Izuku's point of view
After all, many things can be achieved with Just A Rather Very Intelligent System.
I'd finished JARVIS creation at 3 AM and by 9 AM the same morning, I had already given him his first official mission. Why waste time with boring diagnostics when we could run a live, practical test? And if that test just so happened to further my other, more important mission—Operation: Parental Lock—well, that was just good time management.
The day after his creation, I decided to run the simulation. The objective: convince Mama the house was haunted, thereby creating a scenario where she would logically seek safety from the most dangerous thing in the building—Kaito. What I was after was simple: her panic and his reaction to her seeking him as a shelter.
(Start of Flashback)
2 years ago
The morning sun was pouring through the giant windows of the living room, making the whole place look like a fancy postcard. We'd just finished a big breakfast of pancakes—my one true weakness in this life besides katsudon—and I was sprawled on the super-soft rug in front of the TV. Mama was sipping her tea on the couch, watching me with that warm, sleepy look she gets.
I was bored. My brain needed a break from schematics and stock reports. So, I'd booted up my game console. The best fighting game this weird world had to offer was a knock-off called Hero Clash. It was basically Street Fighter, but everyone had knock-off versions of famous hero quirks. It was kinda lame, but also kinda fun.
"Take that!" I muttered, mashing buttons as my character, a guy who shot weak sparkles from his hands, got totally wrecked by a lady with stretchy arms who weirdly reminded me of Bonney.
Mama chuckled. "Losing again, sweetie?"
"The balancing in this game is trash," I grumbled, but I was smiling. It was nice. Just a normal morning with my mom.
That's when Operation Haunted House began.
It started with the cabinets in the kitchen. All of them, at the same time, flew open with a loud BANG.
Mama jumped, tea sloshing. "What in the world?"
The lights flickered. The huge TV screen glitched, my game freezing into a mess of pixels before going black. The smart fridge beeped an angry error code.
"Huh?" Mama stood up, frowning. "Power surge?"
Then a voice. It wasn't coming from any one place. It was in the walls, in the air, low and groaning and totally creepy.
"Innnnkooooo..."
Mama froze. All the color drained from her face. Her eyes went huge.
I put on my best 'scared kid' face, which wasn't too hard because trying not to laugh was a serious mental workout. "M-Mama? I think... I think we made something mad."
She heard the disembodied voice say her name again, this time with a hiss.
"Thissss is myyyy domaaaain..."
That was all she needed and I got all I wanted in one spectacular show.
"Fuck this shit, I am OUT!" she yelled, in a perfect panic-mumble-shout only a Midoriya could manage.
She lunged forward, grabbed my wrist in a death grip, and yanked me off the floor. I scrambled to my feet as she took off running, dragging me behind her like a runaway grocery cart. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, my whole body shaking with the effort of not cackling like a madman.
We skidded around a corner into the main hallway—and ran straight into Hikaru, who was walking toward us, looking at a tablet that probably had my brutal new training regimen on it.
"Inko? What's—oof!"
Mama didn't slow down. She didn't even seem to see him. She just let go of my hand and launched herself through the air, right into his chest.
Kaito, because his instincts are stupidly good, dropped the tablet instantly. It clattered to the floor as his arms snapped up and caught her on pure reflex. He staggered back a step, holding her up like she weighed nothing.
Mama, her face buried in his shirt, started babbling. "Voicewallsghostangrourhouseisceeeeptichichikaruhelp!"
It was the most glorious panic mumble I had ever witnessed. A masterpiece of the form.
Kaito was looking down at the top of her head, completely bewildered. Then I saw it. A slow, deep pink flush started creeping up from his neck, over his jaw, all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes were wide.
My smile at that point could have powered a small city. I was a gremlin, and I was proud of it.
It took Mama a few seconds of safe, solid-Hikaru-ness to realize where she was. She finally stopped mumbling and tilted her head back to look up at him. Her own face was pale from fear, but the second she registered his bright pink blush, and then registered that she was in his arms, her own face exploded into a matching shade of scarlet.
I couldn't hold it in anymore.
I lost it. I doubled over, laughter tearing out of me in huge, gasping wheezes. I fell to my knees, then onto my side, clutching my stomach as I howled. Tears streamed down my face.
