Authors Note: Hello everyone, I wanted to explore a concept that's been on my mind ever since I've finished Marvel's Jessica Jones and saw Kilgraves power. If people show interest through commenting I will try to maintain a regular bi-weekly update schedule. I might also regularly update and improve past chapters as I move forward, hope you enjoy.
I am also still figuring out how to format the supplementary world building "easter eggs" I put in the middle of the chapters so any advice would be greatly appreciated.
Borrowed Breath
The census line stretched longer than Izuku remembered from last year. Or maybe it just felt longer because he was taller now. Fourteen shouldn't feel this heavy.
His mother stood three steps behind him. Always three steps. Close enough to fulfill her legal guardian duties, far enough to pretend they weren't together. He could feel her quirk pulling at his buttons - a nervous habit she'd developed. Or maybe not nervous. Maybe just angry.
"Next."
The hero at the registration desk had crystal formations instead of hair. Pretty. He shouldn't notice that. Males weren't supposed to look directly at heroes. But he couldn't help cataloging the way the crystals caught the light, wondering about their composition, their practical applications in combat -
Stop it. Stop analyzing. Stop dreaming.
"ID."
He fumbled with his papers. His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? He'd done this every year since he was six. The crystal hero's eyes flickered over his documentation, then to his face, then away. That familiar mixture of dismissal and disgust.
"Stand still for scanning."
The crystal hero's scanner hummed to life, washing him in blue light. He tried not to think about how many boys he'd stood next to in previous years who weren't here anymore. Tried not to count the empty spaces in the line.
"Genetic viability at 32%." The hero's voice carried just enough to reach the guards. "Down 12% from last year."
Izuku felt his mother's quirk pull harder at his clothes. He could picture her face without turning around. The tight smile she wore in public. Not the one she wore at home when the bottles came out. When the day's frustrations needed somewhere to land.
"Preservation program candidate." The hero stamped his papers with practiced efficiency. "Report for evaluation within 30 days."
His heart stopped. Started. Stopped again. Preservation program. The words every male dreaded. The government's polite euphemism for -
No. Don't think about it. Don't think about the boys who went for "evaluation" and never came back. Don't think about the rumors. Don't think about -
"Next."
He was moving before he realized it. Shuffling to the side. Making himself smaller. His notebook pressed against his chest like a shield - the one filled with hero analyses he wasn't supposed to write. Dreams he wasn't supposed to have.
Three steps ahead, his mother was already walking away. He followed. He always followed.
The crystal hero's voice carried across the registration hall: "Next male in line."
Male. Not person. Not boy. Male. Like a specimen. Like a dying breed.
Which, he supposed, they were.
The walk home always felt longer after census day. Inko's heels clicked against the pavement - sharp, angry sounds that matched the rhythm of his racing thoughts. Click. Click. Click. Another year of decreased viability. Another reminder of what he was. What he wasn't.
The convenience store's neon signs reflected off puddles from yesterday's rain. QUIRK SUPPLEMENTS, they advertised. FOR HER GROWING HERO. His mother's pace quickened past the window displays. Past the posters of smiling girls manifesting their first quirks. Past everything he couldn't be.
"We need to stop for drinks." Inko's voice was flat. Careful. The voice she used when she was already planning how many bottles she'd need to forget today.
He wanted to say no. Wanted to remind her about last time. About the bruises hidden under his long sleeves. About how her quirk got stronger when she drank, pulling at everything sharp and metal and -
"Yes, mother."
The liquor store owner smiled at Inko. Female solidarity. Her eyes slid past Izuku like he was furniture. Like all male children were furniture. Temporary decorations in a woman's world, waiting to be cleared away.
"The usual?" The owner asked. Not looking at him. Never looking at him.
"Double it." Inko's smile was tight. Professional. "Long day."
Long day because of him. Because of what he was. Because her son's genetic viability had dropped another twelve percent, marking him one step closer to the preservation programs they both pretended not to think about.
Something metal scraped against his cheek. A bottle cap, pulled loose by his mother's agitated quirk. A warning. Stop thinking so loud. Stop existing so much. Stop. Stop. Stop.
The owner rang up the bottles. "Preservation program?" She asked, like she was inquiring about the weather. Like she wasn't asking if he was marked for extinction.
"Thirty days," Inko answered. Her quirk pulled harder. More bottle caps. More tiny cuts. "We'll manage."
We'll manage meant more drinks. More nights hiding in his room. More mornings cleaning up broken glass before school. More -
"Come along, Izuku."
