Chapter Text
The first person to realize is not Midoriya Izuku, nor Shigaraki Tomura, nor All Might.
Of all people, the first to the epiphany is Shinsou Hitoshi, because he recognizes the villain hovering a dozen feet in the air, in the middle of a recently-leveled city block. The dust is still settling and all Hitoshi can smell is iron—like lightning, or blood, or both at the same time.
This is the solved puzzle, the final image, the connected dots.
Because Hitoshi recognizes Midoriya Hisashi, Izuku’s father.
Midoriya Hisashi, Izuku’s father, radiating the danger of a hurricane.
Midoriya Hisashi, Izuku’s father, a villain.
Midoriya Hisashi, Izuku’s father, Shigaraki’s Sensei.
Midoriya Hisashi, Izuku’s father, and the man behind The League of Villains.
Everything makes sense now. This is the epiphany.
Unfortunately.
Hitoshi’s legs give out and he crumples. He knows it’s coming—the thin connection between his brain and his body finally snaps—but he can’t stop it. All the trauma (plus, you know, the concussion) finally catches up to him. He drops, but someone catches him—a strong hand under his armpit—and when he sees Shouto standing there, tears well up in his eyes.
He wasn’t sure they’d see each other again, so in his exhausted relief he wants to say something witty like marry me, but he can’t get any words out. A heavy pressure suffocates him—the pressure of a man Hitoshi instinctively recognizes as the most powerful villain in all of Japan—Midoriya Izuku’s father.
- - -
The second person to the epiphany is Todoroki Shouto, who requires only one look at the faces of his two best friends to recognize the terror there and what it means.
He isn’t sure how Izuku and Hitoshi even got there, but he doesn’t care. One second, Shouto was cowering with his classmates behind a wall. The next second, that wall was a pile of rubble, and now Izuku and Hitoshi are here.
Izuku doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. He silently mouths a word Shouto would recognize anywhere: father. And Shouto knows. His reaction is just as strong as Hitoshi’s but in the opposite direction. All Shouto feels is anger. Pure, righteous anger.
This is the man who hurt Izuku. The man who lies, who manipulates, who uses.
And it shouldn’t be possible to get any worse than that, but somehow even worse—this man is a villain.
If his anger wasn’t being effectively smothered by an even stronger terror, Shouto would have already attacked the bastard. But Shouto can barely move enough to catch Hitoshi before he falls. His body is stuck in survival mode, frozen. It knows, innately, without any centimeter of doubt:
Shouto does not stand a chance against this man.
Not a single one of them do.
Except...
He doesn’t want to think about it, but—
Not a single one of them do—except, perhaps, Midoriya Izuku.
- - -
The third to this understanding is Aizawa Shouta, who, fifteen seconds prior, witnessed the arrival of the leader of The League of Villains. Shouta arrived late, because he wasn’t formally invited, so he was far enough away that he was only knocked off his feet, rather than completely unconscious. And despite seeing clearly the single attack that wiped out all the top heroes in the vicinity, Shouta could not describe how the man did it. A bright light—yet dark—pure power, pure output. Something undefinable. Something powerful. Something dangerous. Something nearly omnipotent.
Despite the blood-curdling terror that freezes Shouta down to his bones, the first thing he does is scan the surroundings for his kids. There’s no reason for them to be there, but Shouta is not as driven by reason as he always claims, and he finds them—Todoroki, Iida, Uraraka, Yaoyorozu, thank god Shinsou and Midoriya—a couple dozen yards away, taking ineffective cover behind a collapsed wall. So he’s watching clearly as Izuku takes a step forward.
Forward, toward the leader of The League. Forward, despite Iida trying to hold him back. Forward, despite the suffocating pressure in the air, despite the incontestable fact that this man is the most dangerous villain Shouta’s ever seen.
Despite this, Izuku takes a step forward and says, in a quiet voice that still projects across the ruins, “Father?”
And it all makes sense.
Here he is. Finally.
The mystery man.
Izuku’s father.
The leader of The League of Villains.
Because of course he is.
It all makes terrible, nauseating sense that curdles in the bottom of Shouta’s stomach.
- - -
And the fourth to realize is Shigaraki Tomura, who is dragged into understanding despite how hard he clings to his last thread of denial. Those two syllables Midoriya said—that single word—Tomura wants to throw them up. It doesn’t make sense. It’s impossible. It goes against everything he’s ever believed. It threatens—no. It isn’t true.
It can’t be true because Sensei saved him. Sensei gave him purpose. Sensei gave him a life and Tomura’s devoted it to him. Everything Tomura’s ever done has been for Sensei. Because he always thought—because he knows that he’s important to Sensei. Sensei loves him, more than anything else in the world, that’s what he always says, but if Midoriya—
Tomura refuses to know. Not this. Not like this. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t want to know but he doesn’t have a choice when Sensei looks down at Midoriya Izuku and says, in a familiar tone, conversational, the same one that Sensei uses when he’s talking to Tomura, “Ah, there you are, Izuku—” Izuku? “—I’ve been worried about you.”
Izuku???
And Tomura doesn’t have a choice when Izuku replies, in the same exact tone, like Sensei isn’t Sensei, isn’t All for One, isn’t the leader of The League, “You shouldn’t be away from your medical equipment, Father. Let’s go home.”
Home?
Home???
They have a home? Where is it? What does it look like? It doesn’t make sense. No, Tomura doesn’t want to know.
“Oh, Izuku,” Sensei continues, though this time he sounds a little sad, in that condescending way that tells you he isn’t sad at all, “No one told you? People were poking around in our business; I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, so I had to clean it up. That place doesn’t exist anymore. You understand, don’t you, Izuku?”
This tone—this dialogue—Tomura’s heard it countless times. And yet. And yet it’s only ever been for him. Sensei doesn’t talk to anyone else like this. He isn’t supposed to talk to other people like this. He’s only ever been this soft with Tomura. He’s only allowed to be this soft with Tomura.
And Midoriya called him—father—no. No, Tomura doesn’t believe it.
It must be one of Sensei’s ploys or—maybe—one of Midoriya’s. This is just a trick. A ruse. A cutscene that won’t have any actual influence on the plot of the game. This isn’t real. It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t real.
Except it is.
There’s a small voice in the back of his head that’s always been there, and it’s getting louder. Realization scratches at the surface with sharp nails.
Tomura can see it now. He’d seen it before, but now it’s something impossible to unsee. He doesn’t have a choice.
Midoriya’s always reminded him of Sensei. In small ways. In big ways. The same “fashion” sense. Same taste in tea. Same charisma. Same power. Same—
NO.
No no no because that would mean—because that means Sensei lied to him. This whole time. For years. For ever.