They both stared down at me, identical looks of confused annoyance on their bright red faces.
Then they looked at each other again.
I swear to Kami, steam started coming out of Mama's ears. Kaito looked like he'd been flash-fried. They just stood there, frozen in a dumb, blushing statue hug.
That's when Jarvis, the beautiful, perfect ghost he was, spoke up in his normal, polite, British voice from the ceiling speakers.
"Prank Protocol 'Ectoplasmic Evaluation' is now complete. A success, I presume, sir?"
I was laughing too hard to speak, so I just gave a thumbs-up from the floor.
Finally, I managed to suck in a breath. "Y-Yes!" I wheezed. "Complete success! Mama, you jumped about ten feet in the air! Also," I added, pointing a shaky finger at her, "you said the F-word and the S-word!"
That broke the statue spell that was placed on them. Mama finally pushed herself out of Kaito's arms, looking flustered and furious. Hikaru coughed, quickly bending to pick up his shattered tablet, avoiding everyone's eyes.
"What," Hikaru asked, his voice a little rough, "was that robotic voice?"
I sat up, wiping my eyes, my grin still taking up half my face. "That," I announced proudly, "is my new personal AI! I just finished him last night! His name is JARVIS. It stands for Just A Rather Very Intelligent System."
I spread my arms out like I was presenting a prize. "And I figured, what better test run for a new AI than a full psychological horror simulation? Plus it was hilarious."
Mama stared at me. Her expression cycled through confusion, realization, and then utter, profound betrayal.
"You...," she whispered, her voice climbing with each word, "you used an AI... to convince me our house is HAUNTED?!"
I shrugged, the picture of innocence. "Technically, I didn't convince you. I just... presented the evidence. You did the rest."
"You are so grounded," she declared, pointing at me with the fire of a thousand betrayed mothers. "For a week! No lab, no workshop, no schematics after dinner!"
"You're just mad because you screamed," I shot back, still grinning.
She stomped past me, her ears still faintly steaming. "You're also losing your katsudon privileges for three days! I mean it!"
That wiped the grin right off my face.
"You're taking away my tech and my katsudon?!" I cried, the injustice of it all hitting me like a truck. "That's cruel and unusual punishment!!"
From behind her, Hikaru let out a choked cough that turned into a low, rumbling chuckle. He was trying to hide it, but his shoulders were shaking. He looked from my horrified face to Mama's furious, blushing one, and the chuckle grew into a real, proper laugh.
Mama whirled on him. "Don't you encourage him!"
"I'm not," he said, laughter still in his voice, holding up his hands in surrender. But his golden eyes were warm, fixed on her. "I'm just... appreciating the operational creativity. And the... impressive vertical leap."
Mama huffed, but the anger was fading, replaced by that flustered, pink-cheeked look again. She shot one last pretend-glare at me. "Menace."
"Your menace," I said, my good humor returning now that the katsudon ban seemed negotiable.
(End of Flashback)
(Back to present day)
I shook my head, blinking as the memory faded.
"To this day," I muttered, leaning back in my chair, "I maintain that taking both my tech and my katsudon for a prank was a violation of basic human rights. Honestly, it should qualify as a war crime."
Jarvis chimed in helpfully.
"Would you like me to draft an official protest to the Geneva Convention, sir?"
"...No, but log it in my list of grudges."
"Right below the entry labeled 'Bakugo's existence'?"
"Exactly."
Jarvis's dry tone always made me grin. It was almost unfair how easily he played along with my theatrics, but hey—if you're going to build an AI from scratch, it should at least have a sense of humor.
And grudges.
Definitely grudges.
Still, he wasn't wrong. Mom's punishments had been merciless ever since I'd started blending tech with my gremlin mischief. The haunted house alarm had been my masterpiece—screeching violins, rattling chains, whispers in Latin. She'd nearly leapt out of bed. Totally worth it. Until she grounded me. Then confiscated my prototypes and my katsudon.
It was unforgivable.
But pranks aside, Jarvis had made Stark Industries into more than just a company. He was my shield and sword in the business world, quietly tracking competitors, simulating markets, and keeping my databases spotless. Every quirk file we gathered went through him—strengths, weaknesses, counter-strategies. In the wrong hands, it would've been villain data. In mine, it was a fail safe and my insurance.
