fine, unfortunately!" a voice behind him says. "But if we're lucky, that will change soon!"
His jaw snaps shut to cut off his muttering as Izuku whirls to face the newcomer, tripping a little as he stumbles back in surprise. His back hits the bathroom door with a thud and he stares wide eyed at the stranger standing just down the hall. It's no one that he recognizes, but they just moved apartments and nobody is supposed to know about this location, so…it must be someone Stendhal knows? Someone he trusts enough to give this address. Or maybe someone sneaky enough to follow him here.
"Who are you?" he asks, keeping his back pressed to the wall. He sticks his hand into his hoodie pocket, wrapping his fingers tightly around the hilt of the knife he keeps tucked away there. The stranger looks harmless, but he knows better than to trust appearances.
"Oh, you're soooo much cuter in person," the stranger coos, stepping closer. The skirt of her school uniform swishes when she moves. Her socks are striped with neon pinks and greens that clash with the neutral tones of her uniform. She smiles, the eye not covered by a pale blue patch crinkling merrily as she flashes sharp white teeth.
"How did you get in?" he tries again, swallowing down his rising fear. Something about her is wrong and all of his senses are screaming at him that she is dangerous. She giggles as she sidles closer, caging him in, pinning him against the wall with the heat of her body. She's probably only a few years older than him, but he has to crane his head back to look her in the face.
"I-zu-kuuu~," she sings, stretching his name out like she's tasting it. From this close, he can hear a strange buzzing sound whenever her lips part. Something beneath her eyepatch bulges and his breath hitches at the sight. She seems to catch his gaze and her smile turns sharp.
"Wanna see?" she whispers, hand raising to tease at the edge of the eyepatch.
Izuku shakes his head. Her long fingers hover where they are for a long, breathless moment before the girl sighs and drops her hand, shoulders slumping like she's disappointed. She tuts, acid green eye wandering across the cracks in the wall behind Izuku's right shoulder before it snaps back to his face.
"I can't believe you didn't run away while you had the chance. Stendhal's been away doing our dirty work this whole time and you never once tried to leave, did you?"
"You're the one who hired him?"
"Of course, silly! That's how I learned all about you!"
With that, she pulls an envelope from beneath her uniform jacket and shoves it into his chest. Caught by surprise, Izuku releases his death grip on the knife and fumbles to catch the envelope before it can slip to the ground. He stares down at it, confused.
"Consider it a severance package," she says. "A special little treat just for you. I doubt daddy dearest will be hanging around much longer, so I think you'll need it!"
Izuku doesn't correct her assumption, focused instead on cautiously peeling the envelope open to peek at the bills inside. Then her words catch up to him and his head snaps up, eyes wide.
"What are you—"
"Stendhal really overestimates his value, doesn't he?" She acts like she's just talking to herself, just musing aloud, but her voice is too loud to be meant for her ears only. "He just took whatever we gave him! Knocked them all back like some nastyass shot and never once thought to make sure they hadn't been tampered with."
The girl turns on her heel, shoe squeaking against the floor, and takes several steps away before stopping. It feels like he can breathe a little easier with every inch of distance between them. She looks back over her shoulder with a coy smile as she delivers her lines like she's a performer on a stage and not tearing Izuku's world apart with every word.
"He really thought he was special, huh? He thinks he's just sooo great that nobody'd ever try anything on him. Silly thing assumed his skills were worth enough to keep him safe, but now look where it got him!"
She waves one hand over her shoulder, lazily indicating the bathroom where Izuku can hear Stendhal still talking himself through whatever issues he has. He tucks the envelope into his pocket to free up his hands and scrapes his nails down the door, trying desperately to alert his mentor that something's wrong without drawing the girl's attention.
"You hired him to do a job, didn't you? Why would you…why would you tamper with the stuff you gave him? Did you want him to fail?"
"Of course we didn't! Haven't you ever heard the saying 'two birds, one stone' before? We wanted a research subject AND someone to wipe out some pests. It was perfect!"
Izuku can feel himself trembling, mind turning her words over and over again. Cold dread is creeping up his spine like frost, curling its way through his bones and seeping into his blood. He wets his lips and tries to steady his breathing.
"What did you do?'
Her smile has lost its thin veneer of friendliness, replaced by sharp edges and sharper teeth as her lips stretch thin around them. She hums and spins a few times, skirt flaring, arms spread straight out like a child. Then, she stops abruptly before floating closer, graceful in the way only a predator can be. Izuku is backed into a corner, pinned against the door, and there is nowhere for him to go. He can hear the steady stream of water running inside the room, but his throat is so tight he cannot scream for help. It feels like one of his many nightmares and despite all his training and the knife in his pocket, in this moment he feels helpless and weak.
There is a buzzing when she opens her mouth to speak and Izuku is finding it harder to breathe. Her green eye is filled with a strange glossiness as she leans in close, nose brushing his cheek. Her voice is low, like it's a secret just for him.
"Have you ever heard of microdosing, Izuku-kun?"
He can feel the curl of her smile against his cheek and imagines her turning her head and sinking those sharp teeth into his flesh. He swallows hard and slowly shakes his head no. His hands shake around the knife, but he does not draw it as she hums and leans back. She looks disappointed, lips pushed into a pout that looks so normal it makes him dizzy.
"Man, that reveal would have been so much cooler if you did."
"Sorry?" he whispers, confused and off balance by the whiplash she's giving him.
"Whatever. You're smart. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually."
"Uh. Thank you..?"
Suddenly, her eye lights up and her smile is back, wider than before. She takes several steps back and claps her hands together, bouncing in place in what Izuku can only assume is excitement. He's reminded of Kazuho and feels a pang of grief at the sudden realization that he won't get to say goodbye to her before they leave town. He briefly wonders if maybe the two girls know each other, but he shakes the thought away as soon as it worms its way into his head. There's no way Kazuho would hang out with someone as off putting as this girl, or with someone who works closely with Stendhal.
(He ignores the irony of that thought.)
"Wanna come with me instead? The boss is always looking for new bodies, and I suspect he'll take an interest in your quirk. Analysis, right?"
Izuku feels like he's going to throw up. He is frozen with terror, with indecision, stuck between two terrible choices as she steps closer and holds out her hand.
"Think about the alternative, Izuku-kun. You wanna stay with this guy? Don't make me laugh."
