Chapter Text
The last time Izuku Midoriya was happy on his birthday, he was four years old.
He can’t remember it all clearly— he was just so damned young back then— but there are these vivid moments that stick out sharply inside of him. Little bright patches in his head, shining amongst all the bullshit that came after.
He remembers the All Might cake his mother had painstakingly made, tufts of golden icing hair. He remembers accidentally finding the cake the night before: the opening up of the refrigerator door and the immediate, guilty slamming of it. He remembers the presents, the red, blue and yellow wrapping paper. Most of it was All Might themed— an All Might figure, an All Might shirt, an All Might pen— but two of the items broke that mold. One was a generic crayon set, sent by his father from America, and the other was a little fox plush from his mother.
“I know it’s not All Might, but,” his mother looked almost shy, her hand resting on the back of her neck. “I saw it in the toy store and its cute face just reminded me of you, ‘Zuku.”
Izuku looked down at the plush, almost comically big in his tiny hands. Its fur was deep orange with white patches on its belly and near its mouth. Its button eyes were big, round things that shone under the kitchen light. Its ears were fluffy triangles pointing straight up. He cocked his head. Why did Mama think he was like the plush?
Ohhhh. “Its head is tilted, Mama!”
“I know! You do the same thing, when you’re thinking.” Inko Midoriya grinned, and scooped up her son into her arms. “He looks so curious and smart, just like my little boy!”
Izuku giggled as his mother spun him around. It didn’t matter, he decided. It didn’t matter that his quirk hadn’t shown yet or that Kacchan didn’t come over for his birthday, or that he hadn’t seen his Papa in forever, or that the kids at school were starting to get mean. None of that mattered. Mama loved him— Mama loved him so much— to the point where he knew that, despite the world, everything was going to be alright.
Izuku still goes to his mother’s grave, even if it’s a stupid risk he should not be taking. He’s sure that, if he really wanted to, his father could easily snatch him at the cemetery. There’s not many people around, at least usually, and he goes there routinely. The fact that Izuku hasn’t been kidnapped isn’t a testament to his skills— though he’s working on it, okay— but more to his father’s annoying tendency to painfully draw things out. Izuku is sure his father will kill him one day, but he hopes he’s able to bring him along on the ride downstairs.
Maybe the bastard is already dead, Izuku thinks, not even believing it for a second.
He sits on the grass, looking up at his mother’s engraved name as if it were her face. Izuku gives her a brief update; he was here only last week, so there’s not much to tell.
“Patrol’s been going okay. I finally took down that drug ring a couple days ago.” That mission had been a pain in his ass for over two months. He had to figure out hierarchies, numbers, schedules, diversions. There would be no way in hell he could’ve taken them all out at the same time, so he had to divvy it up.
“But—but there was one thing. Eraserhead tried to talk to me again yesterday. Chased me down a couple of blocks before I lost him. He’s…” Izuku pauses. Eraserhead, underground hero and overall scruffy man, had been trying to approach him for about two and a half weeks now. For what, Izuku isn’t sure. He'd never been dumb enough to stick around.
I’m a vigilante. He’s probably trying to capture me.
Izuku had seen Eraserhead multiple times before, both while he was out patrolling and walking around the neighborhood as a regular teen. With the police and his fellow heroes, Eraserhead was straight to the point, direct, efficient. But when he was chasing after Izuku, he was anything but. He called him kid repeatedly and spouted that “just want to talk” nonsense. He hadn’t even tried to use his capture weapon on him, for the love of god. Izuku can’t imagine why the man acts so differently around him, and it sets him on edge. So, he keeps his distance from the hero.
And you don’t want to be the reason anymore heroes get killed, right, my—
“He’s persistent.” Izuku finishes, cutting off the voice in his head. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the past right now. “Anyway, Mom, I should go. I’m going to be late for work.”
Izuku stands up. He needs to leave. He can’t leave. His eyes fixate on the cool stone. His hands remember his mother’s warm skin. He says what he always ends up saying, even though he’s been coming to the cemetery for one year, even though she died five years before that.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I— I. I wish I never got that stupid quirk.”
He snatches his backpack from the ground and rushes out of the cemetery, keeping his eyes down. He doesn't even glance at the stone next to his mother’s, the stone that has his own name written on it.
Working at a bar was not his first choice, but Izuku is grateful for the job. There’s no way anyone would mistake him for being old enough to work this late— legally, he’d have to be over eighteen, and he’s an unfortunately scrawny fourteen year old— but he got the gig washing dishes with no questions asked. It doesn’t pay well, but Izuku doubts any job he could get would.
When he arrives, he can feel the owner of the bar giving him a dirty look. “You’re late.”