Information was the ultimate currency, more valuable than any yen I'd siphoned from corrupt villains while I was starting the creation of Stark industries. And thanks to Jarvis, I was compiling a ledger of my own. A secret, damning record of every fake hero, every corrupt official, every corporate predator who used the system as a personal shield. The more I dug, the more rot I found. It wasn't just a few bad apples; it was a systemic infection. Heroes who turned a blind eye for a kickback. Commissioners who buried reports to protect sponsorship deals. Support companies selling defective gear to hero's, consequences be damned.
Stain had seen the disease. I could respect his diagnosis, even admire his fervor. But his method—public, messy, reliant on a blade and a speech—was unsustainable. It created martyrs and copycats, not change. My approach would be different. For the corrupt who could be exposed, I'd amass the evidence and hand it to the right people—or leak it to the wrong ones. But for those whose crimes crossed a line into true evil, the kind that left children orphaned and communities in ashes... well, Stain had the right idea about removal. He just lacked finesse. A disappearance, an accident, a quiet retirement with no body to mourn. The system wouldn't miss its cancers once they were cleanly excised.
And thanks to Hikaru's training, I could back up that cold calculus with action.
His training was brutal in its simplicity. He didn't pad the edges because I was a kid. Every drill, every lesson was meant to forge me into someone who could survive when the rules stopped mattering. We'd moved our sessions deep into the woods surrounding our mountain home, a private arena where the only witnesses were the trees.
He began by teaching me to move like a ghost. "Sound is a trail," he'd say, his own footsteps making no more noise than a shadow shifting. "Leave one, and you're hunted down." He trained me to distribute my weight, to read the ground—soft moss, dry twigs, loose gravel—and adjust before I made contact. He drilled me until moving silently wasn't a technique; it was my default state of being. I learned to breathe with the wind, to step with the rustle of leaves. Now, I could move through a silent house and make him, the master hunter, glance over his shoulder.
Situational awareness was a constant, grueling game. An attack could come at any time. During breakfast just between me and Hikaru, a butter knife would flick toward my throat, and I'd have to deflect it with my chopsticks. While I was sketching schematics, a training shuriken would whisper past my ear, embedding itself in the wall. "Keep your head moving," he'd growl after each near-miss. "The world doesn't stop because you're thinking. Unaware is dead." The lessons were punctuated with sharp, stinging reminders—a light tap with a practice blade on a neglected flank, a pebble snapped against my knuckles if I failed to track a bird's sudden flight. Pain was a superb teacher.
But Hikaru's training was a foundation, not the final blueprint. In the hours he thought I was studying or tinkering, I was conducting my own, private curriculum. I took the lethal efficiency he taught—the joint locks, the pressure points, the economy of motion—and began to reshape it.
My inspiration came from my heroes: The Avengers.
Captain America's style was about leveraging peak human conditioning, using a shield as both an offensive and defensive pivot. Without the super-soldier serum, I had to rely on Hikaru's brutal conditioning. For the shield, I'd forged a disc from a layered polymer-metal composite, I have been working on creating vibranium myself but it was still a work in progress. During my training I felt like Falcon as I was experimenting on how to trow and receive the shield over and over again. After some time I was able to use the shield as a weapon that could be used to both protect and fight back.
Black Widow and Black Panther's styles were closer to Hikaru's—acrobatic, fluid, turning an opponent's strength against them. I merged their flowing, close-quarters combat with the feline agility Hikaru embodied, creating a hybrid style that was all about redirection, entanglement, and exploiting the slightest opening while fighting with the grace of a feline.
But the true evolution came with my version of Spider-Man fighting style.
His style was pure, liberated agility. It paired perfectly with the acrobatic foundations of Widow and Panther. The problem was facilitation. Spider-Man's moves were built around his webs. So, I upgraded my Widow's Bracers. It took me six months of late-night chemistry, countless failed polymer batches that resulted in everything from sticky goop to brittle strands, but I finally cracked it. My web fluid was strong, elastic, and dissolved after two hours. The shooters were integrated seamlessly, controlled by pressure sensors in my palms and fingertips.
