Chapter Text
Shigaraki Tomura’s Sensei always spoke in such grand, sweeping terms, whispering plans and schemes and intricate strategies into Tomura’s ear from a young age, hoping the boy would absorb them, adapt to think in them. Yet, even at the age of 18, Shigaraki was as capricious and short-sighted as a child, driven by the winds and whims of his fancy. It was Sensei who budged to accommodate him in the end, admitting the benefits of chaos in criminality: the League’s actions would never be predicted so long as Tomura was its head. That was the new plan, to nurture his disorder into power. Shigaraki needed to make choices, mistakes, if he was ever to learn. No matter how many times he failed a level, Shigaraki would win the game.
Then, Midoriya Izuku entered the picture.
In order to perform the sting operation on All Might, the League would need intimate knowledge of UA architecture and property. How far did its grounds stretch? What security system companies did it higher out? What made up its foundations? Its gates? The traitor they’d assigned to infiltrate UA as a student wouldn’t be a viable source of information for months, and there’s only so much information a first year can be expected to pull. That left for a data sweep at the schematics company UA hired out: a concrete high-rise building in the middle of Musutafu.
Shigaraki pocketed the flash drive the moment the documents downloaded and pulled up his hood, heading for the stairway to the roof. Kurogiri would warp him back to the bar like he had warped him from there, tripping no alarms and avoiding all suspicion. So boring. Shigaraki huffed. I hate dull side quests. He shoved the door to the roof open with his shoulder and scowled up at the sun. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust as the figure before him became clear.
Someone stood on the other side of the roof railing, white-shoed feet hanging over the edge into oblivion. He started at the sound of the door, flinched, and clutched the rusty banister to avoid falling. Wild green hair, scuffed up gakuran uniform, stocky-frame—a child’s features. The boy turned around to gape at a smirking Shigaraki.
“Don’t let me stop you,” he cackled. “Get on with it!
The boy’s—Izuku’s—face slackened. “You– you’re not going to try to talk me out of it?”
“No,” Shigaraki snorted. “Do it. I’m bored anyway.”
“Oh.” Izuku glanced down to the empty space below his feet. “I was actually hoping to do this in private.”
“Why? It’s suicide, not murder.”
“I don’t know. It’s a private thing.”
“ Brat, you're throwing your life away to become a statistic in the JPN News. Now that is about the least private thing I can think of.” Shigaraki snorted. Izuku’s shoulders rose to his ears, shame and biting wind flushing his cheeks.
“I – I guess I’ll come back later.”
“Better not or else you’ll wimp out. Go to the next building over.”
“No.” Izuku looked out into the horizon with raw eyes. “It has to be this roof.”
“Stupid brat. What’s one roof have to do with anything?”
Izuku turned to Shigaraki, and the clear paths of tear trails down his freckled cheeks glistened in the sunlight, eyes so sunken and desperate and numb, the older man was almost impressed. But nothing could have caught his attention like the boy’s next words: “This is where All Might left me.”
His morbid, distracted interest zeroed in to full attention. All Might. All Might. The man Shigaraki hated above all. “All Might?” He sneered. “What about him?” Izuku hesitated, wondering if he should take the leap before being roped into conversation with a disheveled, red-eyed madman. “C’mon, brat.” Shigaraki’s hands twitched. “Nobody else will give a crap about your stupid life story. Spill it before I crush you.”
Well then. Izuku’s blood went cold, the sting of his bruised body trembling under the familiar tone of a threat. But this man wasn’t like Kacchan. He wasn’t angry; he was unhinged, unpredictable. He took a step forward, and Izuku blurted. “I’m quirkless!” Shigaraki paused, waiting, and Izuku’s worst habit of babbling took over. “I’m quirkless. And being quirkless means being useless. That’s what everyone says. But I wanted more; I fought for more. No matter how many people beat me down, I thought I could be useful, a hero. I tried so hard to be one, but they kept saying I couldn’t… so, when All Might saved my life one time, I knew I needed to ask him, so I grabbed on when he tried to jump away. He brought me here, and I asked him if I could be a hero without a quirk.” Stop talking. Izuku thought, but he couldn’t. “He said no. He left me here, on this roof. That’s– that’s why it has to be here! Because I already died here that day. There’s no point being alive without a quirk. If I can’t be a hero, then I don’t want to exist at all. I don’t want to get hurt anymore. I don’t wanna be useless.”
