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You find the treasure while performing one of the scheduled check-ups on the goods.
Frankly, you don’t really want to. Neither do you understand why you are obligated to do that, considering you never buy their stuff. But these traffickers, your advisor oh-so wisely tells you over a round of drinks late in the evening, they are like children. You need to observe their work, nod your head approvingly, and they’ll be all over you, ready to heed your every command.
Children don’t see the line between the good and the evil. Not unless adults or their fellow children point it out. It’s not really your place to intervene, not when you yourself are but a cog in this machine of underground smoke and hushed whispers, so you do what’s expected of you, bowing and nodding and smiling and mutely wishing for them all to drop dead.
The majority of the goods are quiet. They huddle in their corners, hugging bruised knees to their emaciated chests. You wish for them to drop dead too, albeit for a different reason.
If you are a cog, still working and relatively visible, then they are the spare detail, rusty and greasy and forsaken in favour of something newer, state-of-the-art. Abandoned by the system that so readily preens at having changed since the War.
The masked weirdo is gone, and so is the League of Villains. There are fewer places where the people with unconventional Quirks can go. Before, they could choose between submission, quietly fading away in the background, and villainy, which entailed a non-zero chance of flaunting their tired, rugged faces and sob stories on national TV. It was no rocket science why so many lost souls flocked to the League.
Now that the League is no more, seedy back-alley support groups are the only choice those people have. Demand begets multiplicity, and as a result, the trafficking ring prospers.
You pass by a girl whose Quirk causes her to smell of rot. By a man whose emitter Quirk is so weak it might as well be non-existent. By a poor mutant who resembles a bizarre hybrid of an elephant and a cat.
You stop by a motionless, skeletal body, eyes narrowing at the plaque on his neck.
Quirkless.
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
He doesn’t move an inch when you bring him over to your quarters. He stares into space, a soulless hollow nestled in place of his very much human eyes, and seems uncaring of your words and touches. He is breathing, however. His body is alive.
You can work with that.
The servants are in charge of clothing him, bathing him, and stretching him to ensure his muscles don’t wither down. But when it comes to food, you always take the reins. Food is an easy language. Knowing one’s palatal preferences is a sure way to know a person. You decide to begin there. He is thin, skin and bones, so the meals you bring at first bear no reaction. Porridges, soups and eventually salads—yeah, you can guess why he doesn’t fancy those that much.
Most days, he doesn’t oppose spoons, forks, and chopsticks. But sometimes he is in a feisty mood, struggling, swatting, growling, and you shove the food into his mouth with your bare hands. He glares at you then, but you know it’s hard for him to stay mad when the nutrition gradually fills out the angles of his body.
His hair is brittle, red blemishes mar his freckled skin, and his mouth is girdled by a bracket of painful crust—all evident signs of vitamin deficiency. You bring him medicine, too, and make a show of adding it to his meals. It’s in part to mock him and in part to demonstrate that you aren’t mixing anything dubious into each dish behind his back. You do it right before his eyes, just like the doctor prescribed: ten drops during breakfast, ten drops during supper. The dispenser is faulty and tends to leak when you press on it too many times in a row, so you only add nine drops and then let the tenth roll out on its own. When it’s time to switch to tablets, you consume one to prove that they are safe. He gags at the taste, so you unfailingly grind them down into powder.
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
It takes him two weeks to start responding to outer stimuli, and about a month to actually pay attention to you. You know he hates bathing, clothing, and stretching, groups of cold, unfamiliar hands manhandling his joints without much attachment, as if he is a doll passed to them like an estranged grandmother’s heirloom.
When you feed him, he leans closer, tentative and fearful. He laps at his forks, chopsticks and spoons, and immediately flinches away, as though awaiting to be slapped. You keep your face impassive, not threatening, but not overly welcoming either.
A month and a week in, he finally speaks.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
You tilt your head, pretending to not understand. He helplessly points at his shirt and slacks, all neatly ironed and fixed to suit his scrawny constitution, and at the squeaky clean plates that have been full just a minute ago. The cooks have been adding meat to his porridges, mostly tender, light poultry.
