Izuku's Point of View
⸻
Two years have gone by.
Two years of quiet growth.
Two years of training.
And two years of building something that no one in this world was ready to see just yet.
I sat at my desk witch was bigger now thanks to a sale and some modifications on my part, it was reinforced, built to hold equipment most six-year-olds shouldn't be allowed to touch. The room was different too. Cleaner. More intentional. One half was my childhood: plush All Might doll on the shelf, blanket with cartoon hero mascots, a little lamp shaped like a smiling star.
The other side?
The unofficial Stark Industries Headquarters (also known as my bedroom).
Three monitors hummed softly. A mechanical arm printer in the corner clicked calmly as it extruded polymer components. The window was open, letting in the late afternoon light. Wind brushed across my face, cool and steady.
I stretched my ever growing body I made as a bit older now, a little taller, lean muscle drawn tight from two years of relentless training. The body of a child, yes, but with the posture of someone who knew how to stand and use it properly.
On one of the screens, figures scrolled—clean, rising, just to my satisfaction.
My Net worth:
₳ 11,420,500 yen
And climbing.
Stark Industries wasn't just surviving.
It was accelerating.
"Not bad," I murmured, tapping the screen lightly. "We're right on target."
Mama, AKA CEO Midoriya—handled the public-facing paperwork, the legal compliance, the adult-world conversations. She wore nicer clothes now. She spoke with confidence that was not before. Her back was straight when she walked now. She didn't rush anymore, and more importantly she didn't apologize just for existing. The fear that once lived under her skin was gone, replaced by quiet steel.
Being needed changes people.
And being believed in changes them more.
I leaned back in my chair and let myself talk through the past two years, the way someone writes in a journal—only I didn't need the paper anymore.
"We acquired the old textile factory first," I said softly. "It was collapsing. Outdated equipment, drowning in debt. But the workers... they were good. Skilled. Loyal to their craft. They didn't deserve to be discarded."
So we bought the whole thing.
Building, machines, staff.
Restored the space.
Upgraded the tools.
Paid everyone better.
And then I handed them my designs.
Household inventions. Practical, useful and most importantly Affordable for all.
Things people could fall in love with.
ShockSafe Door Locks
Low-level static deterrent triggers when tampered with.
Cheap. Durable. Simple.
Crime in three districts dropped seventeen percent in a month witch showed me how many idiots live in this world.
The police called it "a miracle."
The public called them "genius."
I called them step one.
Next were:
GripFit Safety Gloves – micro-rubber woven with smart-tension fibers for perfect grip, heat resistance, and no-slip dexterity.
Adopted by construction companies in three major prefectures.
ThermoEase Kettles – self-regulating heating coils that shut off before boiling over.
(Old ladies loved these. And if you win the grandmas, you win the market.)
And my personal favorite:
QuickPatch Adhesive Gel
A sterile, fast-bonding polymer seal for cuts and wounds.
Sold in convenience stores like candy.
We didn't just build a company.
We built trust.
And once the people trusted Stark Industries...
The heroes followed soon after I just had to give a little push to the right direction.
⸻
Flashback: 1 Year Ago
The warehouse was quiet.
An old distribution center by the docks—abandoned, drafty, half-lit by the flickering street lamps outside. Perfect for privacy. Perfect for someone who didn't want to be seen, and great for someone who couldn't afford to be seen.
A man stood in the center of the concrete floor.
Young. Maybe twenty, twenty-one at most. Hero suit stitched by someone who tried their best but didn't know what they were doing. Leather straps, cheap faux-metal plates, mismatched gloves—he looked like he'd pieced it together from thrift stores and stubborn hope.
The hero name stitched across his chest read:
"Volt Runner."
Quirk: Voltage Cycling
Generate and store electrical energy internally, then discharge it through muscle motion.
On paper? The quirk itself was strong.
In reality however? It could be Dangerous to both him and others.
When he stored too much, his muscles spasmed. When he stored too little, his output flickered. Any company with sense called him unstable. Unmarketable. A liability.
He stared at the drone hovering before him—sleek white metal, a floating Stark Industries insignia stamped on its casing. His expression was a mix of suspicion and exhaustion.
"So you're telling me," he said slowly, "you want to give me free support gear. No strings. No sponsorship contract lock. Just... advertisement."
"Yes," I replied through the drone's speaker. Voice crisp, clear, professional. "In exchange, you wear the gear and speak honestly about its performance. Nothing more."
He scoffed—though I could hear the ache beneath it.