Three steps behind. Always three steps. Far enough to pretend they weren't together. Close enough to feel the pull of her quirk. Close enough to know that tonight would be bad.
The bottles clinked in their paper bag like tiny bells.
Borrowed Breath
DEPARTMENT OF POPULATION MANAGEMENT
PRESERVATION PROGRAM DOCUMENTATION
Classification Level: RESTRICTED
Document ID: PP-2157-A
OVERVIEW:
The Preservation Program facilities serve as essential collection and processing centers for male subjects exhibiting declining genetic viability. Through careful monitoring and controlled conditions, these facilities help manage the ongoing male extinction crisis while maximizing remaining viable genetic material.
INTAKE PROCEDURES:
- All male subjects with viability ratings below 30% are required to report for processing
- Initial screening includes full genetic mapping and viability confirmation
- Subjects are categorized based on preservation priority:
* Category A: 25-30% viability - monitored containment
* Category B: 15-24% viability - immediate processing
* Category C: 15% viability - terminal processing
FACILITY PROTOCOLS:
- All communication between subjects is prohibited
- Subjects must remain in designated containment units when not undergoing procedures
- Regular genetic sampling conducted every 72 hours
- Behavioral compliance enforced through approved methods
- No contact with female personnel except authorized medical staff
- All subjects tracked via subcutaneous monitoring devices
PROCESSING PROCEDURES:
[REDACTED BY ORDER OF THE DEPARTMENT]
[SECTIONS 4.1 - 4.8 RESTRICTED TO LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE]
TERMINOLOGY GUIDELINES:
The following approved terms should be used in all documentation:
- "Subject" not "patient" or "resident"
- "Processing" not "treatment"
- "Containment unit" not "room" or "cell"
- "Terminal processing" not [REDACTED]
- "Genetic material collection" not [REDACTED]
PUBLIC MESSAGING:
All external communications must emphasize:
- The voluntary nature of the program
- Focus on preservation of viable genetics
- Benefits to society and quirk development
- Humane and ethical treatment standards
Avoid references to:
- Mandatory reporting requirements
- Processing procedures
- Long-term containment protocols
- [REDACTED] disposal methods
NOTE: This document contains sensitive information. Unauthorized sharing will result in immediate termination and criminal charges under the Male Population Management Act of 2145.
Borrowed Breath
The male classroom was in the basement. Of course it was in the basement. Natural light was wasted on specimens with expiration dates.
Izuku traced his finger along old graffiti carved into his desk. Failed male. Genetic dead end. The usual poetry. Above, he could feel the vibrations of the hero course students practicing their quirks. The ceiling dust sprinkled down like toxic snow.
"Eyes forward, males." Their supervisor, Ms. Kageyama, didn't look up from her phone. She never looked at them directly. "Today's lesson is reproductive biology and your civic duties."
Civic duties. The government's favorite euphemism for breeding programs. Another explosion rocked the ceiling. Probably Kacchan. She'd been his friend once, before her quirk manifested. Before she learned that playing with males was like playing with broken toys.
The projector flickered to life, displaying statistics he'd memorized years ago. Male birth rates: declining. Quirk manifestation in males: zero. Genetic viability threshold requirements: rising. The numbers danced across his notebook as he wrote them down. Pretending to care. Pretending this wasn't a death sentence dressed as data.
"Midoriya." Ms. Kageyama's voice cut through his thoughts. "Since you're so diligently taking notes, please recite Section 2.1 of the Male Education Guidelines regarding hero course restrictions."
The other boys shifted in their seats. All twelve of them. Last year there had been sixteen. The year before, twenty-three. Their numbers dwindled like grains in an hourglass, marking time until none remained.
"Section 2.1," his voice cracked. Always cracking. Always betraying. "Due to the documented absence of quirk factor development in male subjects, participation in hero training programs is prohibited as per the Hero Education Reform Act of 2142. This genetic limitation, combined with declining viability rates, makes male candidates fundamentally unsuitable for hero work or adjacent occupations."
"Continue with subsection B."
His fingers traced the familiar words in his textbook, each one a nail in the coffin of his dreams. "Furthermore, the presence of male individuals in hero operations has been proven to compromise mission effectiveness due to their inherent biological vulnerabilities, requiring additional protective measures that endanger female heroes in combat situations."
The ceiling shook again. Training exercises in full swing. Dreams he wasn't allowed to dream happening just meters above his head.