You peer into his verdant eyes, and they are still hollow but not entirely emotionless. There is a blend of apprehension and curiosity, all dusted with a layer of cynicism.
It’s too soon, you think. So you shrug.
“You need help, so I provide.”
Gathering the utensils, you spin on your heel and exit the room.
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
A month and two weeks in, he starts asking questions.
It’s a quiet morning. You are present, for a change, when the servants undress and redress him. He seems calmer this way, quite unlike what the staff’s been reporting. He stands in place stiffly, allowing a new shirt to be hauled onto his still-protruding ribs, but his eyes never leave your figure as you linger to the side, immersed in a phone call. You pass him a cheerful wave, and he frowns, but his expression is one of fluster, not animosity.
“I… can feed myself,” he mumbles as the servants scurry away and you descend by his favourite corner.
You tilt your head again. “Can you?”
He flushes, but his pout is pained. Oops, you scold yourself. Still too soon.
You hand him the tray and watch him struggle with wielding his fork. He picks some veggies from his plate, carefully baked with fowl and tomato juice, and chews on them warily. His eyes light up. That’s not quite the joy of a guessed top meal, but you are getting there.
You can see that he itches to ask you something. You don’t grace him with an icebreaker, patiently anticipating his voice.
And at last—
“What do you do?” He flounders, shoulders rising. “For… for living.”
You hum, “Mostly office work.”
“Like… administering?”
“Yeah, you can put it this way.”
He stuffs his mouth full of potatoes, now that he’s walked himself to the question he actually wants to ask but doesn’t know how to. His eyeballs twitch repeatedly, an impromptu REM catching him unawares in the middle of a day. He is starting to panic, so you elect to be merciful.
“What is your name?”
He gulps his mouthful down, surprise bleeding through his tone, “You don’t know?”
You do. But you want to hear it from him, so you shake your head. His own head hangs low, a film of despondency dulling the green hue of his irises.
“Of course they would hide my name… Figures they’d take it away too.”
“I can look it up if you want.”
He jolts. “P-Please don’t.”
“Okay,” you respond, and he goggles at you, stupefied. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He falters, clearly unused to having a choice. Something almost flickers alive in his eyes, but he forcefully puts it down.
(Absently, you think about the scars marring his torso, from cuts to burns to bruises that never healed right.
His right palm is crooked. An odd ghost of a gash runs from his eye to his cheek.)
He doesn’t tell you his name, and he doesn’t ask for yours either. You still sense the burn of his stare as you repeat the ritual of gathering the wares and sauntering out of the room.
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
Two months in, a maid wakes you up at an ungodly hour, reserved but urgent. A jacket over your pyjamas, you stride over to the chambers allocated to your guest.
You hear him panting before you see it. The room is dark, the curtains drawn and the lights off. His silhouette is slumped by the bed he’s never claimed, and the retching sounds inform you that his dinner has vacated him.
Unpleasant. But still workable. You beckon the maid over, whisper in her ear, and send her off.
Gingerly, you skulk inside.
He jumps when you lower yourself to the floor and crawl over, skilfully avoiding the puddle of his puke. He is trembling, snot running down his lips as he chokes on a sniffle. You infer he’d rather not be touched, so you resort to flicking your fingers in front of his face.
“Hello? Can you hear me? Nod once if you understand what I’m saying.”
His chest is still heaving, saucer-wide eyes staring at you like you are the world’s newest wonder. He attempts to speak, and mucus gurgles in his throat.
“Nod once if you understand what I’m saying,” you repeat.
He manages a weak nod.
“Name four things you can see.”
“It’s… it’s d-dark…”
“Name the shapes. Positions. Anything.”
He gazes around, lost and shrivelled and quivery.
“S-Small… near the window.” He must mean the dresser. “B-Big and s-square… t-the op-posite end…” The closet. “B-Big, t-to my ri-right…” His eyes widen as they are laid upon the bed. You shift, discreetly making yourself appear broader, and they flick to you. “S-Small… in front of me.”
“Name two things you can hear.”
“Y-Your voice. M-My voice.”
“One thing you can smell?”
He winces. “My vomit.”
