Yoshi Abara drifted through an endless expanse, swirling without purpose or direction. The void pressed against him, cool and unyielding, carrying him along currents he couldn't see or control.
What is going on? he wondered, the thought echoing in his mind like a distant whisper, laced with a flicker of irritation. One moment, he'd been retreating into his domain, the next, pulled here, wafting like smoke through some unseen rift. No memories to anchor him, no hate to fuel a reaction, just this strange, weightless limbo.
Gradually, the haze thinned, shapes solidifying around him as if the void were birthing a world from nothing. He found himself hovering in a brightly lit classroom, the kind with scuffed desks arranged in neat rows, posters of math formulas and historical timelines plastered on the walls, and the faint scent of chalk dust hanging in the air.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting golden rectangles on the floor where dust motes danced lazily. Students, young, middle-school aged, filled the seats, their uniforms crisp and identical, voices a low buzz of chatter and laughter.
His gaze settled on one boy in particular, a smaller, freckled kid with messy green hair, sitting rigidly at his desk, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself invisible. The host, Yoshi realized with a vague sense of recognition. Midoriya. But this version was younger, face rounder, eyes wider with unspoken anxiety.
The class was divided into three teams, clustered around shared tables piled with notebooks and coloured markers. Beside the young Midoriya, a group of boys leaned in too close, their expressions twisted with aggressive glee, smirks that promised trouble, eyes glinting like predators circling prey.
One of them, a stocky kid with spiky blonde hair with a sneer, leaned over and whispered harshly, his breath hot against Midoriya's ear. "Get this wrong, nerd, and you're gonna regret it. Big time."
Yoshi floated closer, invisible to them, watching as the teacher, a stern woman with glasses perched on her nose, called for the final round. "Teams, send up your representatives! This is the last question, whoever buzzes in first and gets it right wins the extra pizza slices for your group!"
Midoriya's little legs carried him forward, each step a hesitant shuffle, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the linoleum floor. He looked tiny up there at the front, flanked by two other kids from rival teams, one confident, the other fidgeting almost as much as him. The classroom fell into a hush, the air thick with anticipation.
The teacher cleared her throat. "All right: What is the capital of France?"
Midoriya's hand shot up first, shaky but quick, his face pale under the fluorescent lights. The teacher pointed to him. "Midoriya?"
For a agonizing five seconds, he stood frozen, mouth opening and closing, stutters spilling out like broken code. "Uh... P-Pa... um..."
The teacher sighed. "Time's up. Next?"
A chubby kid from another team buzzed in triumphantly. "Paris!"
"Correct! Team B wins!"
Midoriya's team groaned in mock disappointment, giggling as they play-acted anger, slapping the table lightly, shaking their heads. But as the bell rang and the room began to empty, students grabbing bags and chattering about lunch, three boys lingered. They exchanged knowing glances, their postures shifting from casual to predatory. A girl stayed too, pulling out her phone with a sly grin, holding it up to record.
The door clicked shut behind the last departing student, leaving the classroom eerily quiet save for the distant shouts from the playground outside. The three boys closed in on Midoriya, who was still gathering his things, his small frame tense.
It started with slaps, sharp, stinging cracks against his cheeks that echoed off the walls, leaving red welts blooming on his freckled skin. "Loser," one snarled, grabbing Midoriya's notebook and ripping pages out in fistfuls, the paper tearing with a satisfying rip.
Another flicked a lighter, stolen from who knows where, and held it to the scattered sheets, flames licking up the edges as the scent of burning paper filled the air, acrid and choking.
Midoriya stumbled back, eyes wide, but they shoved him to the ground, his knees hitting the floor with a thud.
"Slap yourself," the leader commanded, grabbing Midoriya's wrists and forcing his own hands against his face, slap after slap, the sound rhythmic and cruel, until tears streamed down his cheeks, sobs breaking free in hiccupping gasps.
The group laughed, harsh and mocking, the girl's phone capturing every moment with cold detachment.
"Crybaby Deku," they chanted, voices overlapping in gleeful harmony. "Useless, quirkless freak."
Yoshi drifted to an empty chair, settling into it as if he belonged, his form translucent but solid in this dreamscape. He watched it all unfold, arms crossed, expression unchanging. A memory, he realized this was, the scene playing out like a looped recording, untouchable and inevitable. The host's nightmare, reliving some old wound.
The bullying dragged on, more taunts, a kick to the ribs for good measure, until finally, satisfied, the tormentors sauntered out, the girl pocketing her phone with a final giggle.
Left alone, young Midoriya took his time rising, wiping snot and tears on his sleeve, gathering the charred remnants of his notebook with trembling hands. He shuffled toward the door, head down, but his untied laces caught his foot, tripping him forward in a clumsy sprawl, books scattering anew.
Yoshi sighed loudly, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade. Disappointment etched his features, sharp and unfiltered.