If I had the webs, why stop there? Wall-crawling was next. The science was fiendishly complex—manipulating van der Waals forces on a macro scale. More months of trial and error, of studying gecko setae and insect tarsi, led to the creation of specialized gloves and boots. Microscopic synthetic setae covered the surfaces, controlled by a micro-current that could engage or disengage their adhesive properties at the speed of thought.
And of course, like the best son and gremlin in the world, I did what tradition demanded with a new piece of tech: I terrified my mother halve to death.
I'd finished the final calibrations at 5 AM and By 6 AM, I was in the kitchen on the ceiling waiting for my target.
I was hanging upside down, perfectly still, sipping a glass of apple juice through a straw. The world looked wonderfully strange from up there this gave me a new understanding about how Spider-Man feels.
Mama walked in, yawning, headed for the coffee machine. She paused, blinked sleep from her eyes, and looked at the empty space where I usually sat. Then her gaze drifted upward.
Our eyes met. Me, grinning around my straw. Her, face cycling through sleepiness, confusion, disbelief, and finally, utter, profound exasperation.
"Good morning, Mama," I said cheerfully, the words slightly distorted by the straw.
She didn't scream. She just put a hand over her heart and sighed, a long, suffering sound. "Izuku. Sweetheart. The one thing I ask. The one thing. Is to not find you defying gravity before I've had my coffee."
That's when Hikaru entered. He took in the scene: Mama clutching her chest, me smiling innocently from the ceiling. He stared. He blinked. Then a low, rumbling laugh started in his chest and spilled out, rich and unreserved.
Mama whirled on him. "Don't you encourage him!"
"I'm not," he chuckled, golden eyes sparkling with mirth. "I'm appreciating the... application of theory. And the structural integrity of your ceiling."
My katsudon privileges were revoked for two days. A harsh sentence, but as I placidly sipped my juice, watching the two of them bicker and blush below me, I decided it was worth it.
I chuckled at the memory, the phantom taste of apple juice and victory still sweet. I still stand by my claim: confiscating my tech and my katsudon constitutes a violation of the Geneva Conventions. But arguing with Mama when she's in full "disappointed mom" mode is like arguing with a force of nature. You just board up the windows and wait for the storm to pass.
That ceiling stunt, however, was just the opening act for a much bigger play. The very next day, the business world erupted.
The Yaoyorozu Group, the prestigious, privately-held dynasty I'd been watching like a hawk since I was four, was forced to open its doors to the public. It was a perfect storm of corporate sabotage and villainous opportunism.
First, a coordinated villain attack, later proven to be orchestrated by a rival conglomerate, "Kōgaku Heavy Industries," targeted key Yaoyorozu manufacturing sites and R&D facilities. While the heroes were busy containing the flashy, quirk-fueled chaos—collapsing warehouses, melting prototype labs—a second, subtler strike hit. A villain with a potent data-manipulation quirk, likely on Kōgaku's payroll, breached their supposedly impregnable servers. They didn't just steal proprietary data on next-generation support gear and material science; they scorched the earth, corrupting and deleting decades of research, financial records, and supply chain logistics.
The double blow was catastrophic. Physical assets were in ruins. Digital assets were ashes. The company's valuation, built on innovation and secrecy, plummeted overnight. To survive, they needed a massive, immediate infusion of capital. The only option: an emergency public offering.
The vultures circled. Competitors slashed orders for Yaoyorozu components, citing "supply chain instability." Banks called in lines of credit. Media analysts wrote obituaries for the "fallen giant." It was a textbook feeding frenzy.
I did not falter.
The moment the ticker symbol appeared, I gave Jarvis a single, calm command. Every yen I'd meticulously saved, laundered, and compounded over the years—every profit from ShockSafe locks, GripFit gloves, and savvy stock plays—was mobilized. It was a staggering sum, a fortune that would make a pro hero blush.
I bought. And I kept buying.
When the dust settled and the trading frenzy cooled, Stark Industries (via a labyrinthine network of holding companies managed by Mama and designed by me) held 48% of the Yaoyorozu Group.