Izuku's stomach flips as the door behind him opens and he's suddenly weightless, suspended as he's thrown off balance and begins to fall. The girl's eye flickers up, looking somewhere behind him, then narrows in the facsimile of a smile.
Izuku hits the ground hard enough that the air leaves his lungs in a rush. Pink tinted water has puddled on the floor and is beginning to soak into Izuku's hair and clothes as he stares wide eyed up at Stendhal's hulking form. Blood is dripping sluggishly from the crushed cartilage in the center of his mentor's face and Izuku feels his stomach flip at the sight. He tries to roll to the side, tries to sit up to keep the vomit crawling its way up his throat from choking him, but freezes when Stendhal's boot presses into his chest, pinning him in place. Red eyes glare down at him, scarier than even the horrific injury just below them, and Izuku forces himself to swallow down the nausea and stay perfectly still.
"Don't think I've forgotten the trouble you've gotten us in," Stendhal hisses, eyes flashing dangerously before he turns his attention to the girl. "And you. What the hell do you think you're doing here?"
"Oh noooo," she gasps, drawn out and childish and painfully apparent she doesn't care at all. "You're even uglier than usual! Maybe a little more blood would make you feel better."
A shudder rolls through the man and Izuku squeaks as the boot resting on his chest gets a little heavier. Stendhal's fingers flex at his side, curling like he's imagining wrapping them around the girl's throat and squeezing.
"No," he growls, low and slow as he leans forward, head tilting side to side in a jerky, gut wrenching manner. Izuku's fingers scrabble at his boot, trying to move it, to relieve the pressure on his chest and the subsequent terror bubbling in his throat and choking him. "You tempted me, made me weak and reliant on the easiest ways to eliminate my marks, but I've learned my lesson. I know that what I truly lack is resolve."
"Resolve?" the girl repeats, voice high and choked like she's holding back laughter. "You're kidding, right? You really think that's the problem?"
Stendhal growls, low and rumbling, and takes a threatening step forward. Izuku gasps as the weight lifts from his chest, sputtering and coughing as air rushes back into his lungs. He forces his body to move, pushes himself to his knees to scramble out of the way, pressed into the corner with his knees drawn tight to his chest. He can already feel the tenderness of a developing bruise. Tears blur his vision and his knife trembles in his hand as he holds it out in front of him. The blade glints wetly in the dim yellow light. In front of him, Stendhal draws one of his own knives from his waistband and points it towards the girl. Her visible eye goes wide, green and acidic and full of glee as he turns the knife on his own face.
"What are you doing?!" Izuku cries, frozen to the spot in horrified disbelief as the wet crunch of the knife sawing through cartilage fills the air around them. "Stop!"
"Oh, no, this is great! Keep going!" the girl jeers, cackling and clapping her hands. "Show me your resolve!"
Stendhal roars (screams) and the knife hits the ground with a clatter, along with the wet plop of something else.
Izuku sobs, searching the bathroom for something to stem the blood gushing from his mentor's face and dripping to the ground below, mixing with the pink water that has begun spilling over the threshold of the bathroom and into the hallway beyond. He doesn't want to see it, doesn't want to know what Stendhal's done to himself, but he can't just let him bleed out.
"Oh god," he whimpers. "Oh god oh god oh god."
"I think you're scaring poor Izuku-kun," the girl tuts, wagging one long finger at Stendhal. "Better be careful, or you'll scare him away for good."
"Keep his name out of your fucking mouth!" Stendhal roars, and in one smooth motion a knife is drawn and flies from his hand, cuts through her eyepatch, and sinks deep into her skull. Izuku watches silently as she collapses, limp and lifeless and this isn't right, his mentor wouldn't kill her, he's never killed; only hurt, only taught lessons, only incapacitated long enough for the police to come. She isn't dead, she can't be dead.
"W-we need a doctor," Izuku manages to croak out, hand finding a rag buried in the pile of last night's dirty clothes. It is already stained a muddy maroon from the nights Izuku's stumbled home with split lips and scraped knuckles. He pulls himself to his feet, stumbles his way towards Stendhal, hand catching in the fabric of his shirt. The white knuckled grip is the only thing keeping him on his feet as he stares at the crumpled heap in front of him, searching for the rise and fall of her chest or the twitch of her fingers. He does his best to ignore the lump of red mere inches from his foot and tries not to look at Stendhal's face. Pressing the rag into a large, bloodied hand, Izuku tries to pretend that this is just like any other fight on any other night.
"You need to see the doctor," he repeats, tugging gently on the fabric twisted between his fingers. The girl is totally still, but he shoves that fact aside and does his best to push ahead. "I can carry her if you can't. You both have to—"
"Shut. Up." Stendhal's voice is so quiet, yet it rings through the apartment as though he had screamed the words. "We're leaving."
"But what about—"
"Now."
He can't move. It's like every muscle in his body has been frozen stiff, locked in place by the disbelief and shock pooling like boiling water in his stomach. Stendhal seems to notice, and after a moment of consideration he leans down to scoop him up and toss him across his back like when he was young and couldn't make the jump from one roof to the next during patrols.
They step over the girl's limp body like she is nothing more than trash. The green of her blankly staring eye matches the stripes on her socks. Her chipped nail polish is a pale, sparkly pink.
Izuku buries his head in Stendhal's shoulder, trying desperately to block out the world. He breathes in the familiar smell of sweat and blood, feels the soft press of worn cotton against his forehead, and does his best to muffle his sobs.
.
It's past midnight and Tensei knows that Koichi won't answer, but he calls anyway. Despite that, it's a surprise when the call goes straight to voicemail instead of ringing out, and he has only a second to prepare himself before the beep sounds.
"Hey, Koichi. I'm just calling with a quick question about, uh, Yudai. Has he ever told you his last name? I found something and it just got me thinking…." He trails off, eyes drawn once more to the computer screen in front of him.
In the darkness of the room, Midoriya Izuku's smiling face fills the screen and burns itself into his retinas. His picture and a brief overview of the case had been sent to the Ingenium agency along with a few other major agencies four years prior, despite the case having been considered cold for years. Tensei supposes the Midoriya family must have an anonymous benefactor of some sort looking out for them, because the case file had been sent along with a request for heroes to keep an eye out.
When the request had come in four years before, Tesei hadn't given it much thought. As tragic as it was, it wasn't an unusual story. The reality was that, as much as he may hate to admit it, solving a years-old missing persons case wasn't likely to happen.