Midoriya froze, pushing himself up and turning slowly. His eyes widened in surprise, locking onto Yoshi's form. "I... I didn't notice anyone else was in the room."
Yoshi blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his own face. He sees me?
He rose slowly, steps deliberate as he approached, circling Midoriya like a shark assessing prey. Up close, the boy looked even smaller, more fragile. Yoshi reached out, tapping Midoriya's forehead lightly with a finger, testing, probing.
A giggle escaped him, low and mocking. "Why'd you let that happen to you?"
Midoriya stuttered, eyes darting. "I... I don't know what to do."
Yoshi's gaze narrowed, suspicious. "Don't? Or didn't?"
The boy's face shifted, recognition dawning, solidifying. His form stretched, growing taller, features maturing in a ripple of change until he stood as his current self, fifteen, green hair tousled, eyes sharp with newfound resolve.
"Didn't," he admitted, voice steadier. "I didn't know what to do back then. I was weak. Scared. No one sided with me, everyone just... watched."
Yoshi giggled again, the sound echoing unnaturally in the empty classroom. Midoriya walked to the window, peering out where the bullies had gathered at the gate earlier, still laughing, kicking stones as they wandered off. He pointed to the ringleader.
"At that point... I still called him my best friend, and I thought fighting back would ruin everything."
Yoshi scoffed, leaning against a desk. "You must be a masochist. That's why you're so mopey when you're alone, a doormat who never pushed back. Now you're just some scared kid with a quirk too big for you, fumbling around like you don't deserve it."
Midoriya's face twisted in anger, fist balling at his side as he whirled to face Yoshi.
Yoshi smirked, unfazed. "You're not even in control here, in your own mind, your dreams."
Midoriya's voice rose, defiant. "My inaction... it kept me alive." He pointed accusingly at Yoshi, finger jabbing forward. "And you... look at what happened to....!"
Before the words could fully form, a surge ripped through the air. Midoriya's head split in half, clean, violent, like a melon cleaved by an invisible blade. The dream shattered around them.
___
The sterile confines of UA's infirmary felt like a second home to Toshinori Yagi these days, a quiet enclave tucked away from the bustling halls, where the scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint, herbal aroma of Recovery Girl's ointments.
Gleaming monitors humming softly, cabinets stocked with vials and bandages, and a central exam table padded with crisp white sheets. Toshinori sat on its edge, his lanky frame hunched forward, shirt unbuttoned to expose the gaunt hollows of his chest. The air was cool against his skin.
Recovery Girl, Chiyo Shuzenji, her diminutive form bustling with the efficiency of decades in hero medicine, moved around him like a whirlwind in miniature. She adjusted a tray of instruments with precise, wrinkled hands, her glasses perched low on her nose as she prepared for the blood draw.
"Hold still, you big oaf," she muttered, though her tone carried the familiar gruff affection that had patched him up more times than he could count.
Toshinori managed a weak chuckle, his voice raspy and thin in his deflated state. "Easy there, Chiyo. I'm not going anywhere." He watched as she prepped a syringe, the needle glinting under the overhead lights. "While you're at it... how long do you figure I've got left? Without One For All propping me up, I mean."
She paused, syringe in hand, and shrugged her narrow shoulders, the motion making her white coat rustle. "Truth be told, I don't know, Toshinori. You've always been a medical anomaly, pushing that body of yours beyond what any sane person would attempt." She peered up at him over her glasses, eyes sharp despite her age. "But you haven't changed much since relinquishing it. Vital signs are stable, if weakened. You're still you, stubborn as ever."
He nodded slowly, absorbing her words as she swabbed his arm with alcohol, the cool swipe raising faint goosebumps on his pale skin. "That's... reassuring, I suppose. But how have I felt without it? Not greatly different, honestly. I can still hold the muscle form for the same stretches, four, maybe five hours on a good day. Sometimes it's even harder to shift back to this."
He gestured vaguely at his emaciated frame, the bones stark under his skin. "Like the power is unwilling to let go."
Recovery Girl hummed thoughtfully as she tied a tourniquet around his bicep, the rubber band snapping lightly. "Interesting. Could be residual energy from the stockpile."
She inserted the needle with practiced ease, drawing blood into the vial, the dark red liquid swirling as it filled the tube. "And that wound of yours? The one from All For One, the mess that cost you your stomach. You've dodged my exams on it for years, always rushing back to hero work. How's it holding up?"
Toshinori hesitated, his blue eyes flickering to the floor. The wound, a constant companion, a badge of survival he'd hidden under layers of bandages and bravado. "Well... since I'm no longer the bearer of One For All, maybe it's time you took a proper look. No more excuses."
She set the blood vial aside with a clink, her expression lighting up with a mix of professional curiosity and exasperation. "Finally! I've been nagging you about this since."
She motioned for him to lie back, helping him ease onto the table with surprising strength for her size. Carefully, she peeled away the fresh bandages he'd applied that morning, the adhesive tugging at his skin with a faint rip.