“How’s dying going to make you stronger?” Shigaraki sneered, but the bite to his voice was gone.
“I dunno.” Izuku shrugged. “I’m tired, and I don’t want to be anything anymore. Better to be a dead nothing than a worthless anything.”
Finally—thankfully—quiet fell, and the two absorbed the outburst respectively.
Izuku observed the slow crawl of traffic and the sparsely populated sidewalk below, tops of heads bobbing by. Would no one look up? Would no one see him? Izuku decided it was fine either way. He felt better after unloading the thoughts that had looped through his brain for months. Of all the people to tell, the pale, blue-haired man with a murderous smile was an odd choice, but it was done, and Izuku felt lighter, numb. His grip on the railing loosened.
Shigaraki, on the other hand, felt a storm of impulses cresting in his chest. Once again, All Might had failed to save someone. The rampant delusion of peace and safety portrayed the man as perfect, untouchable, omnipotent, yet 5 feet and 4 inches of neglected victim stood before him as living—soon to be dead—proof otherwise, dull-eyed and still blinded by “The Symbol’s” grandeur. What Shigaraki wouldn’t give to shove All Might’s face in the scene of his mistake, or—better yet—prove him utterly, miserably wrong. The green haired kid was as much a reject of society as Shigaraki. He had the makings of a villain, or at least a pet project.
Izuku let go of the rail and tipped forward, making the decision for Shigaraki.
The man pounced, hooked two fingers into the boy’s collar, and dragged him back over the fence. Izuku yelped, kicking and hitting in the fervor of someone with nothing to lose. Shigaraki grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head into the concrete roof floor until he went limp, a tiny pool of blood forming beneath him.
Shigaraki stood and pulled out his phone. “Kurogiri, I’m taking a kid I found with me. He’s interesting. Warp us to the bar and tell Sensei I want to see him.”
Izuku didn’t expect to wake up. That was—after all—the whole idea of suicide. Yes, the last few seconds of the attempt had been chaotic, but surely he’d managed to die. Whether his head hit concrete from a fall or a murder, the result should have been the same. Yes, yes, he was dead. It was unquestionable, undeniable.
The only reason Izuku had trouble believing it was because he had to convince himself in the first place. Not to mention his head hurt, and his bruises ached, and his mouth tasted of sandpaper. It wasn’t comfy. It wasn’t empty. It wasn’t even black, as dull flickers of light danced behind his eyelids. The full brunt of consciousness hit him then, and he groaned, saliva drooling from his mouth to the sofa his cheek pressed against. Squinting, darkness fell away to a TV screen and expanded past the dim wall behind it and the velvety maroon sofa and the head of blue hair sitting on the floor with a controller in hand.
“You awake, brat?” He snapped at Izuku without looking away from the screen.
“Uuugh.” His hand raised to his pulsing forehead and felt a bandage above his right eyebrow. “What did you do to me?”
“Kidnapped you. Now be quiet, I’m trying to finish this level.”
Izuku quieted and watched the pixelated character on the screen work through a platform game, oddly calm. It reminded him of being young, playing at Kacchan’s house. Izuku was never given a turn at the videogame, so he sat back and watched while the other boy’s howled and jostled each other, vibrating with the controllers in their stubby hands. Those visits had always been tinted with sadness—he was the obvious outcast of the bunch—but now a filter of nostalgia gave the memories a soft, golden glow: the good old days, something he’d never get back. So, Izuku sagged unto the plush curves of the sofa and watched quietly until his lids drooped and he drifted back to sleep.
…
He awoke in the same place, in the same position. A whine escaped his mouth, and Shigaraki glanced back at him.
“Do you want to play?” He offered an extra controller.
“No,” Izuku hummed. “I like to watch.”