Now, though, he's beginning to wonder.
He shakes his head, silently chiding himself for the awkward pause that is now recorded for Koichi to laugh at. He clears his throat awkwardly and continues on.
"Uh, well, just give me a call when you get this. If I don't hear from you before Tuesday, I'll see you at our usual spot."
He ends the call and lays the phone on the desk, raising a hand to massage his temple, praying the dull thudding in his skull doesn't develop into a migraine.
There's no reason to think that Yudai is Midoriya Izuku. It's not like he's the only child in Japan with green hair and freckles. It would be easy to brush the thought aside, to forget all about Izuku and focus on his own cases and responsibilities. Yudai is probably just like any other kid.
But he just can't shake the gut feeling that there's something more happening.
.
They had only made it halfway across Naruhata before Stendhal had collapsed. Izuku managed to drag him into the nearest abandoned building, choosing an empty room as high up as he could go before his shaking legs dictated that they could go no further. He prays that the dust and filth don't get into the weeping hole in the middle of his mentor's face as he lays him flat on his back and goes to find the nearest bathroom. If they're lucky, the water will still be on and he won't have to go too far to get something to clean up his mentor's face.
When the man wakes an hour later, his blurry eyes find Izuku and his face twists with surprise. Izuku doesn't understand why, until he speaks.
"You're still here," he rasps, and his voice sounds hollow. Izuku swallows around the lump that rises like bile in his throat.
"Of course. I can't leave you when you're hurt like this."
Stendhal's eyes roll slowly around the room before focusing on the yawning doorway just across the room. His brow furrows before he winces and smooths his features, hissing between his teeth. His gaze is focused on Izuku's face again when he opens his eyes, searching his features like the answers to the universe's secrets are hidden in the space between his freckles.
"You won't get a chance like this again."
"I know."
It hurts to say it, to admit that he could leave but won't. He is squandering his only chance to run when Stendhal can't follow, at least not right away. But there's a small piece of him that wonders, where would he even go? Does his mother still remember him, or has she forgotten him the way he's begun to forget her? Is it safe to go to the police? The heroes? He isn't even sure that they could help him if he did.
"Then why?" Stendhal prompts when his silence stretches on too long.
Izuku pushes back those thoughts, focuses only on the truth laid out in front of him. It's easier that way. He curls his lips, just a little, just enough to pretend that his smile is real and comforting like it should be.
"You'll die if I do."
"Maybe it's what I deserve."
"Don't say that!"
His voice cracks, smile abandoned, a sob close to spilling out as tears try to overflow. He shakes his head and scrubs angrily at his face with the sleeve of his All Might hoodie. For the first time, Stendhal notes that he is covered in blood, drops and splatters soaking through the bright colors of his clothes. A streak of blood is left in the wake of his sleeve's feeble attempts to wipe away the tears, painting his cheek with a macabre display of devotion. It hurts to smile, but the ghost of one twitches at the corner of Stendhal's mouth regardless.
"I killed people," Stendhal says, and he watches with a strange sense of fascination as Izuku's face contorts before settling into stoney determination.
"You only did it because that girl made you! She was giving you something bad."
"Izuku, it's not—"
"No! Shut up! You're supposed to be teaching me to be a hero, and heroes are good! If you're doing that, then it means that it's all for nothing and that – that I—" he cuts himself off with another choked sob, unable to finish the thought out loud.
Stendhal's mouth shuts with a click and the hole where his nose used to be whistles as he breathes deep, watching Izuku's face twist and contort as he tries to collect himself, tries to keep from falling apart. He isn't sure what to say to that; he knows that the kid has some idea that he engages in less than savory activities to keep the streets safe. They've discussed it before, how sometimes heroes need help taking care of problems they can't reach because of red tape and restricting laws. He can't understand why Izuku is acting so strange now – why he's having such a hard time making the leap from "beat half to death" to "beat fully to death." He's not in any position to argue right now, though. Not when things are so precarious; not when Izuku could walk out any time he wants.
"Okay," he says soothingly, listening to the little hiccuping breaths as Izuku tries and fails to stop crying. "We don't have to talk about it right now. Okay?"
Izuku nods, still sniffling. Stendhal wishes he had some painkillers. Wishes the kid would stop crying long enough for the vague notion of guilt to stop eating away at his insides. The seconds tick by, silent aside from their labored breathing. Finally, when it gets to be too much, Izuku pushes himself shakily to his feet.
"I'm going to get medical supplies. We need something to wrap your wound with, and ointment to keep it clean."
"Find some tylenol while you're at it," Stendhal mutters, too tired to put any effort towards trying to sound nice. After a critical glance, he adds, "And change your clothes. You look like shit."
If the tone bothers him, Izuku doesn't say anything. His face is carefully blank as he says, "We left the apartment without our stuff, remember? I don't have anything to change into."
"Oh." A long pause as he considers this, trying to remember why he would have left those things behind, then, "Well turn your shirt inside out. Maybe it will help."
Izuku does as he says, face unreadable. The blood hasn't fully saturated the thick fleece lining so it isn't as noticeable, but the faint twitch as the sticky insides drag across his bare arms tells Stendhal that the kid doesn't appreciate the feeling.
"I'm going now," Izuku says. "Don't move around too much when I'm gone or you'll hurt yourself more. Okay?"
"Okay."
Stendhal watches him disappear into the darkened hall, listens as his steps echo through the cavernous emptiness of the building and the slam of a heavy metal door. He allows his head to thump back to the dirty carpeting beneath him, groaning softly as the action sends a sharp jolt of fire through his face and sets his entire head to painful throbbing. It's going to be a rough recovery period and he's dreading every moment of it. He suspects that Izuku isn't planning on returning, much less with medical supplies, which means he'll be on his own until he can get enough strength back to go get his own.
Once he's had time to recover, it won't be hard to hunt the kid down and bring him back. Finding people has been part of his job for years, and Izuku has much less experience hiding than most of the people he hunts. The tracking feature on his phone also helps, of course.
There's nothing he can do about it now, but he's already planning his route back to the apartment to collect the rest of his weapons and belongings. If Izuku goes to the police right away, they may clear out the apartment before he's able to get there. As his eyes slip closed, exhaustion overtaking him, he wonders how many officers he will have to kill before Izuku agrees to come back home with him.
.