The wound revealed itself in all its grotesque permanence, a massive, irregular scar spanning his abdomen, the skin tanned to a leathery brown from years of healing and strain. It resembled cracked pavement, fissures spiderwebbing outward like drought-parched earth, the center a sunken crater where his stomach had once been, now a hollow supported by surgical reconstructions and sheer willpower.
The edges were raised and uneven, pulsing faintly with each breath, a testament to the catastrophic energy blast that had nearly ended him.
Recovery Girl's eyes widened behind her glasses, her small hands hovering over it without touching. "Good heavens... it's worse than I imagined. The tissue's ossified in places, hardened like bone. No wonder you've been in constant pain."
She donned gloves with a snap. "I'll take blood directly from the site first, see if there's any anomaly in the local cells. Then a biopsy sample for analysis."
Toshinori nodded, staring at the ceiling tiles as she prepared another syringe. "Just... don't get too excited, Chiyo. I'm not a lab rat."
She huffed, inserting the needle into the scarred tissue with gentle precision, drawing a sample that came out thicker, darker than the arm draw. "Excited? This could explain half your symptoms. Now, hold still for the biopsy."
With a small scalpel, she excised a tiny sliver of the cracked skin, the sensation a dull burn that Toshinori endured without flinching.
As she sealed the samples and bandaged him back up, Toshinori cleared his throat. "There's... something else I've been keeping from you. From everyone, really."
She paused, peeling off her gloves. "Out with it, then. No more secrets."
He sat up slowly, the table creaking under his weight. "One For All... it typically grows stronger year by year. Not by much, a tiny percent, almost imperceptible. But I could feel it, accumulating. Ever since that fight with All For One, though... nothing. No growth. Stagnant."
Recovery Girl's brow furrowed deeply. "And you think it's because of the wound?"
"Yes," he admitted, voice low. "That blast... it didn't just take my stomach. It scarred something deeper, the quirk's core, maybe. Or my body's ability to stockpile."
She smacked him lightly on the arm with her cane, the tap more affectionate than painful. "You fool! You're lucky you're still the strongest out there, even diminished."
Toshinori laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed in the room. "Wouldn't dream of complaining. Though... I wouldn't be surprised if Stars and Stripes could take me now."
Another smack, sharper this time. "Patronizing nonsense! Don't underestimate yourself, or her, just to fish for compliments."
___
The hideout's single overhead bulb flickered once, then steadied, casting a sickly yellow cone over the scarred bar counter and the three figures gathered beneath it. Dust motes drifted lazily in the stale air, catching the light like slow-moving ash.
Tomura Shigaraki sat on his usual stool, one knee bouncing with restless energy, fingers idly scratching at the dry skin of his neck. Kurogiri stood behind the bar as always, a silent swirl of purple mist and polished glass. But tonight there was a third presence, someone new, someone who hadn't been there yesterday. He leaned against the far wall, half in shadow, half in light.
Average height, average build, nothing about him that would linger in memory if you passed him on the street. Messy brown hair that looked like it had been cut with kitchen scissors, a dark-green jacket that had seen better days, cargo pants the colour of old concrete. He could have been a delivery worker waiting for a late shift.
Except for the eyes. Dark, sharp, and quietly amused, like he was already laughing at a joke the rest of the room hadn't heard yet.
Shigaraki tilted his head, red eyes narrowing behind the hand that rested on his face.
"I paid top dollar for you, Emerald Eye," he rasped, voice low but carrying that particular edge of anticipation. "I hope it was worth it."
The man, Hayato Kuroiwa, though no one in the room used that name, pushed off the wall with a lazy shrug. His smile was small, crooked, and entirely too relaxed for the company he was keeping.
"Money's money," he said, tone light, almost playful. "And you did pay very well. So tell me, boss, what do you need a guy like me for?"
Shigaraki's fingers stilled on his neck. He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, the hand on his face shifting slightly as if it, too, were listening.
"Your use comes at the Sports Festival."
Hayato's eyebrows lifted just a fraction, the only sign of interest. "UA's big show? Bold choice."
It was a bold choice, but it felt more like a challenge to Shigaraki, considering the fact that the little rat Nezu announced loudly for everyone to hear that it is still going on, basically saying that there is nothing to fear.
That told Tomura that the death of one student clearly wasn't enough. So he was going to make him understand that his choice was clearly the wrong one.
He turned his head toward the mist.
"Kurogiri. How long to get a plane ready?"
The warp gate's yellow eyes glowed faintly in the swirling darkness of his form. "I can procure one at any time, Master Shigaraki. Ready to fly within the hour if required."
Shigaraki's cracked lips peeled back into a slow, jagged smile.
"Good," he murmured, almost to himself. "Because I've been practicing my flight skills. Those old video games finally pay off."
Hayato chuckled under his breath, a soft, knowing sound that didn't quite reach his eyes.