Izuku's Point of View
The limousine purred like a contented panther, eating up the kilometers between our mountain fortress and the glittering sprawl of the Yaoyorozu estate. Outside, the world was a blur of dusk and city lights. Inside, it was a capsule of quiet tension.
I adjusted the cuff of my reinforced suit, feeling the subtle hum of the Widow Stingers against my wrists. Silk, a poised crimson jewel on my head, occasionally combed a leg through my perpetually rebellious hair. Jarvis was a cool, intelligent weight around my neck, his sensors a faint, almost sub-audible whirr in my ear. My own glasses-HUD flickered with data streams Jarvis was feeding me: estimated time of arrival, local news feeds (no major incidents), a preliminary scan of publicly listed guests. Heroes, CEOs, old money. A den of potential allies, obstacles, and targets. My mind automatically began running threat assessments, social mapping algorithms, contingency plans for seventeen different disaster scenarios.
Then I stopped. I took a deliberate breath, the kind Kaito had taught me to center myself before a fight.
You're overthinking it, soldier, I chided myself. This isn't a desert insertion. It's a birthday party. For a girl your age. You've never even been to one.
The thought was oddly grounding. In all my lives—the gritty, sandblasted years of Alexander and the intense, driven half-decade as Izuku—I'd never actually attended a formal social function. Briefings, yes. Interrogations, unfortunately. Huddled celebrations with my platoon around a cracked tablet, absolutely. But a high-society gala? With canapés and small talk? It was a new kind of battlefield, one my databases had theory on, but no practical intel.
A slow, genuine smile spread across my face. Well. This should be interesting.
My strategy, then, was simple: Go with the flow. Observe. Adapt. Let the social currents carry me where they may, while I subtly nudged the undertow in my favor. The primary objectives were clear: secure the Yaoyorozu alliance, assess Momo as a potential asset/friend, and advance Operation: Parental Lock. Everything else was variables to be managed.
My gaze shifted to the other side of the limo, where my primary—and most beloved—variable was currently in a state of low-grade panic.
Mama.
She looked stunning. Her deep blue gown was elegant, her hair was styled in a soft updo that highlighted her neck, and she held herself with the poise of Stark Industries' CEO. To anyone else, she was the picture of confident, graceful authority.
I knew better. I could see the minute tremble in the hand resting on her knee. The way her eyes, fixed on the passing scenery, were slightly too wide. The subtle, rhythmic tightening of her jaw she did when she was reciting calming mantras to herself. She was a fortress of composed steel on the outside, and a nervous, fluttering bundle of 'oh-gods-why-did-I-agree-to-this' on the inside.
A pang of guilt, sharp and familiar, stabbed through my chest. I did this. I pushed her here. I'd taken the shy, perpetually worried woman from the cramped Musutafu apartment and shoved her onto the corporate stage, into limousines heading towards dynastic estates. I'd given her power, security, and purpose, and in return, I'd asked her to constantly step far outside the comfort zone she'd built for us.
"You okay, Mama?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
She jumped slightly, then turned a brilliant, forced smile on me. "Of course, sweetie! Just... taking in the view. It's a beautiful evening." The smile didn't reach her eyes, which held a silent plea for a teleportation quirk.
"You're going to be amazing," I said, and I meant it. "They're going to love you. Just be yourself. The kind, smart, slightly terrifying woman who runs a tech empire and has a kill-switch for the coffee machine when I misbehave."
That got a real, if shaky, laugh out of her. "The coffee machine was a necessary deterrent, and you know it." She took a deeper breath, her shoulders relaxing a fraction. "Thank you, Izuku. I just... wish I had your nerve."
"My nerve is mostly poor impulse control and a complete lack of experience with social consequences," I said dryly. "You have actual grace. It'll kick in as soon as we're through the door. You'll see."
And I knew it would. My mother had a superpower I couldn't engineer: a genuine, disarming warmth. Once the initial terror passed, once she started talking about her work, about me (in carefully sanitized terms), or even just listening to someone else with that focused, empathetic attention of hers, people were disarmed. They saw the strength, not the nerves. They saw the CEO, not the impostor she sometimes felt like. By the end of the night, she'd have half the room wrapped around her finger, wanting to protect her, impress her, or do business with her—all because she was just... her.
My eyes then flicked to the man sitting beside her. Hikaru. He was a statue in a tailored suit, his gaze constantly moving, assessing the route, the other vehicles, the landscape. His presence was a silent anchor she could depend on.
He's her rock tonight, I thought, a familiar, grim satisfaction settling in my gut. Her guardian. Good. The guest list Jarvis had compiled wasn't just names and companies; it included behavioral profiles. I knew the type that infested these galas. The old-money heirs with a sense of divine entitlement, the venture capitalists who saw people as portfolios, the executives who believed their wealth was a skeleton key to any door. The classic anime imbecile, ready to use influence as a bludgeon. My mother, radiant and powerful as CEO Midoriya, would be a prime target.