Tensei:
Hello. I'm sorry to bother you, but have you heard from Koichi? He didn't show up for our usual run yesterday and hasn't been returning my calls.
Pop Step:
hi? he didnt tell you?
Tensei:
Tell me what?
Pop Step:
im going to kill him with my bare hands
the dumbass lost his phone
and got himself stabbed
hes fine tho
dont worry
Tensei:
Excuse me? Which hospital is he at?
Pop Step:
hes home now
Tensei:
Did they catch the person who did it?
Pop Step:
nope
but we know who it was
sort of
Tensei:
?
Pop Step:
yudais uncle
so if you see him dont let him go home
ok?
Tensei:
Yes, of course. Thank you for telling me. Please call me if you find him and I can get him into protective custody.
Pop Step:
will do. be careful.
and
thanks
.
The slam of the door jolts him awake. The sliver of sky he can see through the cracked, grime coated window shows that the sky is beginning to grow dark, the last hint of sunlight just barely clinging to the tops of buildings. There's only one person approaching, and he recognizes the quick little steps right away. He swallows, mouth dry as a desert, and blinks through the haze in his mind to focus on the boy shuffling through the open doorway with an armload of supplies. Stendhal wonders if he stole it.
Izuku heaves a soft sigh, tension draining from his frame as he sets his haul down by the wall and turns towards Stendhal. He freezes when he sees the man awake and watching him, green eyes going big in his pallid face. Stendhal wonders why.
"You came back," he rasps, throat aching like he's been gargling razor blades. He tastes blood. Izuku looks confused by his words, head tilting and forehead furrowing as he meets Stendhal's hooded gaze.
"Of course I did," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "What kind of hero would I be if I didn't?"
Chizome knows he has to keep him.
This resolve only grows as the days pass and he recovers at a painfully slow pace with Izuku staying by his side, chewing his lips until they bleed as he tends to Stendhal's wounds. He has to help him with everything, from supporting his weight as he stumbles to the bathroom to lifting his head to help him drink water. They exist on protein bars and the brown-tinted water from the bathroom tap, and huddle together in the evenings to stay warm. At some point Izuku goes out and returns with a bundle of stained blankets to fight off the unyielding chill.
On the third day Izuku waits, huddled against the wall, as Stendhal rages and screams for blood. Sweat is pouring down his face and back despite the chill in the air and his head is so full of buzzing white noise that he can't string two thoughts together. The gaping wound on his face begins to bleed again, and when he's collapsed to the floor and gone very still, Izuku unwinds himself from the floor and creeps forward to wipe the blood from his skin with cold hands that tremble against his hot face.
"This isn't you," he whispers in his tiny voice, a strange reminder of just how young he is. He sounds choked with unshed tears. Stendhal doesn't bother to respond.
On the fifth day he listens dutifully as Chizome regales him with stories of his childhood. He's well enough to stand, to playfully act out tiny parts of his tales and bring them to life for the delight of his kid. Despite the way his head spins and his nasal cavity fills with blood and makes it hard to breathe, he is determined to push through.
Izuku's eyes go bright and sparkly when he tells him about his days at UA, miming fighting off another student with just a stick during their hero training course. Something in his gut twists unpleasantly when he realizes it's the first time in a while that he's seen the kid genuinely excited about something, laughing and clapping and playing along.
"That's where All Might went!" Izuku yells, making Chizome's ears ring. His headache intensifies but he ignores it in favor of staring at Izuku's huge grin, which showcases the gap in his teeth. Stendhal doesn't remember him mentioning that he'd lost another baby tooth. "That's so cool. Why didn't you tell me before, Stendhal?"
"It's Chizome," he says immediately, watching as Izuku goes very still. It's a risky move born from nothing more than a whim, but Izuku's showed his loyalty these last few months. He deserves to know this much, at least.
"Huh?"
"My name. It's Akaguro Chizome."
Izuku repeats the name, softly, like he's not sure he's allowed to say it out loud. His eyes slip closed, cataloguing this new information. Not for the first time, Chizome regrets telling the kid to work on his mumbling habit; he'd kill to know what thoughts this tiny scrap of information have stirred to life in the kid's mind. It's moments like this that remind him why he had been so convinced the kid had a mental quirk those first few years. If he hadn't seen the x-ray of his pinky toe with his own eyes, he never would have believed he was wrong.
When Izuku's eyes open again, they seem darker. Chizome can't read the meaning behind that gaze, but something about it sinks cold and deep into his brain before coiling tight in his chest. The look is gone before he can think too much about it and that too-bright smile is back.
"I'm going out," Izuku announces on the seventh day. "We need more food and bandages."
He smiles as he leaves, and there is no indication that anything is wrong, but Chizome feels a strange sinking sensation regardless. The metal door slams shut with a sense of finality and as the echo fades, he pushes himself to his feet. Maybe it's time he goes back for his swords.
.
Tensei isn't sure why he had agreed to meet the newest sidekick for lunch halfway across the city. He had just wanted to be welcoming, but instead he's feeling rushed and harried, mind on the case files strewn across his desk. He can't seem to summon any dregs of excitement for lunch at a new place, but he knows he'll have to plaster on a smile for the sake of the newest addition to the agency.
He's not the only person who braved the chilly winter air for the sake of a meal. The lunch rush is in full swing, men and women in suits shouldering their way through the throngs of people, completely unafraid to get a little violent if it means they'll actually get to enjoy their break at the eatery of their choice. Despite his broad build and the height he has on many of his peers, the crush of the crowd is almost enough to send him scurrying back to the safety of the office. He watches a woman in a pencil skirt shove two men twice her size out of the way and wonders whether civilians really need heroes to keep them safe. It seems all society needs to do is have a villain stand between an office worker and a hot lunch, and things would sort themselves out just fine.
He ducks his head to hide his smile in the folds of his scarf. The blue wool is scratchy and leaves a blue tint to his skin if he sweats while wearing it, but Tenya had gifted it to him for his birthday and he can't bear the thought of not wearing something his little brother had so lovingly picked out for him. He lets the rush of the crowd flow past him, staying aware of the chaotic ebb and flow of civilians but continuing on at his own steady pace.