Sensei isn’t—it can’t be like that, it can’t, but—
What was Sensei really doing when he wasn’t at the bar or on the monitor or in the hospital? Was he at some suburban four bedroom house with a white picket fence and a dog and a wife and Midoriya Izuku, sitting around some dining room table blowing out candles on a birthday cake? Was Sensei patting Izuku on the head? Giving him hugs? Was Sensei folding his laundry for him? Was Sensei buying him birthday presents that weren’t knives or nomus—was Sensei praising him without any sort of poison underneath—was Sensei loving him? Because Tomura never got any of that. Not for real. Not for him.
Tomura got Sensei’s time, only sometimes, just a couple hours a week. He got a Playstation. A new couch. But none of it—it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a home.
But none of that mattered to him before because Tomura is special. Because Tomura hasn’t needed any of that shit to know he’s important to Sensei. Because Tomura has always thought Sensei was doing as much as he could to show it but—but if Midoriya has been getting a home this whole time and all Tomura gets is a phone call once a week and a dingy bar—
What does that make Tomura?
What does that make Tomura to Sensei?
What does that make Sensei to Tomura?
He can’t take this. He didn’t want to know. He wants to go back. When was the last checkpoint? Can’t they just go back to that? It doesn’t make sense. This isn’t real. He wants to dig it out of his skin. He’s all Sensei’s ever needed. He’s Sensei’s successor. He can’t take this anymore. His whole body itches. His heart is trying to claw its way out of his chest. His stomach is pure acid. He can’t take this anymore so he closes his eyes and screams and yells, howls, wails, as loud as he can, loud enough to drown out his own thoughts, thoughts he never wanted in the first place. He pulls tugs yanks at his hair something needs to get out there’s something wrong it’s inside him he’s wrong everything is wrong no no nonononoNONONO NO
SHUT UP!!!
- - -
Tied for fifth are Todoroki Touya and Toga Himiko, as they were both unlucky enough to be warped directly next to Shigaraki Tomura, and now have front row seats to him screeching “shut up!” at the top of his lungs, so loud and long that his voice cracks into a high pitch.
Shigaraki then grabs his head with both his hands, digs his nails into his scalp and tugs at his hair. “Shut up!”
They’ve all heard Shigaraki angry before—it’s practically his default state—but this time it’s different. Because this time, the anger is just hiding a terror they can clearly see on his face. The anger is hiding a broken boy, blinking back tears, gnawing on his lips, throwing a tantrum.
Shigaraki looks like he’s fourteen years old. He looks exactly like Touya did when he broke, when he abandoned the Todoroki name and ran away to become the thing he is today.
Shigaraki looks like Himiko’s first crush. She’s always liked him, ever since they first met, but she’s now realizing he’s even cooler than her first impression.
She’s always thought Shigaraki was adorably authentic—it’s one of her favorite things about him—but she feels like she’s seeing the real him for the first time. The Shigaraki they’ve seen up to this point has only been the surface level—a deep surface level, to be fair, but still mostly a facade.
Himiko usually doesn’t fall into the trap of falling in love with an ideal, but truthfully, she’s never really seen Shigaraki as human. He’s been anger and violence incarnate, but nothing more than that. He’s always been a bit flat.
But this? Oh, Himiko may have liked him before, but in the same way one has a crush on their favorite anime character. She liked the idea of him more than she actually liked him. But now?
Oh, now?
Himiko finally sees the human Tomura, who’s more than just anger and impulse and death and video game references and decay and potato chips and murder. He is, undoubtedly, still all of these things, he’s just also so much more.
That face he wears to hide the truth is pretty hot, but the truth is even hotter.
Because Tomura is Himiko’s type: scared, broken, traumatized, dangerous, gorgeous.
He’s gorgeous.
Himiko looks at Tomura’s face—tears fighting to stay in his eyes—and she smiles something wide, something that would undoubtedly disturb anyone who took a single look at her. Because that broken expression on Tomura’s face is the sexiest thing Himiko’s ever seen in her whole life. If she weren’t frozen in terror by the old villain man floating ominously a few yards away, she’d try to kiss him.
Tomura looks so human and it makes her want to whine: you’re beautiful.
But she doesn’t want to die, nor ruin the moment, so she holds herself back and instead silently watches as Tomura falls apart.
- - -
The seventh person to the epiphany is
not Midoriya Izuku. Because Izuku refuses to know.
He has spent his whole life in denial, and he refuses to give up now. Stopping here would be impossible. Stopping here would mean that everything up to this point has been for nothing.
Anytime a semblance of realization scratches at the surface, Izuku forces it down, just as he always has. It hurts. It burns. But he’s been doing this forever, so he can do it for another hour, another day, another year. He doesn’t have a choice. It can’t be true. This can’t be true. Izuku’s father is—
Izuku’s father is looking down at Shigaraki Tomura and apologizing, just as he has to Izuku all his life. “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m sure this must be very confusing, but I had to move the timeline forward a little before either of you spoiled the surprise. In just a moment—”
All Might appears.
A flurry of strength and smiles and bright colors, like a meteor.
All Might appears and it should be a relief, but instead Izuku’s heart drops.
Because All Might appears and he’s throwing an Oklahoma Smash directly at Izuku’s father.
Before he’s conscious of it, Izuku yells, “Wait!” and All Might freezes, an inch before landing the punch. Despite the wide smile on the hero’s face, his confusion is clear as day.
And Father says, “Hello, Yagi-kun. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Though not as long as you’d expected, I’m sure.”
- - -
The seventh person to the epiphany is Yagi Toshinori. Because Toshinori knows, down to his very bones, primally, that the man in front of him is All for One. He can taste it in the air; it smells just like it did ten years ago, during the “Toxic Chainsaw” fight, where he supposedly defeated All for One.
That familiarity is two-fold, because All for One also smells like bleach—like the Midoriya household—and even with the helmet over the top half of his head, Toshinori cannot deny the identity of the man in front of him. The man who is All for One. The man who is Midoriya Hisashi.
Toshinori should panic. He should be feeling something. But there’s nothing, just a hollow emptiness. Disappointment, perhaps. Numbness.
He’d seen the signs. Izuku’s lies. Izuku’s charisma. Izuku’s strength. Izuku’s quirk. Izuku’s quirks.
Oh. Were they even Izuku’s in the first place? Or was his father—All for One—simply giving and taking them away?
Toshinori even met the man. He went to his house.
It should have been obvious.
But he was cocky. Toshinori believed he’d already won, that even if All for One wasn’t dead, he was never going to come back.
He was wrong.
And now, here they are.
Izuku’s father, Midoriya Hisashi, is All for One.
Oh.
- - -
Over the next few seconds, everyone else in the vicinity falls into the realization like dominoes. Even if they don’t have the whole picture, they get the idea. Iida, Uraraka, Yaoyorozu, the few standing heroes—including Endeavor—Tsukauchi Naomasa, the rest of The League. Anyone conscious and within earshot understands.
Everyone except for Midoriya Izuku, who is still fighting back like his life depends on it.
Because it does.