"You know nobody likes to work with electric types. Too risky. Too unstable they say. Companies don't want lawsuits when we seize up mid-mission or fry someone by accident. You sure you're not trying to get me killed for PR?"
I exhaled slowly—the sound filtering through the speaker as a soft, tired sigh.
"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't need to sell you equipment first."
He blinked at that.
Dead silence.
Then—he laughed. A surprised, short sound. Not offended. Just tired.
"...You talk real confident for someone too scared to show their face."
The drone elevated slightly.
Camera lens focused completely on him.
Time to be real honest. Honesty is the best policy after all.
"Volt Runner," I said quietly. "I am not hiding because I am afraid of you. I am hiding because the world is not prepared to understand me yet."
He frowned.
Confused.
But listening.
"I am the true CEO of Stark Industries," I continued. "But legally, I am not allowed to hold power yet. My assistant serves as the public face of the company. In a few years, everything will make sense. For now—my anonymity is protection. For the both of us."
His posture shifted and his suspicion was fading while his curiosity at all of this was growing.
Still wary, he crossed his arms. "And how do you know anything about me? You said you had 'data'—"
"Yes," I interrupted. "Because I know your quirk better than you do."
The drone projected a hologram—amber electric tracing dancing across a translucent model of his body.
"You generate electricity through your nervous system. The stronger the emotional impulse, the stronger the charge. However—your body has no natural regulator. When voltage rises beyond 340 microvolts per gram of muscle tissue—"
The hologram jittered.
Spasmed.
Just like he did during fights.
"Your muscles misfire. Your limbs jerk. Your output becomes inconsistent. And when your adrenaline spikes, you overcharge, causing short-term paralysis."
His eyes widened.
He knew that.
He'd lived through that.
But—
No one else had explained to him why.
I continued not caring much for his reaction.
"Your gloves are non-insulated. Your suit's stitching is nylon—it melts during high-voltage discharge. And your boots have no grounding pads. You're working harder than you should be simply to avoid electrocuting yourself."
The drone displayed the gear schematics I'd spent weeks refining.
Volt Stabilizer Gauntlets:
Insulated core coils to store excess charge harmlessly.
Conductive Channel Liners:
Direct electricity through motion, not muscle strain.
GroundPulse Boots:
Convert overflow voltage into kinetic launch—speed, agility, controlled bursts.
"You won't seize anymore," I said. "Your power output will stabilize. And your stamina will triple."
Volt Runner stared.
Not blinking, Not even breathing.
Just... absorbing it all in.
"How—how long have you been studying this?" he whispered.
I smiled at that.
"Since the moment I saw your first amateur fight clip online 3 weeks ago, and it took me 2 days to analyze your quirk fully to understand its limits and weaknesses."
His lips parted.
I lowered my voice—gentle, but unshakeably certain.
"You are not unstable.
You are not weak.
You simply needed equipment that understands and fit you."
A long silence settled.
Then—very slowly—
Volt Runner sank to one knee.
"...Then I'll carry your name," he said quietly. "I'll wear your gear. I'll spread your brand. I'll fight with it. Because you're the first person who ever treated me like I wasn't a mistake."
If I'd been there in person, I would have rested a hand on his shoulder.
Instead—the drone dipped in acknowledgment.
"That," I said gently, "is all I ask."
⸻
Back to Present.
I let out a long, quiet sigh and leaned back in my chair.
Volt Runner.
One year ago, he'd been the first. Nervous. Desperate. Trying so hard it hurt to watch. And now?
The guy kneeled every time I showed up via my drone.
Every damn time.
The drone would descend into his training yard, I'd just be there to check his wrist conduits or run a calibration on his grounding pads and—boom. Down he'd go.
Thud.
"Kneel-before-your-young-master" levels of dramatic.
Every. Single. Time.
I dragged a hand down my face.
"I didn't ask for a loyal knight," I muttered. "I just wanted to fix your damn gloves."
But nope. Apparently saving a man's career, stabilizing his quirk, and telling him he isn't a walking accident factory turns you into his life-long feudal lord or something.
And the worst part?
I made the mistake of telling Mama about it.
She just smiled, patted my head, and went:
"Oh sweetheart, you're responsible for him now. He's your future hero sidekick."
Then she blinked and added:
"...But no, Izuku. That's not normal."
I had never regretted asking a question so fast in my life.
I groaned and slumped face-first onto my desk.
"Why is my life like this...?"
⸻
Online schooling had been... well.
A joke.
Not in a way that made me smug.
In a way that scared me a little.
I read a page once.
One time.
And it stuck. Perfectly. Layered. Indexed. Stored like I'd spent weeks studying it instead of seconds.