You bob your head, satisfied. “Acceptable result.”
His trembling has subsided, reduced to faint shivers and sporadic hiccups. He rubs at his shoulders, pointedly refusing to meet your eyes.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
The wince deepens. “Ugh…”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
Again, the choice gives him pause. You can see him nibble on his lip.
“T-The bed…” he answers, unhelpfully.
“The bed?” You raise an eyebrow.
He shrinks into himself even more.
“I’m… uh… unused to beds. To s-sleeping in beds.”
“So let me get this straight: you tried to sleep in the bed and freaked out?”
His head droops, ears adopting a darker colour. “…Yes.”
“May I know what exactly scared you?”
“Uh… well…” He fiddles with his fingers. You see their darkened shapes bend at the angles fingers normally shouldn’t, and make a mental note to fix that habit. “I-It f-felt… w-warm.”
“Warm?”
“A-And soft.”
“And it scared you?”
“Y-Yeah.” He swallows audibly. “I-I f-felt like I d-didn’t deserve it.”
You conduct the calculations in your head.
It’s been four years since he was abducted and disidentified. If he spent those four years napping in chilly cages with nothing but cold floors to keep him company, it’s no mystery why a mundane luxury threw him for a loop.
(Still, you have a feeling that it runs deeper. That there is something else, feeding into that fear of his.)
You roll from one foot to another, your legs a little sore from crouching for so long.
“Would you like a futon instead?”
His eyes snap upwards lightning-fast. “Uh.”
“We have spare futons. I can get you some.”
“Uhm…” He fidgets again. God, his unease is infectious. Annoyingly so. “Y-Yes… i-if you don’t m-mind.”
Pacing over to the closet, you unpack a futon and some fresh bedding. It’s a bit tricky to arrange a whole lodging in the dark, but you don’t need to be a psychic to envision how he glowers at the light switch. You doubt he has many fond memories of bright illumination suddenly penetrating the all-devouring dark.
You step aside when you deem your work complete. As your guest tries to slither over, you yank him by the arm, lest he smear the puddle on the floor, and gently guide him to the en-suite bathroom.
This is enough, you espy.
You swivel, and the maid rushes inside with the task of cleaning the mess before your guest reemerges. She is a diligent one, you know she’ll make it on time. She’s also brought clean clothes for him to don, and with that knowledge, you depart to your own bedroom.
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
The next day, he asks for your name.
You tell him.
“What’s yours?”
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
Izuku is a rambler.
It’s not something you’ve deducted after monitoring his recovery for months. Rather, it’s a hypothesis. He looks and behaves like someone who is able of speaking for hours on end so long as he is passionate about the topic. On occasion, it actually appears as though he is about to describe something in length, but he always catches himself, peeking at you from beneath his overgrown bangs.
It’s adorable in a way, but you aren’t making any progress, so you decide to give him a nudge one day, three months and two days into his stay with you.
“Are you knowledgeable about Quirks, Izuku-kun?”
He perks up, trying his best not to let it show. You can’t suppress a small smile. Like you said, adorable.
“I… uhhh, w-well, I l-liked t-to ob-observe them back in s-school…”
You tilt your head. “So you were a fanboy.”
He doesn’t blush or break into endearingly incoherent stutters. He lowers his head as though a hobby is a criminal offence for him to have.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” You frown. “I was actually intending to ask for your opinion.”
“Y-Yeah?” he intones, careful not to let any emotion slip into his voice.
“Yeah. You see, there is this rookie who really wants to join my group. His Quirk is rather peculiar, and I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
His neck retracts, possible answers, no doubt, swirling in his brain. He checks you for deceit, studious eyes assessing your face with the thoroughness of a detective.
“W-Why not j-just ask him directly?”
You smile, nothing but teeth and tight lips. “I can’t.”
He blinks, neck shortening even further. “O-Okay…? Then, uh… w-what does his Q-Quirk look like?”
You make up something on the spot. Your advisor won’t be too upset that you took his Quirk for inspiration.
There is a momentary halt as Izuku processes the information…
And there it is.
He is rambling.
