Here was the sad truth.
Izuku Midoriya’s life had been great before he killed a man.
He would not understand that for many years.
At four years old, Izuku believed life was a straight road leading towards one glorious destination.
He would discover his Quirk.
He would attend a hero school.
He would earn his licence and wear a costume designed entirely by himself.
Then he would become a hero like All Might.
The order of those events seemed as certain as morning following night.
Almost everyone had a Quirk, after all.
The first recorded case had appeared generations earlier, when a baby in Qingqing City was born radiating light.
More extraordinary children followed.
Then adults began changing too.
Strange abilities spread across countries, crossed borders and rewrote every ordinary rule humanity had once trusted.
By Izuku’s time, nearly eighty percent of the population possessed some form of superhuman ability.
Quirks had changed medicine, architecture, law enforcement, fashion and almost every part of daily life.
Public buildings had reinforced doors for citizens with enhanced strength.
Train carriages included seats designed for passengers with wings or tails.
Restaurants displayed warnings about heat-producing and electrical Quirks.
Where powers existed, however, so did people willing to misuse them.
That was why heroes mattered.
Professional heroes captured villains, rescued civilians and stood between frightened people and impossible danger.
They smiled for cameras, signed autographs and appeared on enormous screens above the streets of Musutafu.
None smiled more brightly than All Might.
To Izuku, he was not merely the Number One Hero.
He was proof that everything would be all right.
All Izuku needed was his own Quirk.
And on the morning of his assessment, he was finally going to learn what it was.
His eyes opened before the alarm.
For several seconds, he remained beneath his All Might duvet, staring at the ceiling while the last fragments of sleep floated away.
Then he remembered.
“Today!” Izuku threw the covers aside, missed one of his slippers and nearly fell into the side of his desk.
He recovered without injury, which he considered an excellent start to his heroic career.
Morning light crept through the curtains.
It caught the glossy surface of the All Might figures arranged along his shelves and illuminated the handmade drawings taped to the wall.
Most showed Izuku wearing a costume suspiciously similar to All Might’s.
Some included a cape.
One included three capes because Izuku had not yet understood that more fabric did not necessarily create a better hero.
He hurried into the hallway.
The apartment was quiet.
The clock above the kitchen doorway showed a time that his mother would later describe as unreasonable.
Her bedroom door stood at the end of the hall.
Izuku charged towards it and pushed it open.
BANG!
The door struck the wall.
Something beneath the blankets moved.
“Mum!” The blanket stopped moving.
Izuku ran to the bed.
Only a patch of his mother’s green hair was visible above the covers.
“Mum, wake up!” Inko Midoriya slowly opened one eye.
Her son stood beside the bed in All Might pyjamas, his tangled hair pointing in every direction and excitement glowing across his face.
She closed her eye again.
“Mum.” “It is still nighttime,” she mumbled.
“The sun’s out.” “The sun has made a mistake.” “It’s test day.” “Tell test day to come back later.” Izuku climbed onto the mattress.
“We have to get ready.” “The appointment is not until ten.” “What if there’s traffic?” “There will not be three hours of traffic.” “What if a villain attacks the road?” “Then the heroes will deal with it.” “What if they need my new Quirk to help?” Inko dragged the blanket over her head.
Izuku studied the new obstacle.
“Mum?” No answer.
He grabbed her hand and pulled.
Her arm moved several centimetres.
The rest of her remained stubbornly attached to the bed.
“Come on!” “Izuku…” “It’s Quirk test day!” “I am aware.” “Test daaaay.” Inko released a long groan and reached blindly for a pillow.
She placed it over her face.
Izuku bounced once on the mattress.
Then again.
“Test day!
Test day!
Test day!” The bed shook beneath him.
“Izuku.” “Test day!” “I am awake.” “Test day!” “I surrender.
The bed belongs to you.” Izuku stopped jumping.
He pulled the pillow away and held it above his head.
Inko stared up at him.
“Come oooooon,” he pleaded.
Her attempt to look stern lasted approximately two seconds.