They returned to silence but for the rhythmic bass of the game soundtrack. It was a higher level, Izuku noted, only half wondering how much time had passed. The tranquil atmosphere soothed him to submission, nonchalance. No restraints pinned his arms or legs; heated air belched from a space heater in the corner; the familiar scent of lysol permeated the sofa cushions. It was so homely, and he was so tired.
Izuku watched the game until he fell asleep again.
…
“Wake up, brat.” A hand nudged his shoulder. “Now.” Izuku squinted into wrinkled, red eyes. Shigaraki sat with crossed legs on the floor in front of him, notably calmer than he’d been on the roof. Izuku gave him a slow blink for acknowledgement. “You need to be awake when Sensei summons us.”
“Who?” His voice cracked.
“Don’t ask questions.” Shigaraki glared. “Just answer. What’s your name?”
“Midoriya Izuku.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Do you want revenge?”
“Not really.”
Shigaraki’s face soured. “What do you want then?”
“To die.”
“Other than that?”
Izuku considered. His world had tunneled for the last few months, but remnants of himself still remained, and many things hadn’t changed. “I wanna be a hero.”
“Heroes are garbage!” He hissed. Again, a slow blink answered him, but Shigaraki’s usual bout of rage didn’t follow. Video games always served to soothe him. He’d played for hours as the boy slept and watched, and with each passing level, his annoyance dwindled and his caprice grew. The League needed more members, but he didn’t see it in the boy. He only saw a chance, a big middle finger to ship to All Might in a neat bow. A side quest, perhaps, but an interesting one. “What about a quirk? Do you want one of those?”
Izuku’s head raised, frowning at the serious way he posed the question. “Yes.” He gulped. “I really, really want a quirk.”
“Good, because you’re getting one.”
Izuku sat up, arms trembling with the effort. “Wha–”
“No questions!” Shigaraki snapped. Izuku’s mouth clamped shut, but something gleamed in his eyes, the first spark of light that had filled them in months. A quirk. His head spun. A quirk! “I hate All Might. Everyone calls him the Symbol of Peace, but he’s the worst. He doesn’t know anything, and I’ll destroy him and everything he says or does. Heroes step on people like us because we’re ugly and weak, but we’re better than all of them. We can do anything we want when they’re stuck on the rules. You want to be a stupid hero? You’ll do what the rest of them are too big of cowards to do and trump them all. Screw All Might!” The monologue lost Izuku.
“... uhhhhh.”
Shigaraki threw up his hands. “Do you want a quirk or not?”
“Yes! I do!”
“Then agree to my conditions and you’ll get one.”
Condition 1: tell no one. This was obvious. If anyone knew he’d conspired with villains to obtain a quirk, every hero school, agency, and organization would slam its doors in Izuku’s face. He’d be arrested, persecuted, left for dead the same way All Might had left him on the roof. This condition was a mercy for Izuku. It held his last bit of hope hostage for Shigaraki to toy with in manic glee.
Condition 2: do not interfere with the criminal activities of the League of Villains. Izuku had never heard of the organization, but he assumed it made up Shigaraki (who’d finally introduced himself), Sensei, and Kurogiri—a suited man of mist who bustled by periodically. They seemed villainous enough, and Izuku hesitated to agree with something so similar to an alliance, but Shigaraki won him over with
Condition 3: attend UA High School. Izuku had to lay down again after this one. UA. U-freaking-A. The school of his dreams. They wanted him there so the traitor they placed could keep an eye on him and his hero career. Not to mention All Might taught there, making it the best place to constantly remind the hero of his misjudgment of Izuku.
Condition 4: do not divulge any League information to anyone. This was an extension of Conditions 1 and 2 and simply assures they’d receive no trouble from the aspiring hero.
Condition 5: check in periodically and come when summoned. This was Kurogiri’s suggestion. Regular contact would stabilize the unconventional situation. After all, since their actions would be largely independent of each other, Izuku might grow too cocky or guilty and betray the League. He would need regular reminders to stay in line.