Because Izuku’s brain will not allow him to realize, because he already knows. He’s known for a long, long time. But the knowledge was too cruel—is too cruel—so it’s been buried, even deeper than the basement. As deep as it can go.
Izuku cannot know. Not if he wants to continue being Midoriya Izuku.
Nobody moves. Nobody can. Not even All Might.
So nobody stops Father from saying, “Now that everyone is here, we can go ahead and get started. Hello.” Father smiles. It’s wider than his normal smile, longer, like there are more teeth in his mouth now than there were three days ago. “My name is Midoriya Hisashi, also known as All for One, the name of my quirk, which allows me to steal—and redistribute—other people’s quirks. I am All Might’s nemesis, a villain of 200 years, Izuku’s father—say hi, Izuku—and All Might’s nemesis.”
Izuku isn’t listening. He isn’t listening. He isn’t listening. He isn’t listening he isn’t listeningheisn’tlistening.
“Shigaraki Tomura, the face of The League, the villain who’s been terrorizing UA and Japan as a whole, is my successor, my adopted son, and also just so happens to be the grandson of All Might’s mentor, Shimura—”
Izuku has never interrupted his father before, but something deep down, like a sob, builds inside him with someone else’s voice and he can’t stop himself. Even though he isn’t listening—he isn’t listening—he says, “What are you saying, Father? I don’t understand. This isn’t funny. I don’t...”
He’s hot. Feverish. His whole body is shaking. Or is it the ground? The whole word? Everything is falling apart around him. Izuku feels like he’s in a dream. A nightmare. A coma. Anywhere but here.
Except his father doesn’t hesitate to continue, in the same conversational tone that’s permeated the dining room table his entire life, “Let me reintroduce you both. Izuku, this is your adopted brother, Tomura. I took him in when he was four, shortly before you were born. Tomura, this is your little brother, Izuku.”
Silence. Deafening silence, like a heartbeat stopped. Like a bomb in-between the final tick and the explosion.
Nobody moves. Nobody can. Not even All Might.
But Izuku’s father doesn’t stop. “I wanted to do this in a more private setting, but my hand was forced a little earlier than I was planning. I’m not mad, it’s just a little unfortunate. Oh well. Izuku, dear, my baby boy...” Father smiles down at him, softly, and it’s so familiar, so comforting. “I love you so much, Izuku. More than anything in the world. You know that, right?” Father slowly holds out his hand, palm up. “Now... give me One for All.”
What?
Something snaps.
Where Izuku had been shivering panic before, now he’s a perfectly still confusion.
Give Father One for All?
His muscles want to say yes. He can feel his body moving in that direction, it wants to give it over. Because that’s what Izuku’s always done—whatever his father wants. It isn’t a choice, anyway. It’s never been a choice. Father will just take it if he wants it...
So why hasn’t he already?
Izuku stares.
Beads of sweat drip down his face.
Give me One for All.
But One for All isn’t Father’s quirk it’s—
No, it isn’t All Might’s, either, it’s—
One for All is Izuku’s quirk. Isn’t that what Gran Torino taught him?
Izuku’s eyes drift. Next to him, Shouto’s still supporting Hitoshi. Again. Directly behind them, Iida looks more terrified than he ever did when they were battling Stain. Uraraka isn’t moving, but tears stream steadily down her face. Yaoyorozu’s clutching Uraraka’s hands with her own, like they’ll die if they let go of each other.
Further down, a few dozen yards away, Aizawa is staring directly at him. His expression is stern, yet anxious. Terrified, yet confident. Logical, yet emotional. Aizawa Shouta, Izuku’s teacher, mentor, and perhaps the first adult he’s ever truly trusted, makes eye contact, and he hears Aizawa’s voice clearly in his head:
You aren’t alone.
So Izuku looks back. At his father. It’s alright. None of this makes sense, anyway. It probably isn’t even real, so what harm could it do?
Izuku already dug his grave when he dug out of the basement. There’s no turning back.
Father’s already mad at him.
Father already won’t forgive him.
He made his decision. Izuku already picked his side.
Give me One for All.
So Izuku can do this. He can say a single syllable. The least he can do is say:
“No.”
After half a moment, Father frowns. The air grows charged as he says, “That was not a request, Izuku.” His voice is harder, now, exactly like it sounds whenever he’s trying to hide his anger.
Izuku is drowning in yellow, but perhaps that’s why it comes easier than it otherwise would. Because the yellow drowns out anything else, any hesitation. He may not understand what’s happening, but he already knows where he stands. He can’t go back, anyway. He promised he’d do this. His swan song. His last day as Peacekeeper. He’ll do whatever it takes to save as many people as he can, and that means repeating:
“No.”
Past the yellow, Izuku watches Father drop his hand back to his side. “Are you sure?” Father asks, slowly. When Izuku doesn’t respond, Father says, “Alright, you leave me no choice, then.” Father curls his hand into a fist, and Izuku’s temperature rises.
Then, for some god-awful reason, Father turns toward Shouto and says, “Todoroki Shouto, do you like poetry?” He doesn’t give a chance for a response. “I was inspired by Izuku’s... disappointing display at the sports festival when I decided to give him this quirk in particular.”
Maybe it’s the smothering, terrifying stress, but Izuku’s temperature keeps rising.
Father continues, turning back to him, “You have to realize, Izuku, that you cannot defy me and win. This is not a world you’ll ever succeed in without my support, just as this is not a quirk you’ll ever be able to control without me... I know you’ve heard of the villain Run Hots, Izuku, but have you ever wondered why he became a villain in the first place?”
Run Hots? Why is Father bringing him up now, here of all places?
Does it have anything to do with the constant heat that’s been building inside Izuku’s chest for days, if not weeks?
“A sad story,” Father resumes, “albeit a tad boring. The man had a daughter, who inherited a quirk not unlike his own. Her resting body temperature was incredibly, incredibly high, and as she grew up, it only rose. Except... her body could not properly handle it. Perhaps it came in too early, or perhaps it was incompatible with the traits she inherited from her mother’s quirk, but that isn’t important. In a last-resort attempt to save her, her father begged me to take her quirk. So I did.”
The moment of silence is warm.
Izuku wants to stop listening, but he can’t.
“There are certain... complications that sometimes arrive with quirk removal, especially in a body so young. To be blunt, she got sick—dreadfully slow—but worse than that, neither were prepared for the social repercussions of being quirkless. Her father never figured out if it was suicide or illness that took the girl before her tenth birthday, but after that, he became Run Hots.”
Izuku is sweating. It soaks through his hero costume. He feels like he’s in a sauna.
“Friends can be a strength, Izuku, but they can also be your greatest weakness. These...” Father scowls and waves a dismissive hand toward his friends. “These immature, ignorant, powerless children are only holding you back. You need to let go of them, before they let go of you. Do you really think they’ll still be your friends after this? Now that they know who you are? Now that they know where your quirks really come from? You are my son, Izuku—the son of a villain. And what does that make you?