Years of experience guide his instinct, catching when something is out of place more surely than he could while paying careful attention. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle as a strange feeling of unease fills him, choking off his idle thoughts. Though there is no shift or break in the crowd, nothing to indicate that something is wrong, Tensei goes rigid as he feels someone skirt past him, quick and unobtrusive as a whisper. He scans the crowd, looking for someone trying too hard to not stick out, but he sees nothing but business suits and harried expressions. He frowns, thinks that maybe he's been working too hard, that he's too high strung and imagining danger where there isn't any.
Then, a flash of green. His eyes go wide as he sees the boy from the picture slipping through the crowd like a wraith, and he can't help but think, no way.
The child is dirty and thin, his clothes frayed at the hems and stained a familiar reddish brown in a few places. Tensei's stomach lurches and he shoves through the crowd, fighting to keep the boy in sight. The adults don't spare a glance towards a child in their midst, ignoring someone who so obviously needs help, but they certainly have the time to curse at Tensei as he knocks them aside.
"Midoriya!" he yells, trying desperately to be heard over the crowd. The boy doesn't react and Tensei has a second to wonder if maybe his theory is wrong. He adapts and tries again, voice raising until it is almost a roar that he is sure can be heard over the bustle of the crowd. "Yudai!"
At this, the kid freezes. His eyes raise, scanning the rooftops, then the crowd, until his gaze comes to rest squarely on Tensei. He seems to consider him, expression hooded and scared. The crowd parts as they pass him like a river around a stone, no one willing to let their perfectly pressed slacks brush against someone so filthy.
Despite the fury that roils inside him, Tensei keeps his expression open and friendly. It's not the first time he's seen something like this and he knows that the last thing a victim needs is to think he's angry at them.
Yudai's shoulders are hunched against the winter cold, one hand held tight against his chest and hidden by the sleeve of his too-big hoodie. The other hand is clutching a shopping bag so tightly his bones press white against chapped skin, and through the semi-opaque plastic he can just barely make out the outline of a box of bandages and a small bottle of pills. Tensei forces his smile to become gentler, to shed any hint of suspicion or anger, to focus only on the child in front of him.
"Are you Yudai?" he asks, kneeling, hands held open and loose in plain view. He sees Yudai's eyes flicker over him, searching his face, his hands, his clean clothes and heavy coat and nice sneakers. Koichi had told him the kid was smart, but there's something unnerving about the way he is being picked apart by those sharp eyes.
"Do you need something from me?" the boy asks, and his head falls forward and he looks so so tired. There's a resignation to him, a quiet acceptance that Tensei doesn't know the deeper meaning of but decides he hates all the same.
"No, I don't need anything. I'm a friend of Koichi and Haneyama. They wanted me to meet you."
Yudai's eyes go big, the first spark of life bleeding back into them as he risks a look back up at Tensei's gentle face. His hand falls from its protective spot by his chest and Tensei notes that the material moves strangely, like there's something more than just his hand concealed beneath the fabric. He tries not to think too hard about why Yudai might feel the need to hide a knife when meeting a new person. That's a bridge he'll gladly burn at a later date, after he finds this kid a stellar therapist.
"Is Koichi okay?"
"Yes, he's home now and doing just fine."
"Thank goodness," Yudai whispers, body relaxing as his eyes glisten with gathering tears. A smile trembles at his lips, somehow highlighting the gauntness of his cheeks and the bags beneath his eyes, before it disappears just as quick. He takes a small step back, biting his lip. "I'm not supposed to talk to people," he says, and the words sound hollow and rehearsed. "I should go."
Tensei winces when a cold wind blows past. Yudai shivers, chin dropping to his chest as he crosses his arms to shield himself from the bitter cold. The bag in his hand swings in the wind, knocking against Yudai's chest with the deafening rattle of a pill bottle. A pang goes through him and he wonders how anyone could have ignored this boy's obvious neglect for this long. Still, the crowd moves past them without more than a scowling glance. Their gaze sends prickles across his skin, the vague notion of being watching feeling like danger to his senses, but he ignores it in favor of the boy trembling before him.
"Here," he says, shrugging off his coat.
Yudai looks confused, then shocked as Tensei reaches slowly forward and lays the coat across his narrow shoulders, careful to telegraph every movement so the boy doesn't startle. It is massive on him, the bottom coming to rest below his knees, but as Tensei fastens the top few buttons he can already see a flush of warmth returning to the boy's wind-chapped face.
"No, I can't accept this!" he gasps, trembling fingers reaching up from beneath the thick material to fumble with the buttons. "You'll be cold!"
Tensei catches his hand, shakes his head, and says. "I want you to have it."
"Why?" Yudai asks, and the tears that have been gathering finally spill over. Their trek cuts through the smudge of dirt on his cheeks and Tensei wants nothing more than to pull the boy close and hold him, to tell him he's safe now and won't have to live like this anymore. His chest aches as he forces himself to hold back.
"Because I care," Tensei tells him gently, and continues at the dubious expression on Yudai's face. "And because it's my job to protect people who need help."
At this, Yudai goes very still. He stares at him through wet lashes, blinking slowly, and Tensei can almost see the thoughts spinning through his mind. He burrows further into the coat, pulling it tightly around his shoulders like a security blanket.
"Your job?" Yudai repeats in a voice barely above a whisper. Tensei nods and fishes in his pants pocket for his license. He holds it out, lets Yudai take it with tiny, trembling hands. The boy's red rimmed eyes dart over the words, squinting as he struggles through unfamiliar kanji and then widening as he realizes what he's looking at.
"Ingenium," Yudai whispers, lifting his gaze to stare with open wonder at the unmasked face of a pro hero. Tensei feels almost shy under such an intense look. He laughs and rubs sheepishly at his neck, but manages a brilliant smile if only to help the kid feel more relaxed.
"Yep, that's me!"
Yudai's eyes are big as meteors and full of some strange emotion that Tensei doesn't know how to read. It makes him feel strange and he rubs his neck again to chase away the creeping sense of unease. The goosebumps rising across his skin aren't just from his lack of a coat. His eyes cut towards the rooftops, then scan the thinning crowds and dark alleys. There's a pair of women watching him suspiciously from a storefront window, eyes narrowed. Both have their phone in hand like they intend to call for help if they suspect Tensei has bad intentions. It's actually rather sweet and he allows himself to relax and turn his attention back towards Yudai.
"You know what a hero's job is, right?"
Yudai hesitantly nods. His voice is a dry rasp as he whispers, "Heroes help people."