Forty-eight percent. I owned nearly half of a centuries-old dynasty. The power it represented was immense. I could sway board votes, influence strategic direction, access their remaining (and still formidable) research. I could have bought more. Pushed for a controlling stake. But I didn't want to own them outright; I wanted a partner. A powerful, grateful, and now indebted partner. That 48% was a statement: I am your largest shareholder, your unexpected savior, and I am here to stay.
The return on that insane investment was already beginning as the market stabilized, but I didn't stop there. Goodwill is a currency, too.
Using the data-tracking protocols Jarvis and I had refined, I backtracked the digital footprints of the data-villain. It led, predictably, to offshore accounts and shell companies, all tracing back to Kōgaku Heavy Industries. I compiled a dossier—financial trails, encrypted communications, logistical planning—so clean and damning it could be used as a legal textbook. I anonymized it, polished it, and sent it directly to the Yaoyorozu family's private security, with a copy to a particularly dogged financial crimes investigator.
Karma, as it turns out, has a lovely sense of irony. Kōgaku's CEO was arrested for conspiracy, industrial espionage, and funding villainy. His empire was dismantled. As restitution for damages, a significant portion of Kōgaku's remaining viable assets—patents, factories, client contracts—were legally transferred to the Yaoyorozu Group.
The phoenix began to rise from the ashes, faster and stronger than anyone anticipated. And sitting comfortably within its nest, holding a large, warm egg of equity, was a nine-year-old boy in a mountain chalet.
It was starting to look like the beginnings of a good week.
Or it had been, for exactly three days in.
I sighed, leaning back in my chair as I remembered how quickly things had escalated after that corporate victory at eight years old. The ink was barely dry on the share transfers when the first discreet inquiry arrived from the Yaoyorozu Group's office. By day four, the polite requests to "speak with the principal behind recent strategic decisions" had become insistent.
Flashback - One Year Ago (Age 8)
"Again?" Mama asked, her voice tinged with anxiety as she stared at the fourth email in as many days. We were in the living room, the morning sun casting long shadows across the floor. "They want another meeting. They say it's 'urgent regarding mutual understanding.'"
Hikaru, who'd been quietly observing our morning routine from his usual armchair, set down his tea. "They're not going to stop. They're too sharp. Saving a company is one thing, but the precision of how you did it..." He glanced at me with a mix of pride and concern. "It leaves fingerprints only another genius would recognize."
I nodded, already thinking three steps ahead. The Yaoyorozus were traditionalists, but they were also brilliant analysts. My mistake had been being too perfect. The timing, the amount, the subsequent takedown of Kōgaku—it painted a picture of a single, formidable mind. They'd connected dots I hadn't realized were so visible.
"We'll give them their meeting," I said, my voice calm despite being eight years old. "Today. Before their curiosity turns into suspicion."
Mama's eyes widened. "Izuku, what are you planning?"
"Time to pull an All For One," I murmured to myself, thinking of the shadowy presence from the anime who operated from the darkness. Not that Mama or Hikaru would understand the reference, but the principle was sound: maintain mystery, project power, control the narrative.
An hour later, we were set up. Mama sat before the camera, back straight in her professional attire. Hikaru positioned himself just out of frame, a silent guardian. I had my tablet ready, a special program loaded and waiting.
The connection went through, and the composed faces of Renjiro and Sayuri Yaoyorozu appeared. There was a tension in their posture that hadn't been there during our previous, more formal business discussions.
"Inko-san," Renjiro began, bypassing pleasantries. "Thank you for accommodating us on short notice. We'll be direct. We've analyzed the events of the past week—the acquisition, the evidence against Kōgaku—and we've reached an unavoidable conclusion."
Sayuri's gaze was piercing even through the screen. "The strategic mind behind these actions isn't yours. No offense intended—your management has been impeccable—but the patterns don't align with your background. This is the work of someone... else."
Mama froze, her professional mask cracking at the edges. I could see the panic rising in her eyes. She opened her mouth to protest, but Renjiro continued gently.
"Please understand, we mean no disrespect. Quite the opposite. We owe this person our company, possibly our family's legacy. We wish to thank them properly. To establish a relationship with the true architect of Stark Industries."
That's when I tapped my tablet.
On their screen, Mama's image dissolved into a field of elegant static—gentle grey waves that pulsed rhythmically. My voice modulator activated, layering my eight-year-old voice with a digital, ageless resonance.