“Give me One for All, Izuku. Come with me, and I won’t have to prove it to you. You won’t have to watch them abandon you.”
Abandon?
Izuku has been ready to abandon them the instant he escaped from being grounded.
But them abandon him?
Izuku can’t imagine it, so he lifts up his chin and defiantly looks directly at his father’s face, even though it’s half-covered by his helmet.
Father sighs. “I didn’t want to do this, but you leave me no choice. You brought this upon yourself, Izuku. I can’t be held responsible anymore. I’m going to let go of my control over this quirk, and you’re finally going to see that you can’t do anything without me. You never could.”
Father extends his arm, squeezes his hand into a fist, then lets it go.
It burns hotter, from the inside, from everywhere. Izuku’s skin starts to tint pink, then red.
He feels like he’s filling with smoke—suffocating—like it’s burning through all the air. He can barely breathe. Sweat drips down his forehead except he hears it sizzle—feels it sizzle, boiling at the contact. He takes off his jacket but it doesn’t help. It just keeps burning. And then his shirt starts smoking, and one of the sleeves actually catches on fire—just a bit—and it burns. Regeneration fights against it, like a tug-of-war with his own skin, and he feels it stabilizing—but it still burns.
It still burns but worse than that—Shouto reaches out with his right hand, places it on Izuku’s skin and it sizzles. Despite his quirk—the cold side—Shouto’s palm still burns. It burns and Izuku can’t stop it. Regeneration can control it inside Izuku—enough to keep him from dying—but no more. Regeneration can’t stop it from burning the air, from burning Izuku’s friends.
It’s only getting hotter and Izuku whispers, “Let go.” But he looks in Shouto’s eyes and all he can see is determination—the determination that Shouto’s always had.
He isn’t going to let go.
And Shouto says, like the air isn’t visibly wavering with heat, like he isn’t already sweating from head to toe; “I do like poetry.”
“I can’t control it,” Izuku whispers. Not enough. Not like this. It’s a part of him now, a part he can’t turn off, because that’s not how a body works. He can’t just will his heart to stop pumping blood. He can’t will this quirk to stop radiating heat.
But what he can do is protect his friends. What Izuku can do is distance himself.
But then Hitoshi places his hand on Izuku’s shoulder, despite the audible sound it makes. He cringes, but Hitoshi still says, “You can control it.”
They’re both sweating, but neither move back. Izuku tries to pull away but from behind someone wraps him in a hug. There’s a stifled scream—Izuku isn’t sure if it’s his or someone else’s—and then Uraraka lets out a quiet whine, but she doesn’t let go.
Stop it.
“Let go,” Izuku orders. His eyes are wide. He’s trying to fight off the quirk and his friends. They’re just going to get hurt. He’s just going to hurt them. This isn’t—
This isn’t why he did this. This isn’t why he dug out of the basement this isn’t why he told his father no. They’re supposed to be safe. He’s supposed to protect them. They’re supposed to let him go. “Go away!” he yells, but all that happens is Iida and Yaoyorozu stepping closer, placing their hands on his other arm, burning.
Izuku tugs and pushes but they don’t let go. He should be able to fight them off with One for All but the fever’s making everything foggy and One for All isn’t working right. They don’t let go, so Izuku turns to his father and screams, “Take it back!”
It’s only getting hotter. Izuku can sense Shouto trying to cool the air down with his own quirk, but there’s only so much he can do. How much hotter is it going to get? Is it ever going to stop?
This isn’t fair.
None of them will let go no matter how hard he tries to shove them off. Not Shouto, not Hitoshi, not Uraraka, not Iida, not Yaoyoruzu. They might die at this rate, but none of them let go.
“Take it back!”
Father smiles.
“I can’t,” Father says, with an out-of-place lightness. “I’m sorry, son, but that’s the tricky thing about One for All. It’s the only quirk I can’t take and, well... it’s completely absorbed every other quirk I’ve ever given you. So I can’t take it back.”
Oh.
So he can’t take One for All. That’s why Father’s doing all this. He can’t have it unless Izuku gives it to him.
But that doesn’t matter right now.
Everything is so loud. The burning. The yellow. The screaming.
In his ear someone is whispering. Over and over again. It’s Shouto, and it’s the same thing Izuku told him once: “It’s your quirk.”
Except, “It isn’t,” Izuku sobs. It was some poor little girl’s quirk and Father probably killed her and now it’s stuck inside him. It isn’t his. None of them are. Not really. Even if he tries to tell himself they are. They never were and they never will be. Not Pull. Not Regeneration. Not even One for All. Not really.
“Izuku,” someone says, voice quiet. He can’t tell who it is. There’s so much happening and it’s so hot and a sharp pain bounces across his cheek.
Everything comes into focus.
“Izuku,” Hitoshi repeats.
Izuku tells him, “Get away—” and then Hitoshi’s quirk kicks in. It silences everything else. Comforting. Quiet. Release. In that moment, nothing exists except for Izuku and Hitoshi.
“It’s your quirk.” Hitoshi orders: “Control it.”
Everything disappears.
Izuku finds himself in a perfectly white landscape—white hot—infinitely large—and completely silent, save for a quiet sobbing.
Izuku turns around.
A little girl is laying there, curled up into a small ball. She’s crying, actively on fire, and tied to a set of thick chains that trail off infinitely into the white expanse.
- - -
This silence is of a different caliber, sharp enough to snap most people out of whatever paralysis All for One had trapped them with.
Toshinori can move, now, but as he takes a single step forward All for One turns to him with a disturbingly wide smile—undeniably a mockery of All Might’s signature—and says, “Hello again, Yagi-kun.”
Toshinori can move. He should move. But he has no idea in which direction to go.
He’s supposed to attack this man, isn’t he? All for One? Except—
Except Midoriya Izuku is right there and—
How much of it was true?
Toshinori has always known how good of a liar Izuku is. It scared him at first, but then he got used to it, and now it scares him again. Izuku’s a great liar. So… how much has he lied to Toshinori? How much of the past year was true?
Toshinori should feel something. He looks over. Izuku’s struggling against that quirk All for One gave him.
Or is he?
No. Toshinori bites back the distrust. No—this is exactly the rabbit hole All for One wants him to fall into. Toshinori can see it clearly in All for One’s twisted, familiar, evil smile. All for One wants Toshinori to start doubting, to lose hope, to break.
And for that reason, Toshinori refuses. He won’t fall into the trap. He won’t let All for One win.
This is how All for One’s always done it. He’s always used anything he can to break you: his fists, his quirks, a bullet, a knife, a hostage, civilians, words, silence, your mentor, her grandson, your mentee, Izuku.
Toshinori refuses. He won’t break. He won’t doubt. Because no matter what, Toshinori is still a hero—a teacher—and Izuku is still a child and it doesn’t matter if—
It doesn’t matter if—
Doesn’t it?