Mumbling, more like, doing so in a strained, whispery voice. He is yattering a mile a minute, fingers flexing as though longing for a pen.
You recline in your seat, inwardly patting yourself on the back.
The very next day, you gift Izuku a pen and a notebook.
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
The second time the maid wakes you, it’s to Izuku wailing in his half-somnolent delirium as he scratches at his scars.
“He’s been doing it a lot lately,” the maid apprises you.
“Asleep or awake?”
“Awake. He’s never left marks, and he asked not to tell you, but tonight seems different, so…”
You can’t rouse him with measured words and well-timed, well-distanced ministrations. His shouts overpower your droning, so you have to resort to tackling him back to his futon, flipping him over and capturing his wrists. Caked blood paints his nails a dark crimson, and he thrashes like a wild animal, yelling, begging, pleading—
“Stop, it hurts, it hurts so much!”
You clap.
A violent jolt racks his sweat-covered body. He gazes around, dazed, before shimmying away and curling into a tiny ball. He’s been palming his shoulder, you’ve noticed—the spot where a large burn mark resides.
You creep over, ensuring you are no higher and no lower than his eye level. Instead of flicking your fingers, you brush the damp locks away from his face.
“Nod once if you understand what I’m saying.”
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
Four months in, he starts babbling about himself.
It comes out in small, jumbled heaps of information. He talks about his scars, favourite heroes and unfulfilled dreams. About a boy named Kacchan—Pro Hero Dynamight, currently ranked top three, your database notifies you later—and about the Ultra Academy.
It’s funny, in a way. It’s funny that a man who saved the world talks about himself as though he doesn’t expect you to know of him. As though he believes he is only worthy of being forgotten.
But then again… the world kind of did move on without him.
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
Ingenium and Uravity check Midoriya Izuku’s missing person’s case every month.
Froppy and Shouto check Midoriya Izuku’s missing person’s case a tad more rarely, normally once in two to three months. It’s not particularly surprising. The former has been busy due to the rampaging monsoons, and the latter is often demanded overseas.
The rest of the infamous Class 3-A stopped checking three years ago.
Only one person actively works with the case despite the police’s numerous attempts to let it go cold.
“Kacchan, he—he was so strong. Determined. Everything he set his mind on, he would accomplish.”
Humming, you make a quick phone call. Your advisor picks up at the second ring.
“Ayase, can you do me a favour?”
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
“Kacchan is the one who scarred your shoulder, isn’t he?” you ask, your tone even. It’s been half a year, and Izuku has grown comfortable enough to acquaint you with the history behind his bodily marks.
You expect a flinch or a meek yeeping sound, but to your surprise, Izuku cants down like a wilting daffodil.
“He hated me,” he says. There is no timid pause, and you pride yourself on that. “Well, it was a bit more complicated than that, but… he hurt me often. When we were kids.”
“Because you were Quirkless?”
Izuku shrugs. “More or less. He stopped after we graduated from middle school. It’s the only scar he left. The rest healed.”
You point at another noteworthy burn mark on his right forearm. “What about this one?”
Izuku glides a reluctant finger over the puckered tissue. He hesitates. You munch on a lip, a suspicion abloom in your mouth.
Izuku looks you in the eyes. You smile at him, encouragingly. Blotches of pink encroach on his cheekbones, sharpened and greyed by the traumas of life.
“I did it to myself,” he confesses.
“When and why?”
“After… after I realised One For All was no longer in me. I did it… t-to cover the scar from, uh…”
You raise a hand. “I understand, Izuku.”
“You do…?”
“I do.” Arm hooking around the back of your chair, you allow yourself to ruminate. “Many encounter that point in their life. I’d say everyone, though there are some who don’t even realise that. I certainly didn’t until it was too late.”
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
You examine the logs again.
Shouto left for a joint mission in South Korea, so he won’t be checking the case in the nearest future.
Froppy, Uravity and Ingenium haven’t checked the case this month. (You phone the treasurer, telling her to increase Ayase’s pay.)
Curiously, Red Riot made himself known.
And of course, the main pest still doesn’t relent.
You slump in your seat, rubbing your eyes with a grunt of exhaustion.