"Your analysis is correct."
Both Yaoyorozus started, their eyes widening as they leaned closer to their monitor.
"Inko Midoriya has been my trusted representative," the modulated voice continued. "My public face, for which I am eternally grateful. My current... circumstances prevent a more conventional appearance."
There was a beat of stunned silence before Renjiro found his voice. "May we ask... who we're addressing?"
"Not by name. Not yet. But know this: I am no criminal, nor do my circumstances stem from wrongdoing. Merely personal constraints that make public recognition... complicated for the moment."
Sayuri's expression softened from analytical intensity to profound relief. "We apologize if our pursuit caused distress. It came from a place of gratitude. What you did for us—"
"—was an investment in integrity," the voice finished smoothly. "Your company's history, your ethical practices, your treatment of employees—they revealed a dynasty worth preserving. I stopped at forty-eight percent intentionally. I seek partners, not puppets."
Renjiro actually bowed his head toward the screen—a remarkable gesture from a man of his stature. "You have our deepest thanks. And our discretion."
"The Kōgaku evidence... that was you as well?" Sayuri asked, her voice filled with wonder.
"The same mind that builds can dismantle," came the reply. "Consider it a gift for your new beginning."
There was a long, respectful silence. Then Renjiro spoke, emotion thickening his voice. "One day, we hope to meet you. To thank you properly."
A soft, static-laced chuckle filtered through. "One day. I imagine it will be quite the surprise. Until then, Inko-san speaks with my voice in all matters. You may trust her as you would trust me."
"We do," Sayuri said, smiling warmly at where Mama sat off-camera. "Thank you, Inko-san."
The call ended with promises of discretion and continued partnership. The moment the screen went dark, Mama exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for hours.
"Oh my goodness," she whispered, hands trembling slightly. "Izuku, that voice... it was so..."
"Effective," Hikaru finished, a hint of pride in his tone. "You controlled that perfectly, kid. Gave them enough to satisfy their curiosity but kept the mystery intact."
I grinned, dropping the modulator. "They needed to know there was someone real behind the curtain. Now they do. And they're honor-bound to keep the secret."
Present Day (Age 9)
I should have known that "one day" would come sooner rather than later.
The invitation arrived this morning—heavy cream cardstock with embossed silver lettering. A birthday celebration for Yaoyorozu Momo at their estate. Addressed formally to Inko Midoriya, CEO of Stark Industries, and Guest.
Paper-clipped to it was a smaller, more exquisite note:
To our unseen Benefactor,
A year has passed since you saved us, and we have honored our discretion. However, our daughter's birthday celebration brings together family, friends, and unfortunately, business associates we cannot politely exclude. Several hero agencies and corporate partners will be present—tedious but necessary obligations.
The event will be large enough that a discreet guest might pass unnoticed, yet intimate enough that we might finally express our gratitude in person. Should your circumstances allow—even masked or veiled—we would be honored to host you. No expectations, only hope.
With eternal gratitude,
Renjiro & Sayuri Yaoyorozu
I stared at the invitation, then at the separate note. Heroes. Corporate partners. A high-society event filled with people who would absolutely recognize the CEO of Stark Industries.
Silk chirped on my shoulder, tapping my cheek as if asking for orders.
"Well," I murmured, the beginnings of a plan already forming in my mind. "I did say it would be a surprise."
I had one week. One week to engineer an appearance that would satisfy the Yaoyorozus' desire to meet their benefactor without revealing that said benefactor was a nine-year-old boy. One week to prepare my family—Mama, myself, and Hikaru—to navigate a den of heroes and corporate sharks.
But as my mind began churning through possibilities—wardrobe, transportation, personas—a secondary objective crystalized. A formal party. Elegant attire. Close quarters. The perfect pressure cooker for social dynamics.
A slow, gremlin-like smile spread across my face.
Operation: Parental Lock was about to receive its most luxurious staging yet. The Yaoyorozus wanted to meet their mysterious savior? Fine. They'd get a performance worthy of their expectations. And if, by evening's end, Mama and Hikaru found themselves drawn closer together amidst the champagne and whispered conversations...
Well, that would simply be an elegant side benefit of doing business in high society.