All for One is a villain, a public enemy, a murderer—the worst man alive in the entire world. So doesn’t it matter? Doesn’t it matter that this man is Izuku’s father? That for the last fifteen years—
NO!
Toshinori grits his teeth and slaps himself across his cheek.
All for One laughs. “Yagi-kun,” he continues with that sickening smile, “I can see those gears stuttering inside your head like a broken record, struggling to spin.”
Toshinori is All Might. All for One’s nemesis. The eighth holder of One for All. His connection is slipping, but it’s still there, for now.
So for now, Toshinori will fight All for One.
He throws a quick Oklahoma Smash to make up for the one he didn’t use earlier, but it lacks his usual strength, and he knows it. Toshinori doesn’t even announce it, and All for One blocks it with an array of dark spheres that absorb the impact before disappearing.
“Let me ask you one thing, Yagi-kun...” All for One smirks and spreads out both of his arms in a familiar showmanship. “Do you really think this has all been a coincidence?”
All for One needs to stop talking, so Toshinori kicks wide with 500% strength, sending a powerful shockwave at him, but the villain—Izuku’s father—dodges by shooting lightning downward to levitate him in the opposite direction.
“I’m impressed at the persistence of your naivety, Toshinori,” All for One declares as an extra set of arms grow out of his back. “You still think Izuku’s your successor?” All for One’s twenty fingers turn dark red, and then shoot like bullets at Toshinori.
Toshinori dodges with One for All, but it grazes his costume.
“Do you really think you found Izuku by chance? That the disgusting, cheap, weak, subpar slime villain just happened to attack my son? That you just happened to be there? That you just happened to pick my son to be your successor?”
This isn’t good. Toshinori’s successfully blocking All for One’s attacks, but failing to block out his words. It’s impossible. It’s impossible because All for One is right and Toshinori’s connection to One for All is waning. He doesn’t have much left in him, so he’s going to have to make the next one count. 1,000%—no, 10,000%. Maybe even more. As much as he has left.
Toshinori stockpiles. Starts powering up.
“No,” All for One continues. His voice is loud and deep and powerful and irrefutable. “No, from the moment he was born, I have been crafting Izuku to become the next holder of One for All. To hand me the quirk of his own volition.”
Toshinori doesn’t have the luxury to think about what that means, to think about what life must have been like for Izuku all these years, but the worry simmers in the pit of Toshinori’s stomach.
United...
“I have been crafting Izuku to become my successor alongside Tomura, who—don’t forget—is the grandson of your mentor. What was her name again?”
States...
“Shimura Nana.”
Of...
“That’s why I let Izuku nurture his little seedling of heroism. To get One for All back in the family. But more importantly, to get to you.”
Toshinori’s fist is inches from All for One’s face when his connection to One for All snaps and his body starts deflating. It feels different than he thought it would. He thought it would hurt, but in reality it feels more like taking off a jacket—like it’s something he already lost.
His willpower wants to disappear with it, as if All for One were sucking it out of Toshinori like a black hole. It’s so tempting. It would be so much easier to give up here. To admit that this was a battle he lost fifteen years ago, when All for One decided to raise Izuku as his son.
But Toshinori refuses.
None of that matters.
It doesn’t matter if he’s lost One for All.
It doesn’t matter if All for One scripted this past year—the past fifteen years.
It doesn’t matter if Shigaraki Tomura is Shimura Tenko.
It doesn’t matter if Midoriya Izuku is the son of All for One because right now there are only two things in the whole world that matter:
Yogi Toshinori will always be All Might.
But more importantly: Toshinori already decided to put his faith in Izuku—both figuratively and literally—and that is not a decision he regrets. It’s a decision he’ll stick by no matter what. Izuku is already the best hero Toshinori’s ever met, and nothing will ever change that, especially not All for One.
Even if he’s quirkless again, this time for good, he’ll continue protecting what’s important to him.
His fist still hovers in the air, deflated, an inch away from All for One, and Toshinori coughs up blood. Vomits something. A portion of his stomach lining, perhaps. It’s happened before. It’ll likely happen again. But he still stands. He still stands in between All for One and his students.
If all Toshinori can do now is buy them an extra couple seconds, then he’ll do it. He’s a hero. He’s All Might. He’s Yagi Toshinori.
He’s close enough to All for One to see the thick scars peeking out from underneath his helmet.
“I chose months ago,” Toshinori says. His voice comes out quieter than he wanted it to, and a little wet as blood continues to creep up his throat. “I’ve put my faith in Izuku. Nothing you say will ever change that. He’s still Izuku. He’s still my successor. He’s still the best goddamn hero I know.”
All for One laughs again, and Toshinori is close enough now that his body wants to take a step away from it, but he manages to hold his ground.
Then All for One lifts up his right hand and Toshinori feels the strongest fear he’s ever felt. Standing in front of All for One, quirkless, Toshinori feels like an ant—like a single fleck of dust. The only thing he can think to do is blurt, “You can’t kill me. Izuku will never forgive you.”
All for One hesitates before saying, “Impressive. I didn’t expect you to be capable of trying to manipulate me.”
“I’m not manipulating you,” Toshinori says with a growing confidence. “I’m simply stating a fact.”
“Call it what you will, but you definitely hold a serious misconception about what it means to be a father. It means I know what’s best for him—for both Izuku and Tomura. Not them, and certainly not you. It means I don’t care if he’ll forgive me or not.”
Toshinori’s stomach drops in an unfortunate combination of chronic illness and utter disgust. He scowls and musters up as much strength as he can to declare, “You’re a cruel man, All for One. But even worse, you’re a terrible father.”
All for One’s smile drops, and he looks serious for the first time. “I am not going to kill you, Toshinori, because you still have further to fall.”
And then All for One hits Toshinori in his side.
Toshinori tries to block it, but he just goes flying—tumbling across the ruins as rocks and rubble and sharp corners dig into his body. His consciousness wanes, but he forces himself to stay awake. As long as his kids are here and they’re in danger, Toshinori refuses to pass out. He doesn’t care if it will kill him.
All for One spares him another glance, but nothing more, and then turns around. He starts walking toward Shigaraki Tomura—toward Shimura Tenko—toward Nana’s grandson.
- - -
But Tomura isn’t looking at Sensei as he walks over.
Instead, Tomura is staring past him at Midoriya Izuku—who’s half unconscious, half on-fire, and being fully supported by a huddle of five hero brats.
Tomura’s mind spins in circles, carried aloft in a whirlpool, except wherever the final destination is—whatever’s at the center—Tomura doesn’t want to know.
He doesn’t understand.
He won’t ever understand what Sensei was thinking—what he’s thinking right now—but more than that, he doesn’t understand:
Why is Izuku over there, while Tomura’s stuck back here?
With Sensei as his father, how’d Izuku manage that? How’d Izuku make it there under those circumstances? Under the same circumstances as Tomura?