“All right,” she said.
“I’m getting up.” Izuku threw himself into her arms.
The pillow struck Inko across the back.
“Oh!” “Sorry!” He pulled away too quickly.
The pillow hit her shoulder.
“Sorry again!” Before she could answer, he jumped from the bed and raced towards the door.
“The pillow, Izuku.” He glanced at it, apparently surprised that it was still in his hand.
Then he threw it over his shoulder.
Inko had just enough time to inhale before the pillow struck her in the face.
Izuku vanished into the hallway, giggling.
“All Might!
All Might!
All Might!” Inko lowered the pillow.
“One quiet morning,” she whispered.
“I would like one quiet morning.” A crash came from the kitchen.
Inko closed her eyes.
“Not today, then.” By the time she reached the kitchen, Izuku had dragged his chair across the floor and was standing on it to reach the cereal cupboard.
One bowl sat on the counter.
A second lay upside down in the sink.
Several pieces of cereal had somehow reached the genkan.
Inko stopped in the doorway.
Izuku looked over his shoulder.
“I’m making breakfast.” “I can see that.” “I didn’t break anything.” Inko examined the kitchen.
“That is an encouragingly low standard.” She lifted him from the chair and placed him on the floor.
“Sit down.
I’ll make something proper.” “But cereal is proper.” “Cereal is what happens when your mother has given up.” She prepared rice, miso soup and tamagoyaki while Izuku sat at the small table.
Remaining still proved impossible.
His legs swung beneath the chair, and his hands performed dramatic gestures as he listed every Quirk he might possess.
“What if I can breathe fire like Dad?” “Then we will keep a fire extinguisher near your bedroom.” “What if I can pull things like you?” “Then you can retrieve the television remote when it falls behind the sofa.” “What if I can do both?” “That would be useful.” “What if I breathe fire and control it and it turns into a dragon?” Inko placed his breakfast in front of him.
“That seems less likely.” “But possible?” “Eat.” Izuku pressed his palms together.
“Itadakimasu.” He managed three mouthfuls before beginning again.
“What if I can fly?” “Then you will not fly inside the apartment.” “What if flying is the only way I can move?” Inko sat across from him with her tea.
“Then I suppose we will apologise to the neighbours in advance.” “What if I have super strength?” “You can carry the shopping.” “What if I shoot lasers from my eyes?” “You may not use them at the table.” “Heroes use lasers.” “Heroes probably have extensive insurance.” Izuku paused.
“What’s insurance?” “Something people purchase after meeting children like you.” He grinned.
Inko smiled back.
For a moment, the morning was exactly what it should have been.
Then her eyes drifted towards the empty chair beside them.
Hisashi should have been there.
This was not an ordinary appointment.
Their son was about to learn something that could shape his education, his safety and his entire future.
Hisashi had sent a message two days earlier.
Good luck at the assessment.
Tell Izuku I’m proud of him.
He had not telephoned.
He had not said when he would next come home.
There was always a reason.
His work kept him overseas.
Flights were expensive.
His leave had been refused.
A project had fallen behind schedule.
The excuses arrived regularly, each one polished smooth by repetition.
Inko told herself that he was providing for them.
She told herself that he loved their son.
Some mornings, those thoughts felt less like beliefs and more like habits.
“Mum?” Inko looked up.
Izuku had stopped eating.
“Is Dad coming?” Her hand tightened around her cup.
“No, sweetheart.” His excitement dimmed.
“Because of work?” “Yes.” “Will he come next time?” “I hope so.” Izuku looked down at his rice.
“He said he wanted to see my Quirk.” “I’ll tell him everything the moment we know.” “I can show him when he comes home.” Inko forced a smile.
“You can.” Izuku accepted the answer because he was four and still believed adults meant everything they promised.
He returned to his breakfast.
“What if I get a Quirk that’s silly?” “There are no silly Quirks.” “Kacchan can make explosions.” “He can.” “That isn’t silly.” “No, although Auntie Mitsuki might disagree when he damages her curtains.” “What if mine can’t help people?” There it was.