Condition 6: act as an alarm for any issue that might trouble the League. Shigaraki insisted this didn’t mean a spy. They already had one of those. No, Shigaraki called it common courtesy, promised to pay him the same respect, and clarified he expected no other information than a basic heads up.
Condition 7: become a hero and rub it in All Might’s face at every opportunity. The whole point of it all, at least for Shigaraki.
It wouldn’t matter too much in the end when the League destroyed hero society—including Izuku. It contributed nothing to the main quest but XP, but Sensei wanted Shigaraki to make decisions and plans and mistakes. Izuku was a puppet on strings he could cut at any time by broadcasting his villain association to the world, his dreams and credibility as hostages of Shigaraki’s whims.
He explained this much to Sensei when he and the boy had been summoned. Izuku lay sprawled across the floor at All for One’s feet, put to sleep by a quirk, while they talked.
“Tomura.” Sensei rested his cheek on a great fist, toeing the boy’s limp body. “You’re taking a great risk for something with little pay off. Even with the conditions, the boy has nothing to lose, and therefore nothing to fear.”
“But if we give him what he wants, Sensei, he’ll never defy us. We’ll be his only method of survival.”
“Then why not use him more? Why not recruit him?”
“We won’t have any leverage if we make him a villain,” Shigaraki spat. “He wants to be a hero or dead.”
“Then I don’t see the point of the boy at all.” He kicked Izuku onto his back and placed a foot on his neck. “We might as well put an end to his misery, or use him for a Nomu, perhaps. Though, I doubt such a weak, quirkless body could handle being one. He’s a liability, Tomura.”
“You said I should do what I want, Sensei.” Shigaraki began to scratch his neck. “I want to prove All Might wrong. I want to show him how powerless and stupid he really is. He talks and talks about peace and about how everyone can be a hero, but then he tells the brat he can’t because he’s quirkless. I want him to face his own hypocrisy. I want him to be proven wrong.”
“And that requires giving this boy a quirk and letting him be a hero?”
“Yes sensei. You have hundreds of quirks. Give the brat one. He might even become useful.”
All for One sighed, bemused, and lifted his foot from Izuku’s throat. “Is this anything but a distraction, Tomura?”
“It’s a fun game,” Shigaraki grumbled and switched scratching hands. “Just a side quest. For experience, like you said.”
“Very well, then,” he chuckled. “Blindfold the boy. I’ll wake him up and give him a quirk. Just know that he’s your responsibility, Tomura.”
“Yes, Sensei.”
Izuku awoke to the sound of scratching, the dry, flaky scuff of nails on skin. It was creepy, close, and Izuku tried to open his eyes and squirm away, but his lids remained pinned shut and a large hand pressed into his chest to keep him on the cold ground. Something dripped in the distance, steady breaths echoed each other, shoes shuffled, the hand crushed his ribs, and the scratching , it didn’t stop. He started to whine but stopped when the weight increased, going limp instead. Memories harped his oxygen deprived brain: he’d been with Shigaraki at the bar, discussing conditions as best he could without asking questions when Kurogiri appeared, said Sensei was ready to see them. Then black mist and a dark room, then nothing, as if he’d fainted.
Maybe they’d kill him, Izuku reasoned. The deal of the quirk had certainly sounded nice, but things like that could only be considered in the hypothetical. He was a fool for believing it for a second. Well, now he would die and it wouldn’t matter. He’d had a few extra hours, but the result was the same. It was over. He could sleep now.
Izuku released his last ounce of oxygen with a sigh, waiting for the pressure to mount and snap and for the darkness to be complete.
“You’re strange, young one,” a new, deeper voice chuckled. “You’re so accustomed to being weak, you don’t even fight anymore. Perhaps Tomura was right. Perhaps this will be interesting.” The pad of an oversized thumb pressed into Izuku’s forehead. “With that bush of green hair, I’ve got the perfect quirk in mind.”
A swell of energy, and the first flicker of pain shot through Izuku’s skull. It worked down his neck, shoulders, torso, arms and legs, fingers and toes, muscles, ligaments, joints. Up and up, hotter and hotter. Until he could only feel fire. Until he could only hear screams.