How’d Izuku make it into the light?
Why’d Sensei give him the option, but not Tomura? Or...
Did Tomura have the option this whole time? Could he have been over there, as well?
In another world, is Tomura holding Izuku’s hand, too?
He doesn’t understand.
Why is Tomura here? Why did he have to be a villain?
Did he have to be a villain?
Izuku didn’t. Did Tomura?
He doesn’t understand.
Tomura’s stuck over here and... and Izuku looks like he’s having so much fun. He has friends. Friends to play with.
But it’s too late. It’s too late for Tomura. He thought it had always been too late, since the beginning, for as long as he could remember, and yet...
It isn’t too late for Izuku.
In another world, are he and Izuku on the same side?
In another world, is Tomura having fun?
If Izuku could, why couldn’t Tomura?
Was it really that close this whole time?
This isn’t fair.
This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair this isn’t fair this isn’t fair this isn’tfairthisisn’tfairisn’tfairisn’tfairisn’t—
Oh.
This is all Sensei’s—
Sensei places a hand on Tomura’s shoulder; he flinches with his whole body, but it doesn’t hurt. Yet. So Tomura looks up at him.
There is a softness in Sensei’s face that Tomura recognizes, that instinctively relaxes him. That’s right. This is Sensei he’s talking about.
Sensei smiles something small, then wraps both arms around Tomura and pulls him into a tight hug. Tomura melts into it, grabs Sensei’s shirt with both hands as tight as he can. He takes a deep breath in, another out. It smells like Sensei. It smells like home.
After a moment, Sensei runs his fingers through Tomura’s hair, in that way he hasn’t in a couple years, since he said Tomura had outgrown that stuff.
That’s right.
Tomura isn’t alone. He has Sensei. He always has. That’s all that matters.
Things will be different, now, but not so different. Even if... even though Sensei lied, it isn’t really that important. Sensei’s always been like that. He knows what’s right, not Tomura. He just has to trust Sensei.
It doesn’t mean anything. Midoriya doesn’t mean anything.
It’s alright. It’ll be alright. Because Sensei is here.
Because Sensei loves him.
Right?
- - -
The man—Midoriya Hisashi—All for One—is distracted.
It’s a risk, and every remaining line of rationality in his brain is begging Shouta not to do it, but he doesn’t have a choice. He can’t not do it, not when his kids are right fucking there.
He starts slowly, at first. Crouches low to the ground, even though most of the cover’s been utterly obliterated, and takes a small step forward. His entire body feels heavy, like his heart is trying to ground him in place. Every cell is screaming not to move, that there are no second chances—in more ways than one. This may likely be Shouta’s last chance to get over there, to see his kids before—
Shouta has no idea what’s going to happen from here. He can’t make a single prediction.
So there’s a possibility—it makes him sick to his stomach—but there’s a possibility that this is the last chance Shouta will ever get to see Izuku again. That’s the only thing that matters. Even though he understands, just as a mouse does before an elephant, that if All for One wants him dead, Shouta will die.
It doesn’t matter.
Shouta runs.
- - -
In the white landscape of a place that doesn’t exist, Izuku takes a step toward the little girl, who similarly doesn’t exist. But despite that, she’s still sitting there, crying and on fire and covered in chains.
Izuku kneels down next to her, but despite the flames she doesn’t feel hot at all. At least, no hotter than Izuku.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs, “I’m so sorry. I’m not—I’m not in control. Not like this. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to—I’m sorry.”
Izuku reaches out a hand to try to comfort her, ignoring the flames, ignoring the fact that, when he gets close enough, they spread to him, too—lick up his arms, catch his clothes and skin and hair on fire. But he doesn’t feel it. Because it isn’t real. So he places a hand on her shoulder.
She startles, tries to jump backward but the chains pull taut. Despite how long they are, they give her no wiggle room.
“It’s okay,” Izuku tells her, as if he believes it. Hitoshi helped. Izuku feels a little calmer than he was a minute ago, a little more stable. “We can do this.”
She shakes her head, back and forth. God, she can’t be much older than six. “No,” she sobs. “We can’t! It isn’t! I don’t want to hurt anybody but I can’t control it!”
“It isn’t your fault,” Izuku says first. Then, “We can control it—you—the quirk.” That’s what Hitoshi said, so that’s what Izuku will do.
She tugs at the chains, swings her head up to stare into his eyes. “He controls it. He controls me!”
“He doesn’t,” Izuku tells her. “He let you go, remember?”
“He lied!” she yells, and Izuku flinches back like he’d been slapped. “He always lies! He always has!”
No his father is—his father isn’t—it isn’t like that—his father isn’t like that—
But then the white landscape collapses around them into four walls, a ceiling, a perfectly made bed, a desk empty save for a monitor. Izuku’s bedroom. He automatically spins around to find the door except—it’s covered in those same chains, holding it locked, and when Izuku tries the knob it doesn’t even budge.
He’s trapped. He’s locked in his room. Again. Where are the keys? Where are his lockpicks?
He can’t get out. He can’t get out he can’t get out he can’tgetouthecan’t—
A hand settles on his Izuku’s shoulder, warm and familiar, and next to him stands a woman, a little shorter than him, with shoulder-length green hair and soft eyes. “I’m sorry, baby,” she starts, quiet. “But you can’t deny it any longer. You can’t hide from this forever. It isn’t sustainable. You deserve better.”
“It isn’t—it isn’t like that,” Izuku insists, as he tugs at the chains covering the door.
“Isn’t like what?”
“My father isn’t like that. I love him. He loves me.”
“That doesn’t change what he’s done to you, baby. He locked you up, he lied to you, your whole life—”
“It isn’t like that!” Izuku exclaims. “He only ever wanted what was best for me! He never hurt me. He never would.”
The woman brushes Izuku’s bangs out of his eyes and looks into them. “What he put you through, Izuku, it’s like... grains of sand.” She holds out her hand, and a small pile of sand appears in her palm.
“Individually, one grain appears harmless, but when they add up, over time...” More sand appears, out of nowhere, and the pile grows, until it’s too big, and it starts tumbling past her fingertips. Onto the floor, exponentially, and the sand starts to fill the room, covers the carpet, and then it reaches Izuku’s knees. He can’t move, hypnotized, as the room fills with so much sand that the woman is buried under it, and it reaches his chest, and then it’s tall enough that the next breath he takes is more sand than air and—
She continues, “you’ll drown.” All the sand disappears, like it was never there in the first place, because it wasn’t. “He may not have hurt you physically, Izuku, but the way he treated you... it wasn’t healthy. It isn’t healthy. You heard what he told All Might, didn’t you? I’m so sorry, baby, but he’s been using you—manipulating you. You know it, baby, you always have. You just need to accept it.”