"That's right." He reaches out and rests a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. Yudai's form goes stiff but he doesn't pull away. Seeing his face this close, Tensei's suspicions seem to solidify and gain new life. Taking a leap of faith, he says, "Do you need help, Izuku?"
The boy's eyes grow impossibly wider. His face drains of any hint of color as he stumbles back, and it is only Tensei's gentle grip on his shoulder that stops him from collapsing or maybe making a run for it.
"H-how do you know that n-name?"
Tensei doesn't answer his question. He meets Izuku's eyes, the same shape and shade as the pixelated photo he had spent so much time memorizing just a few nights before, and notes that the green is so much more vibrant in person.
"I want to help," he says. "Will you let me help you?"
Izuku stares back and Tensei would have thought he'd been frozen in place if not for the way the handle of the plastic shipping bag crinkles as his hands tighten their grip. He is shaking head to toe, lips parted slightly as he chokes on the words trying so desperately to escape his throat. Slowly, like he's afraid it will hurt to admit it, Izuku nods.
"Please," he whispers.
Tensei gives him another smile and Izuku's own trembles upon his face in return. The kid wants to say something, Tensei can tell because he has the same shy look that every child meeting a hero gets, and he waits patiently for him to speak while mentally going through the various safehouses he can take the kid to and trying to recall who his contact will be for a case like this. Before Izuku can get a word out, though, his eyes cut to the side and focus somewhere just beyond Tensei's shoulder. The sweet little smile drops immediately, blood draining from his face and a look of terror overtaking him. Tensei has just enough time for his heart to clench in his chest before his world erupts into blinding pain.
He stumbles, falls, trying to catch himself but failing. He blinks and finds that all he can see is pavement and flashing lights, his head splitting open and the smell of blood permeating the air. There is a frenzy of shouts, the last few people on the street yelling for someone to call for help, but over that there is the high horrible sounds of a child screaming and he tries to stand, tries to rush towards the sound with everything in him but he can't and he realizes that he's been hit from behind, head and legs, concussion so he'll be disoriented and tendons targeted so he can't pursue them. Even through the shock, he can recognize the work of a professional.
The palms of his hands sting as he forces himself to his knees, eyes searching wildly through the haze of pain for a flash of green. Time seems to slow down for him as he revs up his quirk, the engines in his arms sputtering beneath the heavy fabric of his sweater. He scans the street, ignoring the man kneeling beside him, one arm stretching slowly forward to grab his arm and haul him to his feet. Unless the man who has taken Izuku has a speed quirk as well he should be able to—
There!
He sees Izuku, slung haphazardly over a man's broad shoulders, eyes bright with fear as he reaches towards Tensei, mouth open in a frozen cry as he watches Tensei's blood stain the grey street red. The man turns his head and Tensei sees the bandages on his face, stained brown with old blood. His mouth moves, voice too low for Tensei to hear, as he says something into Izuku's ear. The boy stops struggling as a shocked expression flashes across his features. His whole body goes limp like all the fight's been knocked out of him and he drops his head, burying his face in the man's shoulder just as the tears quivering on his lashes fall.
Tensei ignores the pain in his head and the agony that flares up his entire leg as he lurches forward, letting his engines roar and igniting the sleeves of his sweater in a burst of sparks and flames. The man beside him cries out as he is knocked backwards but Tensei doesn't have time to worry about the man's wounded pride or dirtied business suit. He reaches from within the wreath of flames, yelling Izuku's name. He sees his head jerk up, green eyes wide and face pale as he stares at Tensei, watching him draw closer despite the wounds making his left leg all but useless. Izuku does not struggle against the man's hold, but Tensei can see the desperate desire to be saved etched into every tired line on his face.
Every fiber of his being aches to answer that call but he's slow, too slow, and he can do nothing but watch as the man carrying Izuku whirls around, a snarl on his face. There is a sword in his hand, stained red with Tensei's blood. The bandages on his face unravel, just a little, just enough to see the gaping hole in the center of his face, raw and weeping with infection.
The man swings his sword at a speed that shouldn't be possible for someone without a speed quirk, angles it up and towards Izuku's back. It hovers there like a threat, like a promise, while the boy clings to him unaware of the danger he's in.
Or maybe he's just used to it.
Tensei's stomach rolls and he forces himself to slow until he has frozen, mere meters away, arm still outstretched and leg trembling. Without the forward momentum from his engines, it takes less than a second for his injured leg to fold beneath him in slow motion, sending him crumpling helplessly to the ground. He watches Izuku's face fall before settling into quiet acceptance. The expression is so much worse than he could have ever imagined. Izuku's lips part as though to speak but, once more, Tensei doesn't get the chance to hear what he has to say.
With the bitter echo of a smile, the man's grip on the boy gets tighter. Izuku whimpers, seeming surprised by the pain, and the man leaps towards the dangling ladder of a fire escape. The sword clatters to the ground, abandoned to make their escape just that much easier. With the immediate threat gone Tensei tries to follow, pulls himself up with only three limbs and ignores the way the world around him lurches and spins as he bites back screams of pain, but by the time he reaches the landing the pair are long gone.
.
The air leaves his lungs in a rush as Izuku is thrown roughly to the ground, head bouncing painfully against the dirty carpet. Chizome is wheezing with the exertion of carrying him back to the building they have been camping out in and blood is misting from the cavity in his face with every breath. He pushes himself to his knees as soon as he's managed to fill his lungs again. His whole body shakes as he watches his mentor (his kidnapper, a long buried part of his mind hisses before he forces it back down) pace the desolate space like a caged animal.
He swallows around the lump in his throat and shifts backwards until he hits the wall. He forces himself to his feet, trying to pretend like his legs aren't shaking so violently they're at risk of buckling beneath his weight. He wets his lips and pulls the massive coat a little tighter around his shoulders like the heavy material can protect him from Stendhal's wrath. Whatever punishment is coming for him, he knows he'll deserve it now that he's broken the most important rule. Deciding it's better to just get it over with, he takes a deep breath and straightens his spine.
"Chizome," he says, and doesn't bother trying to hide his wince as the man's furious red eyes turn their focus on him. He grits his teeth and balls his hands at his side, nerves wavering. Chizome speaks before Izuku can say anything else.
"You were seen!" he spits, stalking closer. "With a hero. What did you tell him?"
"Nothing," Izuku mutters, not able to meet his eye. "I didn't tell him anything."
"Don't lie to me."