If past-me in the desert had half this clarity, and recall?
My platoon—
I shook my head
I cut the thought before it could hurt more that it already did.
Focus.
This was something new. Something that felt like it had always been there, waiting to be used. The original Izuku's brain was built for analysis — he'd cataloged heroes obsessively his entire life. And Alexander — me — had battlefield pattern recognition drilled into bone.
Put those together?
Information wasn't just knowledge anymore.
It was geometry. Shape. Structure.
It clicked Clean and Effortless. I could feel the patterns align as I learned.
And soon?
The assignments weren't assignments.
They were warm-ups.
Apparently, this didn't go unnoticed.
Last week, I received an email from my online instructor.
Not unusual by itself—teachers love sending notifications about assignments and progress reports. But this one felt different.
The subject line read:
Request for Guardian Conference Regarding Academic Acceleration
I remembered how my hands paused over the keyboard. My eyes scanned the email slowly.
The message was polite. Professional. Almost too polished for my liking.
"Midori27, your academic performance is... unusual. The rate you absorb and apply information surpasses standard curriculum parameters. I would like to discuss an opportunity that I believe may benefit you. I assure you that I understand the privacy of online students, and will not discuss anything without your and your guardian's approval."
No details about the opportunity.
No reference to any program name.
No signature identifying external affiliations.
It felt intentional.
Like the message was testing something.
So, I did what I always do.
I dug.
Not into his surface profile—of course that existed:
University degree, teaching certification, recommendation letters, all things that should build trust.
But when I pushed deeper, searching for the normal chaos every human life carries—
Arguments in old forums, social media footprints, faint data trails of purchases, tax fluctuations, medical records, addresses changing over time—
There was nothing.
No rough edges.
No embarrassing posts.
No old usernames.
No mistakes.
Just a perfectly curated identity.
Too perfect.
When a person has no shadow...
Either they are being protected.
Or they are dangerous.
I didn't know which one he was yet.
So I spoke with mama about it.
We agreed on it immediately:
Better to meet on our terms.
In our home.
Where the environment favored us.
So I wrote back.
"Yes. You may come and speak with my guardian. Friday at 4 PM. Here is the address."
So now—
It was Thursday.
And tomorrow, a stranger who may be an ally, a spy, or a hunter would step into the one place I could not afford to lose.
Our home.
I stood up from my chair and stretched slowly.
"Alright," I muttered, exhaling through my nose, "final defense check."
Not because I was paranoid mind you.
I was just being responsible.
Small, nearly invisible seams ran along the baseboards of the room—micro-hinged compartments that could open in under half a second. Inside them slept compact stun turrets of my own design—non-lethal by default.
Default, being the important word.
A single voice command—"Alpha Spark"—would shift them to live rounds or arc-shot paralysis rounds.
Not that I wanted things to escalate that far.
But preparation is not violence.
Preparation is prevention.
I walked to the center of the room and snapped my fingers twice.
Something stirred above me.
A mechanical form descended on a silk-thin electro-web, landing neatly in my open palm.
Eight jointed legs.
Matte black plating.
Blue optic lenses glowing softly.
My spider.
Well—one of them.
Ten roamed the apartment at all times, moving in silent loops through vents and shadowed corners. They carried shock-webs and non-lethal paralytic venom for intruder control. They reported to me continuously through silent local network.
Good for neutralization.
Better for surveillance.
But the one resting in my hand?
This one was special.
She chirped once, her one optic brightening in recognition.
"...Hey Silk," I murmured, a real smile tugging at my lips. "You been keeping watch?"
The spider tapped my thumb twice—yes.
I huffed a quiet laugh.
"If Sparkplug were here..." I said, voice softening, "he'd be losing his mind over this."
I could see him in my memory—grinning, bouncing on his heels, practically vibrating.
"You made a SPIDER DRONE? Bro, that's—no, no, I'm sorry, that's ILLEGAL. That's SEXY. Can I have one? Can I have five? Please? I'll trade you my dessert rations for a month—"
I snorted under my breath.
"Yeah. He'd definitely be drooling."
The spider chirped again, clearly pleased with itself.
"You," I said, tapping its metal head, "are staying with me tomorrow. Just in case."
Two taps—affirmation.
I placed her on my shoulder. He anchored himself lightly to my shirt collar.
My home and my mother were protected.
And tomorrow?
I would find out exactly who this mystery teacher of mine was.
A friend? a hunter? or preferably something far more interesting.
I smiled—small, sharp, steady.
"Let's see what tomorrow sunrise will bring."