"Correct." She turned back to her phone. "Now turn to Chapter 12 - Approved Male Career Paths: Understanding Your Limited Options."
He opened his textbook. The pages were worn, dogeared by generations of boys who sat in this same basement, learning the same lessons about their own obsolescence.
Movement caught his eye - his tracking bracelet vibrating silently against his wrist. The Department-mandated device usually only activated for curfew warnings or location verification pings. But this was different. The tiny screen flickered with unauthorized text, the kind that should have been impossible given the bracelet's security protocols.
'System Maintenance Check: Running...'
'Error Code: M-7249'
'Recalibrating...'
Then, for just three seconds:
'Abandoned subway. 23:00. Past The Yellow. Chance to matter.'
'Delete in: 3...2...1...'
The message vanished, replaced by the standard tracking display. His heart hammered against his ribs. Someone had hacked a Department security device - a crime that carried an automatic death sentence. The bracelets were supposed to be unhackable, their programming as rigid as the society that mandated them.
His mind raced through possibilities. Another male student? Unlikely - they weren't allowed near computers beyond basic word processing. A sympathetic female technician? Even more dangerous - female collaboration with males outside approved channels was a capital offense. Or maybe something worse - a trap, a test, a way to identify males who might consider rebellion.
He shouldn't go. Should report the security breach. Should forget he ever saw-
Another explosion rocked the ceiling. Above, Kacchan's quirk sang with unrestrained power while he sat in a basement, wearing a tracker that counted down his remaining days of freedom.
His fingers traced the cold metal of the bracelet. The tracking system that marked him as inventory rather than person. The digital leash that would eventually lead him to a preservation center when his viability dropped too low.
Sometimes the only choice left was choosing how you disappeared.
Borrowed Breath
The apartment door stuck on its hinges - another thing his mother's quirk had warped in anger. The "Male Resident" placard gleamed dully in the hallway light, mandatory signage according to the Housing Authority's "Community Awareness Initiative."
Inko was already three drinks in. He could tell by the way small objects vibrated when he passed - the picture frames (all facing down now), the kitchen knives (he'd hidden the sharpest ones), the loose change on the counter (they needed every cent).
"Your school called." Her voice carried from the kitchen, wrapped in glass and bitterness. The Department of Female Guardian Support suggested maintaining vocal contact with male dependents. Suggested it helped with the guilt. "They said you were watching the combat training again. Through the hallway windows."
His heart stopped. The tracking bracelet felt heavy on his wrist. "I was just walking to-"
A bottle cap whizzed past his ear. A warning shot. "Don't lie to me, Izuku. Males aren't allowed to observe combat training. It's in the guidelines." Another sip. Another tremor in the air. "What were you really doing there?"
The latest issue of "Modern Motherhood" lay open on the coffee table: 'Raising Male Children in a Quirk Society - Managing Expectations and Loss.' He'd seen her reading it last night, highlighting passages through tears and whiskey.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. Sorry for looking up. Sorry for being male. Sorry for making her life harder just by existing.
"Your mother used to say that too." Something metal clinked against her glass. "Right before she left."
He should go to his room. The parenting books recommended designated safe spaces for male children during 'emotional adjustment periods.' But his feet wouldn't move.
"Do you know what they're saying at work now?" The bottle was almost empty. Her quirk pulled harder at his clothes, at his skin. "They're cutting benefits for mothers of male children again. 'Resource optimization,' they call it. Like you're a failed investment."
The first projectile - a pen from the counter - left a thin line across his cheek. He didn't flinch. Flinching made it worse.
"I had dreams too, you know." Her voice cracked. The way his did in class. The way all broken things eventually did.
Another bottle opened. The 'Male Guardian Support Hotline' magnet on the fridge trembled. The one they gave to all mothers of sons, right after the first ultrasound showed the gender. Right after the congratulations turned to condolences.
"Mom-" he started.
"Don't." Objects were floating now. Sharp things. Metal things. "Don't call me that. Not tonight. Not when they're talking about preservation programs and viability tests and-"
He ran. Finally ran. The door to his room - reinforced with his last birthday money - slammed shut as something shattered against it. Glass. Or maybe dreams. They made the same sound breaking.
Inside, his All Might American Edition poster (illegal, hidden behind his dresser) smiled down at him. 'Anyone can be a hero,' it proclaimed. A relic from before. Before women became gods. Before boys like him became endangered species.
His tracking bracelet seemed to pulse. The abandoned subway. A chance to matter.