But not with Kaito there. His protectiveness wasn't just duty; it was territorial on a level that bypassed conscious thought. She'd noticed it before—the way he'd materialize at her shoulder when a conversation felt too pressing, the subtle, inhuman edge in his voice that made overly confident men take a step back. She'd never mentioned it. But I'd cataloged her reactions. The slight, pleased tilt of her head. The way her eyes would sometimes flash, and in that flash, for a split second, her pupils would contract into sharp, predatory slits. She didn't just tolerate it. On a primal level, the part of her that had awakened two years ago approved.
It connected directly to my most critical personal project. I leaned my head back and whispered, the sound lost in the limousine's quiet hum. "Project: Ancestral Blood. Display my latest simulation parameters."
Through my glasses, the familiar double helix spun into view. On the left, my mother's strand, labeled MATERNAL BLOOD: MUTATION ACTIVATED. Sections of the code glowed a fierce, volcanic amber, a map of primal potential unlocked by a rage so profound it had rewritten her biology on the fly.
On the right, my own strand. The structure was nearly identical at its core—the family blueprint was unmistakable. I had the mutation. The same complex, non-human sequences were there, woven into my DNA. But on my strand, they were dark. Dormant. Sleeping lions in my blood.
A cascade of data scrolled beside it—logs of my experiments. I'd tried everything. Controlled adrenaline spikes via specialized stimulants. Sensory overload simulations. Neural entrainment targeting amygdala response. Jarvis had run over three hundred complex simulations, modeling every biochemical pathway we could conceive.
The conclusion was frustratingly simple, and alarmingly profound. According to the models, the genetic lock on this legacy wasn't opened by mere stress or fear.
It required a specific, catalytic key: Pure, unadulterated rage. Hatred. A protective fury so total it bypassed all higher brain function. The kind Mama had felt for me.
And the models suggested something else. If—when—it activated in me, the effect wouldn't be a gentle boost. The mutation in my DNA wasn't just a copy; it was more extensive, the sequences more complex. My body would change more, adapt more. It would be stronger. Faster. Sharper. It was the ultimate baseline upgrade, the perfect foundation to build a living weapon upon. If I could just find the key to turn the lock.
Before I could sink deeper into the genetic puzzle, the limousine slowed, then stopped. We had arrived at the outer gate of the Yaoyorozu estate.
I checked the time on my HUD: 8:30 PM. We were early. "Our driver deserves a raise," I murmured. "Record time."
Outside, the scene was controlled chaos. The main gate was a spectacle, crowded with press vultures—cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions at arriving guests. A line of sleek, expensive vehicles waited to be processed at the security checkpoint. We took our place in the queue, watching as a limo two cars ahead was waved through after a brief inspection.
When it was our turn, our driver handed the invitation to a guard. The man's eyes scanned the heavy cardstock, then snapped to our limo's windows. His posture went rigid. He bowed deeply, said something quickly to the driver, and gestured urgently to a side lane that branched away from the main drive and the press gauntlet.
"Huh," I said, leaning forward as our limo smoothly pulled onto the private, tree-lined path, bypassing the crowd entirely. "That was interesting."
I saw the press catch sight of our deviation, their shouts intensifying, cameras swiveling fruitlessly after us.
"Damn vultures," I muttered under my breath. "They really are pests."
"Izuku!" Mama chided, but it was half-hearted. She peered out the window at the receding media scrum and gave a delicate shudder. "But... I must admit, I agree. It's like being hunted by very noisy paparazzi."
From his seat, Kaito let out a low, amused huff. "Accurate description."
The shared sentiment broke the last of the pre-party tension. We all chuckled—a small, warm sound in the quiet car. It felt like a team, stepping onto the field.
As we glided down the secluded path, Silk skittered down from my head, coming to rest on my shoulder, her new crimson and black form poised. Jarvis adjusted his coils around my neck, his head rising slightly to taste the new air coming through the climate control.
The private drive wound through what could only be described as a living museum. A traditional Japanese kaiyū-shiki-teien strolling garden unfolded outside the windows—pristine raked gravel, ancient, carefully shaped pines, stone lanterns, and serene ponds dotted with islets. It was a world of silent, perfect order. And then, as we rounded a final curve, the garden gave way to the main house.
The Yaoyorozu mansion wasn't just a building; it was a statement. It seamlessly fused the grandeur of a historic Japanese manor—massive wooden beams, sweeping pagoda-style roofs—with vast, soaring walls of reinforced glass and modern steel. It was traditional power meeting cutting-edge innovation, history and future holding a silent conversation. Light spilled from its countless windows, painting the night with warmth and wealth. It was breathtaking, imposing, and exactly the kind of fortress a dynasty would build.
Our limousine came to a final, silent stop at the base of broad, stone steps that led up to the main entrance, where light and music and the murmur of high society spilled out into the night. The door hadn't opened yet, but I could feel it. The end of the approach. The beginning of the game.
My HUD flickered one last time, a final systems check before going dark into observational mode. Silk was a statue on my shoulder. Jarvis was a watchful weight. Mama took a deep, final breath. Kaito's eyes were already scanning the visible doorways and shadows.