“I can’t!” Izuku yells. “Because that means—! Because if that’s true, then I knew. I should’ve known. This whole time. And I should’ve—I should’ve done something. I could have helped all those people, I could have—my father loves me. He isn’t a perfect man, but he loves me.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” she insists. “That won’t ever change who he is.” She takes Izuku’s hands in her own.
“A couple days ago, Hitoshi asked you a question: would you ever treat your own kid that way? It was a good question, but not the right one. Look out the window, Izuku.”
But there isn’t a window—yet, past the chains covering the door, there’s a small window carved out that doesn’t belong there. He can just about make out the ruins, further away, where his father stands next to Shigaraki.
Father towers over him. Has he always been that tall? He has a hand on Shigarki’s shoulder, and he leans down to say something.
Before he does, the woman continues, “The right question is this: what if someone else was treated the same way you were?”
Father whispers something Izuku should not be able to hear, since there’s a door and a wall and dozens of yards in between them. But Izuku hears it anyway, because Shigaraki Tomura stands there like a mirror. Father says, “I love you, Tomura, but...”
But...
Even though it isn’t directed at him, the word makes Izuku’s heart sink. Father says it to him all the time, and yet it’s never once lost its edge. And Izuku can no longer deny it. The but always precedes a request, a manipulation, a Conversation, something that needs to be done, something that needs to be fulfilled, or else... this part is always silent, but it’s always there. If you don’t succeed, that love might disappear.
This is how he gets you to do something you don’t want to do. He convinces you, with only four syllables, that if you don’t do it, he won’t love you anymore. That’s all it takes.
That’s how he’s been talking to Tomura all these years.
That’s how he’s been talking to Izuku.
I love you, Tomura, but...
Father declares, “Izuku’s my son,” like a bullet. Worse than a bullet, because Tomura’s despair is palpable in his wide eyes, the devastated blue that permeates the ground below him.
Father built him up, then tore him down.
What if someone else was treated the same way you were?
Father keeps going, without letting up, “and he always will be. That means, Tomura, from here on out... you’re going to have to prove yourself to me. You’re going to have to show me that you are fit to be my successor.”
Wait! Izuku wants to yell, but he’s still trapped behind his bedroom door. It doesn’t have to be this way!
But Father just keeps driving the wedge in. “I want it to be you, Tomura. But you see it, don’t you? You of all people understand how capable Izuku is. So you have to prove that you’re better.”
It doesn’t have to be like this.
But Tomura is only getting further away, the space between them a tie-dye of blue and red.
This isn’t right. It doesn’t have to be like this. They don’t—
Oh.
They don’t have to be on opposite sides.
Izuku can see it now: the mirror. Clearly.
What if someone else was treated the same way you were?
What if a little boy named Tomura were locked in his bedroom, then convinced it was all his fault?
What if a little boy named Tomura were trapped in the basement for days, with nothing but water?
What if a little boy named Tomura had his own quirk ripped out of him whenever he did anything wrong?
What if a little boy named Tomura wanted nothing more than to make his father figure proud of him? What if it was impossible?
How could Father treat Tomura like that? How could Father do something so despicable to a little boy—alone and vulnerable. How could father be so cruel to Tomura?
How could Father do that to them?
To the both of them?
Izuku looks at the woman with the green hair. He knows who she is. He always has. The shadow of his mother, Inko. Her quirk, Pull.
And he feels so small. And he feels the strongest he’s felt in his entire life.
Because this isn’t something he can walk away from. This isn’t something he can ignore. This isn’t something he can let go.
Izuku knows the truth, now. Nothing else matters, only this: he and his father are never going to be on the same side.
His mother places a kiss on his forehead. “Oh, Izuku,” she whispers. “I am so, so proud of you. You can’t ever forget: you have so many people around who want to help you.”
Someone else takes his hand—the little girl on fire. She’s still wrapped up in those chains, just like his bedroom door.
Izuku knows what he has to do, now. It’s something only he can do, since All Might’s connection to One for All is gone, since:
“It’s your quirk,” Izuku tells her, because that’s the last thing Hitoshi said to him. Then, “It’s our quirk. Not his. Not anymore.”
He smiles down at her, though he’s trembling with fear. “We can do this. Together. You and I.”
She looks up at him, and smiles back.
And then the bedroom disappears, and over a dozen figures surround them. Quirks. Those that his father’s given him, and those he now knows must have come with One for All. They chorus, “All of us.”
And the chains shatter.
Izuku takes a sharp breath as everything snaps back into focus.
It feels cold—cold! He did it. The quirk still warms him from the inside, but in a way that’s comforting, rather than dangerous. Because he can control it, now. Intuitively, he can sense the heat, has an inkling of what he’d have to do to raise it higher, or drop it lower.
There are so many experiments he wants to do with it, in the future—
Maybe in the future—
What future?
Nothing will ever be the same again, even if he survives.
The place he’s called home his whole life doesn’t exist anymore. Where will he go? Where will Father take him—
Father is a villain.
This is something only Izuku can do.
Nothing will ever be the same again and yet, from behind him, Ochako laughs quietly, and exclaims in a whisper, “You did it! Midori, you did it!”
None of his friends have moved from his vicinity, even though they’re all drenched in sweat, including Shouto. Ice creeps up their legs, but Izuku can tell by how melted it is that it wasn’t very effective. How much did he hurt them?
How much did Father hurt them?
Izuku knows what he has to do.
He doesn’t want to do it.
He’ll almost definitely fail.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because Midoriya Izuku is a hero—is Peacekeeper—is All Might’s successor—is best friends with the kindest, nicest, strongest people in the world—is a student at UA—is taught by Aizawa Shouta—is the son of Midoriya Inko—
is the son of Midoriya Hisashi: All for One, All Might’s archnemesis, the leader of The League of Villains, and a terrible, manipulative, abusive father.
Midoriya Izuku is One for All.
Which is why he has to do this.
Izuku looks at his father, who’s halved the distance between Tomura and Izuku, standing right in-between them, in the middle of the block. Izuku’s hands shake. His eyes water. He reaches for the closest hand to his, and he grabs it. Aizawa’s standing right next to him, tall and strong and stable. He’s dyed the same yellow as everyone else, but that doesn’t stop him from squeezing Izuku’s hand in reassurance.
Quietly, Izuku whispers, “I’m scared.” He feels so small. Like he’s four years old again. “I can’t… I can’t do this by myself. I need… I need help.”
Aizawa stares into Izuku’s eyes and says the same thing he’s been saying for months: “You are not alone.”
Izuku nods, then turns back to the clearing, and despite it all, despite fifteen years of fear, Izuku says in a clear voice, loud and projecting; “You are right about one thing, Father: this is not a quirk I can control on my own. But you were wrong about something else...”
Izuku finally means it, Izuku finally says it with confidence: “I am not alone.”
Father—no—All for One sighs. “I see... that is a rather unfortunate lesson to have learned from this, but—oh well. I will say it nicely only one more time, Izuku.” All for One extends his hand again.