Chizome's hands are shaking, but Izuku isn't sure why. He just stares at those shaking hands, waiting for something to happen. His chest feels hot and tight, aching like something is clawing at his insides, begging for escape.
"I'm not lying." His voice is hardly loud enough to be called a whisper. The distant scream of sirens is almost enough to cover the way his words shake. Stendhal barks out a laugh.
"I saw you talking to him! Don't lie to me! Don't try to—"
"If I knew he was a hero, do you think I'd still be here?!" Izuku demands, fury bubbling up his throat and finding escape between his lips. "If I had any idea who I was talking to, don't you think I would have begged him then and there to take me far away from this mess? Far away from you?!"
His voice breaks like glass, like trust, like the childhood he never got to have. Stendhal reels back as though Izuku has hit him. For a brief second, his eyes are wide and wet and full of hurt. Izuku feels guilt begin to soak the heat out of his anger. He slumps, head bowed, and doesn't see the way that the man's expression turns cold.
Chizome's fingers are cold as he tilts Izuku's chin up, forcing him to meet his stormy gaze. His large hand slides to cup his cheek, the gentle touch a stark contrast against the look in his eyes and the hard set of his jaw. He tilts his head as though he's considering something, and Izuku gets the fleeting thought that it would be so easy for the man who raised him to snap his neck right here and now.
"I should have known you weren't ready yet," he murmurs, hot breath ghosting across Izuku's face. "But don't worry – we can fix that. You won't be leaving again."
Izuku's blood freezes in his veins.
.
The following hours feel just like those first weeks with Stendhal, locked away and helpless to escape. The bathroom door has been blocked from the outside, his hands bound behind his back, and Izuku's just…too tired to fight. He knows this routine too well to be scared anymore, so he sits and he waits for whatever the next step will be. The image of Ingenium collapsing to the ground, blood staining the concrete beneath his feet and running down his face to soak into his scarf, plays in his head every time he closes his eyes. The smell of clothes melting into skin refuses to leave his nose. Maybe it would have looked cool in a movie, but the sight and the smell of Ingenium burning is going to be nightmare fodder for months. Just one of the many terrible moments from the last week he will get to revisit over and over again. The sound of sirens have long since faded, and his stomach twists painfully when he thinks too hard about the fact that they had never even sounded like they were coming close to their location.
No one's coming to save him.
They never have before, so he's not sure why it hurts so much more now. His head makes a hollow thud as he knocks it against the wall, teeth gritted hard enough that his jaw creaks as he does his best to keep the tears at bay. They won't do him any good right now and he doesn't want Stendhal to know he's been crying once he returns.
When the door finally swings open, Izuku stands and follows Stendhal without a word out of the bathroom and towards the stairwell. The man keeps casting him strange looks, the line of his shoulders tense like he's expecting something to happen. As they begin the slow descent towards the street, Stendhal clears his throat and stops a few stairs down. He turns back to face Izuku, now at his eye level, and speaks.
"If you do anything or say anything to try to get someone's attention, you'll regret it."
"You won't hurt me," Izuku says, soft and contrite, but confident. That familiar half-smile flickers across Stendhal's lips, made ghastly by the gaping wound directly above it. It is there and gone, an apparition of dying happiness. He shakes his head.
"No, kid. Not you. I'd never hurt you."
Izuku is confused for only the breadth of a heartbeat, just enough time for his mind to parse the words, break them down and assign meaning. His face drains of all color, the spattering of freckles standing in stark contrast against his sallow skin. Stendhal's words from all those weeks before echo in his head, that barely concealed threat.
I know where your mother lives.
Izuku bites his tongue and follows silently as they make it down the stairs and to the street and doesn't fight when Stendhal sits him on the back seat of a car he's never seen before, right beside the backpack he recognizes as having been abandoned back at the temporary apartment. As Stendhal drapes a blanket over his head, some distant part of him wonders if Stendhal bothered to move the girl's body or if he just left her there to rot. Would her parents ever know what happened to her or would they always wonder why their daughter never came home?
(Will his mother ever know why he didn't come home? He hopes she knows it wasn't his choice.)
As the car begins to move, Izuku curls up tighter on the back seat. With his face buried in his knees and his hands tied behind his back, he allows himself to drift, images of Ingenium's gentle smile and bloodied face playing behind his eyes until he finally falls asleep.
.
It is dark by the time they stop, the jolting of the car waking him from his troubled sleep. His hands feel numb and he flexes his fingers with a grimace. At some point the blanket had slipped from his head and as he blinks the sleep from his eyes, he realizes that he recognized where they were.
"We're home?" he asks, surprise lacing his voice. Stendhal's shoulders hunch before he heaves a sigh and visibly forces himself to relax them.
"Not for long," Stendhal murmurs as he opens the door and comes around to the back to let Izuku out. He stumbles a little as he climbs from the car, legs asleep from the scrunched position on the back seat. With his hands still bound behind him, he's more or less resigned to toppling to the ground before Stendhal reaches forward and steadies him. Izuku stares up at him with surprise; after what happened, he hadn't expected the man to ever be that gentle with him again.
"Are you going to try to run if I untie you?" Stendhal asks. Izuku knows the consequences if he does, knows it is not his life but his mother's that will be forfeit if he tries. He shakes his head and does his best not to wince as Stendhal's knife makes quick work of his bindings, the blade nicking him and leaving a few crimson drops on the sidewalk beneath his feet. He sighs in relief and tries to rub the circulation back into his hands.
In spite of everything, Izuku feels like a weight is being lifted from his chest as he climbs the dirty concrete steps of the apartment building he's spent most of his life in. This place is at least familiar. It's the closest thing to a home he knows.
The door opens silently despite the rust on the hinges. Izuku smiles as he switches the light on and sees the collection of odds and ends that have made up the last six years of his life. The notebook he had last been working on lays undisturbed on the dining table, right next to an admittedly out of date book on quirk theory and an empty water bottle. A thin layer of dust clings to every surface and Izuku tries to remember if Chizome had washed the cleaning rags before they'd left for Naruhata or not. They'd spent much longer away from their apartment than expected, and he is dreading the thought of clearing the fridge of rotten food.
The door closes behind him, latch clicking softly and followed by the sound of several locks being engaged. The bricks blocking what should have been the windows remain firmly in place, as solid as the day he was first imprisoned here and Chizome is as large and imposing as he's ever been. Still, Izuku doesn't feel trapped in this apartment right now despite the way Chizome lurks behind him, still standing silently by the door.