(Where were you when he needed you most? Where were you when he was bleeding for something he had no control over?)
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
“I—I d-don’t know. I r-really d-don’t know…”
He is heaving again, fat tears painting fat paths on his fattened cheeks. You cradle him, and he allows you, melting into your warmth.
“They didn’t notice you were hurting,” you utter accusingly. You don’t even feign your emotions this time. The anger is very much sincere.
“W-We j-just graduated and—and they w-were busy with their careers—”
“If it weren’t for you, they would’ve had nothing to graduate from. And no career to chase. They betrayed you.”
(That’s what they always do, don’t they? That’s just how this society works. Those like you are bound—)
Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. One, the accursed bed he still won’t sleep in. Two, the chair you occupy every time you visit. Three, the night lamp he accidentally knocked over in his agitation. Four, his quaking frame in your arms.
The maid no longer needs to fetch you to soothe the pain after his night terrors. The moment he is conscious, he runs to find you himself.
(Before, you could’ve come so much more often, but it’s as the poets say—too much taste confounds the appetite.)
This is getting a little more personal than you would’ve liked, but you knew the risks when you decided to buy him out. If no one saved him in four goddamn years, you were the only one up to the task.
He sobs. You don’t realise you are peppering his temple with small kisses. If Ayase saw you like this, he wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.
(You need strength to survive in this godforsaken world. Someone like you can’t be a weakling.)
Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. The accursed bed, one—
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
A year passes.
The case is officially abandoned, but you know it would be foolish of you to rest on your oars.
You know he is still somewhere out there, lurking in the shadows, sniffing.
Is it guilt that drives him? If so, his apology is long overdue.
Apologies don’t save lives.
Izuku is laughing, rambling, eating, but his eyes remain empty.
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
Perhaps you’ve been a tad confusing with your signals.
Work demands your presence often, and you can’t keep Izuku company every day. The braver he gets, the more openly he expresses his frustration. One night, as you let him lounge in your bed, the trails of another nightmare drying on his cheekbones, he shuffles and asks,
“Would you love me if I weren’t Quirkless?”
You stop the mindless caresses of his back.
Ayase, I’m sorry. I think I messed up.
(Later, you’ll question yourself: did you, really?)
You conceal your dithering with moving your fingers to his curls. They are soft now, silky. Easy to card through.
You think. You try your damnedest best to pretend you can still be a decent being.
Alas, it’s useless to lie to yourself. You’ve always been greedy.
(It’s only natural, given how many things you were denied in life.)
Of course I will love you, the obvious answer would be. Despite the fact you are Quirkless, it would entail, insensitively.
Izuku has heard this answer since the bitter age of four. You don’t need to be a mind-reader to know that. Experience is a dangerous gift.
So you say what you assume he actually wants to hear.
“I already love you. I love you because you are Quirkless.”
(You wouldn’t have met him if he weren’t.)
※⁃※⁃※⁃※
Izuku’s favourite food is katsudon.
After numerous instances of trial and error, you have finally seen something akin to life blossom in him. He reminisces about his mother.
You believe it an appropriate moment to ask, “If they came here looking for you, would you leave?”
He freezes, some grease glistening on his lip. Your eyes are drawn to the gloss of it. Thankfully, he wipes it away with a napkin.
“What…?”
“Your friends. If they came here for you, would you go with them?”
His shoulders jerk. Up, down. Quicker than a sneeze. His gaze is forlorn.
He raises it, eyes meeting yours, and for the first time in over a year, you see something more than your own reflection.
You see light.
He doesn’t verbalise his answer, but a brief, almost terrified shake of his head does it for him well enough.
He is crying.
This machine that the society calls justice—it chews you, crushes you, spits you out like a blob of useless bubblegum. You and him, two rusty cogs in a frozen apparatus.
It’s like nostalgia, this pain, fitting the hollow of the dried heart like an old ratty shoe. It never really goes away.
You know this feeling very well.
Your current shoes are neither old nor ratty by any means. Neat and sleek, they fit the shape of your foot perfectly, but sometimes you can’t help the bitter magnetism of the old pair of blood-red sneakers hidden in the back of your room.