“Give me One for All. If you do, I’ll allow you and these friends of yours to continue this happy-go-lucky charade. Neither I nor The League will ever interrupt you again. You can go back to UA, and you can all pretend like none of this ever happened.”
It’s a lie.
Izuku knows, intuitively, immediately: it’s a lie.
He knows because it’s too good to be true. It is exactly what he wants, so it has to be a lie.
“Or,” All for One continues, “you can say no and I will be very, very disappointed in you.”
Izuku stops breathing. The pressure in the air grows tenfold, hundredfold, like radiation. This is his father. This is the man with many quirks, so many that Izuku doesn’t even know how many. At least a dozen. Probably more.
But Izuku can still say:
“No.”
And slide his feet into a fighting stance, even though his legs won’t stop shaking.
“I see,” All for One says, voice saturated with condescension. “Do you really think you stand a chance, Izuku? Even with One for All? Even with a couple ‘friends’? All you’re doing is putting them in danger.”
Perhaps. Perhaps they don’t stand a chance, but that doesn’t make this the wrong choice.
This is something Izuku has to do if he ever wants to live with himself.
This is something Izuku has to do to stay Midoriya Izuku.
Past All for One, Izuku makes eye contact with Tomura, but there’s an invisible wall between them that wasn’t there before, and Izuku understands. Tomura can’t see it yet—he might have recognized the man between them, but Tomura isn’t sure yet which side he’s on. It’ll take time before he recognizes who their real enemy is.
To the side, a relatively safe distance away, Yagi lies collapsed on some rubble. He’s conscious—alive—but he’s in his deflated form, and he fails to stand up no matter how many times he tries.
One for All pumps through Izuku’s muscles, bones, cells, atoms. He stares at his father’s face, half-covered by that unfamiliar helmet, and he wants to throw up.
Next to him, Aizawa nods. Iida’s engines rev quietly. The air grows colder. Hitoshi whispers something under his breath that’s probably a joke.
And they charge forward.
With One for All in his legs, Izuku sprints directly toward All for One. So he watches clearly as the man grows in size—muscles bulge—a third set of arms, gray, like metal grow—dark lightning skitters across the field—small black orbs hover in the air like bombs.
Izuku can’t feel anything. There’s an empty numbness as he approaches, as he powers up a punch with One for All.
How is this happening? How did it come to this? How is this real?
It doesn’t matter.
Izuku can’t think about it.
So when he gets within a couple feet, when he gets close enough, he pulls back his arm and
there is an explosion
a shockwave that threatens to throw Izuku off his feet but he stands strong.
Everyone else, though, was knocked backward, to the ground.
Electricity in the air buzzes around him. Static. Like sharp little knives. But Izuku stands strong. The wind forces tears from his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry.
Izuku stands strong.
He pulls his arm back and yells and
All for One—Father—yells,
“Stop! ” in that tone that means he’s serious, that there’s going to be punishment later, that if Izuku doesn’t stop he’s going to regret it but Izuku doesn’t want to stop but his body freezes without his permission and he stops.
Father stares down at him, and he’s Father again. Two arms, a button-down shirt, and a concerned frown.
Izuku can’t move. He feels like he's back in the dining room and Father’s about to send him to the basement.
Then Father’s expression softens, and Izuku can breathe again.
“Izuku, my boy...” Father starts. “You are my son, after all. Stubborn, defiant, confident. I tried to ignore it, but you really are in your rebellious phase.”
Izuku should do something. But what? Father’s close enough to hit—but hit him? Could Izuku really?
His friends have all been knocked down, still conscious, but not in fighting condition.
This isn’t something Izuku can do alone.
“You are my son, Izuku,” Father continues, “and I love you, so I’ll respect whatever decision you make.”
Huh?
“Of course, if this is your final decision, then from here on out, we’ll be on opposite sides.”
This isn’t—this is the last thing Izuku was expecting.
This is, perhaps, more concerning than if Father had hit him.
“We’ll always be family, Izuku, no matter what, even if you insist on defying me. But like this... my boy, you don’t stand a chance. So, as your father, let me give you a helping hand.”
Father takes a step closer.
“You’ve both grown up so fast. I can’t deny it any longer, so I suppose it’s time I let you and Tomura take it from here... but Izuku, if you really want to do this, if you really want to stay on that side, and put up an actual fight... you’re going to need more power than you already have.”
What does that mean?
What does that mean?
Izuku’s heart rate spikes and he takes a stumbling step backward, but Father immediately grabs his shoulder, hard enough to bruise.
“I want to help you, Izuku,” Father says, but his smile is a threat. “So, this time, I’ll give you four more quirks.”
Four?
Someone else might have been ecstatic. Someone else might have cheered. But Izuku begs, “Wait—” and struggles against Father’s grip.
Izuku can’t deny it anymore. He knows his father well enough to see this for what it really is: Father exerting more of his control, deciding which quirks Izuku gets. Father isolating him from his friends. Because if he does this, Izuku will have eight quirks, and everyone else in the world will only have one.
Izuku will be something different.
Izuku will be more like a nomu than a human.
Izuku tries to pull himself backward. He doesn’t want it. “Please—” This isn’t what he wants. But Father’s grip is strong and he’s never cared about what Izuku wants. “Stop—”
From behind, Izuku can make out screaming. Aizawa yelling “stop it! ” Hitoshi rambling insults to try and get Father to react. But they’re so far away, and they can’t do anything and Izuku can’t do anything when Father places his other hand on Izuku’s shoulder—the crook of his neck.
Father’s hand is big enough he could strangle Izuku’s throat with just the one, but Father doesn’t. Instead, Father smiles, and shoves four quirks into Izuku.
It’s an insane pressure, suffocating, like Izuku’s getting crushed under a car compactor but, somehow, from the inside out. It hurts. He doesn’t know what quirks they are but he knows they hurt.
Izuku’s only ever gotten a single quirk at a time before, and Father doesn’t even pace these out. He forces them all into Izuku at once and he’s drowning, he’s being ripped apart from the inside.
The moment is only a moment but it’s the longest one of Izuku’s life.
He throws up but the quirks don’t come out. They curdle in his stomach. It hurts. His vision blurs, his consciousness wanes.
Izuku’s legs drop from under him, but Father maintains his grip on Izuku and holds him up by the shoulder.
Izuku hangs, limp.
Father looks down at him, then lets out a long sigh. “I suppose that will have to do,” he says. Without turning away from Izuku, Father continues, “Tomura, unfortunately I can’t give you any more quirks as you are, but you are about to inherit a different kind of power, to keep the playing field fair. Now...”
Father tosses Izuku backward.
He stumbles, rolls, and at the last second Aizawa catches him. The hero stumbles, but manages to support Izuku’s weight. And then—
And then Father—Midoriya Hisashi—All for One—Sensei raises his hands and
puts them behind his head and
says,
“Take me to Tartarus.
“I surrender.”