When Izuku turns to face him, his smile slips just a little. Chizome is staring through him with glassy, unfocused eyes that make his stomach churn with unease. It feels out of place within the illusion of safety allowed by this familiar apartment, and is a stark reminder of everything that's gone wrong recently. Izuku swallows down the lump in his throat and steps deeper into the apartment, further from Chizome. There's a beat of heavy silence.
"Go get your things," his mentor says, still looking past Izuku like he's not there at all. His tone leaves no room for argument. Before spending so much time apart, Izuku would have voiced his thoughts while jumping to follow the command after having been conditioned to do so for so many years. Now, though, his feet stay planted firmly in place.
"Why? Are we leaving again?"
"Yes. Go get your things." A pause and Izuku watches with a sinking feeling as Chizome's eyes sharpen but do not lose their glazed look. "And bring me your notebooks."
Izuku wants to stomp his foot, wants to scream and cry and throw the temper tantrum that's been building steadily beneath his skin for years, but as he opens his mouth to protest, Chizome's face hardens like he's anticipating the response. There's something unhinged and dangerous in his expression, fingers curling at his sides like Izuku's seen him do before a fight. His lips pull back in a snarl, top lip brushing the dark cavern of his missing nose, and Izuku's mouth snaps shut with an audible click as he decides this isn't a battle he wants to fight right now.
He turns on his heel and walks deeper into the apartment, disappearing behind the bedroom wall as he empties the closet and fishes his notebooks from beneath the bed. He runs a hand over the worn edges of the shoebox they're kept in and lifts the lid, staring down at the culmination of years of hard work and deep thought. He lifts the newer notebooks up to reveal the ones from when he was seven, searching through them until he gets to the one with the red cover. He swallows a few times to keep his voice from cracking as he calls, "Want me to get your stuff, too?"
He hasn't made an analysis on Stendhal in a very long time. It's not up to date, the first few pages devoted to theories and observations about his quirk and fighting style before it dissolves into something more like a diary, but it's the best he has on short notice.
Stendhal grunts out an affirmative, voice sounding like it's coming from the kitchen area. Izuku takes several deep breaths, steeling his nerves and blinking back tears as he lifts the mattress and slips the red notebook into the gash he'd made himself back when he was five and trying to see if he could use the springs inside to pick the locks on the bedroom door. His hands are shaking violently as he replaces the rest of the notebooks and puts the lid back on top. As he gathers the rest of his and Stendhal's belongings, he does his best to steady himself, though he's not sure whether the man will notice that something is wrong or not in the state he's in right now.
When Izuku emerges with two satchels slung over his back and the shoe box in hand, Stendhal is similarly laden with the few kitchen appliances they have and has stuffed anything he can fit from the living area into a backpack. Izuku counts five swords on his person. He's typing away furiously on his phone, brow creased, but he looks up when he hears Izuku enter the room. Wordlessly, he holds out a hand and Izuku hands over their bags of clothes and weapons.
"Don't move," he says once Izuku's given him their belongings. It's the same tone he's heard people use with dogs on the street. Izuku obeys, and by the time Stendhal returns he hasn't moved an inch.
"Do you think you should take another job so soon?"
"I'm not taking another job," he says. "Give me your notebooks."
Izuku hands them over without protest, though his fingers linger desperately as Stendhal tugs the box from his hands.
"What are you going to do with them?"
"Stand by the door," Stendhal commands in lieu of an answer, and once Izuku has done so, Stendhal places the box on the ratty old sofa and pulls out a sleeve of matches. Realization crashes over him like a wave, threatening to pull him under and drown him in helpless despair.
"Please don't," Izuku whispers, hugging the wall like it will keep him safe from the feverish look in his mentor's eyes. He watches as Stendhal opens the lid of the shoebox, lights the match, and drops it inside.
He lets out a wordless scream as years of work go up in flame, watches as the fire licks at the edges of the box and spreads to the fabric of the sofa, watches as everything he knows begins to crumble into ash. Stendhal catches him around the waist as he throws himself towards the blaze, wrestles him backwards, and buries his long fingers into Izuku's hair. He holds his head in place, forces him to watch through his tears as he screams and sobs.
"You did this to yourself," he whispers, breath tickling Izuku's ear as he thrashes and fights helplessly against the bruising restraint. "Your consequences have actions, Izuku. Remember that next time you're tempted to disobey me. Think about this next time you want to talk to heroes."
"We're supposed to be heroes!"
"Not yet. You're still not ready. If you're taken away before you're ready, what do you think will happen? What will they do when they find a quirkless little boy with big dreams?"
Feeling like he's just been slapped, Izuku goes still in Stendhal's arms. He already knows the point he is making. He's had enough internet access to look up certain statistics and has spent enough time on the streets to get an idea of what some people think about the dwindling quirkless population. He knows that there's never been a quirkless hero.
But hearing something like this from the man who's always been outspoken in his belief in Izuku's ability to be a hero hurts in a way he wouldn't have thought possible. The small, palm shaped burn scar on his shoulder throbs in time to his hammering heart.
"Stay with me," the man hisses, holding steady despite the way the flames have begun spreading beyond the sofa. The air is filled with smoke. "Let me continue teaching you, and I know you'll prove them wrong."
"Do I have a choice?" Izuku asks, and he wishes that he had a single bit of hope that the answer might be yes.
Instead, Stendhal rasps out his sad excuse for a laugh and shakes his head. Izuku watches the flames crawl closer, fingernails digging into Stendhal's arm and blood collecting beneath his nails. He wonders what Stendhal will do if he says no; would he let them both burn?
Izuku chokes back his tears, ignores the burn of smoke as it claws its way down his throat, and forces himself to nod. They leave their home to burn.
.
The car smells like cigarettes and several different kinds of air fresheners. Smoke plumes behind them as they pull away, blotting out the sky. For the first time in his life, Izuku watches as the city skyline falls away to be replaced by empty fields and bare trees. Hours crawl by at a grueling pace and Izuku can count the number of houses they pass on one hand.
As they drive into the night, Izuku looks towards the sky and sees nothing but stars.
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This chapter was beta'd by not one, but TWO wonderfully talented people. Thank you so much, Shaegal and TheFoxyPirateFox.
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