Izuku doesn’t think he can handle looking at him, not after coming from the cemetery, so he stares at the man’s shoes and bows a bit.
“If you’re late one more time, you’re fired. There are plenty of other kids who would kill to work for me.”
Izuku swallows the protest forming in his throat and nods. Bitch, he weakly thinks as the man’s feet leave.
He makes his way to his work station. He spares some time to smile at one of his coworkers, who shakes her head slightly while smiling, as if to say “you’re late again?”. He gives her the most innocent shrug he can, but throws a bit of mischief in the curl of his mouth. She rolls her eyes, and gestures to where the dishes have already piled up. Izuku huffs and turns away to get started on them.
Izuku doesn’t know her name, but she has plain, smart features, so he calls her Sato in his head. He’s made up names for everyone in the bar, and he’s sure they’ve made up ones for him. There’s an unspoken rule among the workers to never share personal information, or— god forbid— ask for any. The bar probably isn’t just a bar, probably has some terrible shit happening underneath it, but Izuku is a hypocrite and doesn’t poke around. Ignorance is bliss, and he really, really needs the money.
The other kitchen staff yell and talk shit while Izuku stays quiet. One thing he loves about this job is that it lets him think about his vigilante work while still keeping his hands busy. He thinks over his plans after this shift: his costume is stuffed inside his backpack, which might be another one of his bad ideas, but Izuku is eager to get on the streets as soon as he can. He’s given himself another mission tonight, not just a regular patrol, and he’s practically vibrating.
The hours pass by, and his shift is over. The person taking over for him isn’t there yet, but Izuku can’t contain himself and just straight up leaves through the back door. No one pays him any mind besides Sato, who waves at him. Izuku has only heard her voice once when she vouched for him to get the job. He isn’t sure why she stood up for him, but he’s thankful. He waves a bit too intensely back at Sato before going out in the summer air. It’s night, but still oppressively humid. Izuku is sweating in seconds, and knows his costume will reek after tonight; it was a sorta-kinda-dumb decision to have it be a hoodie, but what’s he gonna do? Buy new clothes? With what fucking money?
After walking a couple of blocks away, Izuku finds a dumpster to change behind. His body starts to vibrate again, and he yanks on his costume in the dark. He stuffs his backpack between the dumpster and the building behind, and then—
And then he’s free.
Izuku whoops as he leaps from a rooftop, rolling as he lands on the next one over. This is the shit. He doesn’t get to enjoy many things, but going out like this is always a thrill. Especially on a night like tonight.
Tonight, he’s going to see if he can piss off his father.
He arrives at the warehouse. It’s a little run down, but not out of place in this district. He stakes out the building for an hour, which is hellish in the heat, but doesn’t notice any movement through the small windows. It was exactly this quiet when he staked it out the night before, and the night before that. He reassures himself that his luck will hold up tonight, that there'll be no one coming in or out, but Izuku knows that doesn’t make it any less dangerous. People could still be in there, outside of his line of sight, hunkering down for the night.
Still, he’ll never know if he doesn’t go in.
Izuku approaches the warehouse, finding a window that’s already broken. It’s higher up and he curses, silently walking toward a nearby discarded tire. Hopefully he’ll get taller soon. At least the strength training his father put him through is useful; he gets the tire upright, rolls it underneath a window, and gently places it flat on the asphalt.
He’s careful going through the broken class; his vigilante costume is just a white medical mask, black cargo pants and a burnt orange hoodie that offers little protection. He’d found the clearly fake Nike hoodie (the white swish was upside-down and slightly pixelated) abandoned at a park and he lifted the pants and mask from a department store. Not the most official hero gear, but at least it helped justify his vigilante name, Fox.
With great care, he gets inside in one piece and finds himself in a small white room. Its walls are lined with shelving units, but they’re all empty. Did Father abandon this warehouse?
It wouldn't really be surprising. He got the tip from some snotty underground information broker that charged too much. He'd been a little desperate to get a lead on his father after months of nothing. Yes, Father was scary when he was in action, but silence? That was worse.
Anyway, the broker had only mentioned that the Doctor was spotted coming into the warehouse. Maybe he had a side-gig that Izuku didn’t know about. Maybe one even his father wasn’t privy to.
Izuku crosses the small room quietly, listening for any sounds. He stops at the door. It has no keyhole, so he lays on the cool concrete floor in order to peer into the next room.
A bundle.
Izuku’s breath hitches. He sees a group of gray quirks, shining little orbs, crowded together at the other side of the room. That means— that means there’s someone who has multiple stolen quirks in the warehouse.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Izuku got more than he bargained for.
Father.