The concern beneath all his bright theories.
Inko put down her cup and reached across the table.
“A Quirk does not decide whether you help people.” “But heroes need strong Quirks.” “Heroes need courage, kindness and good judgement.” “And costumes.” “Yes,” Inko said.
“Apparently, costumes are vital.” “I’ve designed nine.” “Nine?” “I made two more last night.” “You were supposed to be sleeping.” “I was doing hero research.” “You were drawing capes.” “Capes are research.” Inko laughed.
The sound loosened the knot in her chest.
After breakfast, she helped Izuku wash and dress.
He chose his favourite All Might shirt, bright blue with the hero standing beneath the words I AM HERE!
Then came his hair.
Inko dampened it, brushed it and attempted to persuade each green curl to remain in the same direction.
The hair refused.
She flattened one side.
The other rose.
She tried again.
Three new spikes appeared.
“I’m staying still,” Izuku said.
“You’re vibrating.” “I’m excited.” “I had noticed.” His hair had Hisashi’s thickness and his stubbornness.
The thought weakened her smile.
Izuku noticed immediately.
“Are you sad?” “No.” “You looked sad.” “I was thinking about your father.” “Because he isn’t here?” Inko rested her hands on his shoulders.
“Yes.” Izuku looked at their reflections in the mirror.
“Maybe he’ll call.” “Maybe.” The answer tasted bitter.
She kissed the top of his head.
“Come on.
Shoes.” At the genkan, Izuku shoved his feet into his trainers without loosening the laces.
Inko corrected them, checked her handbag for the appointment documents and locked the apartment behind them.
The journey across Musutafu took twenty minutes.
Izuku spent all of them pressed close to the car window, pointing out hero advertisements and rescue-agency offices.
A giant screen above a shopping centre showed All Might lifting part of a collapsed building.
The crowd beneath him cheered as emergency workers guided civilians to safety.
Izuku twisted in his seat to watch until the screen disappeared behind them.
“Do you think All Might was scared?” “Probably.” “He didn’t look scared.” “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t.” Izuku considered this carefully.
“Heroes do things even when they’re scared.” “Yes.” “Then I won’t be scared of the tests.” Inko glanced at him through the mirror.
“You’re allowed to be.” “I won’t.” He was frightened ten minutes later when the nurse produced a needle.
The clinic occupied the second floor of a modern medical building near the centre of the city.
Its waiting room had reinforced furniture, heat-resistant flooring and cheerful posters explaining early Quirk development.
One showed a child with wings practising indoors beneath a large red cross.
Another warned parents not to restrain mutation-type growths without medical guidance.
Izuku studied every poster while Inko checked them in.
Several other families waited nearby.
A little girl had tiny white flowers growing through her hair.
A boy sneezed and released blue sparks into his father’s newspaper.
His father calmly folded the smoking paper and placed it in a metal bin.
Izuku leaned towards Inko.
“Did you see that?” “Yes.” “That was amazing.” “I suspect his father disagrees.” When the nurse called Izuku’s name, he nearly launched himself from the chair.
The initial examination was simple.
He stood against a height chart, stepped onto a scale and answered questions about unusual sensations, pain and recent physical changes.
The nurse checked his pulse, reflexes and temperature.
Then came the blood sample.
Izuku stared at the needle.
“Heroes don’t cry,” he whispered.
The nurse crouched beside him.
“Some heroes do.” “All Might doesn’t.” “I imagine All Might has had a great many injections.” Izuku looked horrified by this possibility.
Inko took his hand.
“You can squeeze as hard as you need.” He squeezed hard enough to whiten her fingers.
The needle pinched.
Izuku closed his eyes and made a small, wounded sound, but he did not pull away.
Afterwards, the nurse placed an All Might plaster over the spot.
Izuku examined it proudly.
“This proves I was brave.” “It proves you have blood,” Inko said.
They were sent for an X-ray and then led into a consulting room.
The doctor was an older man with narrow glasses and a thick beard.
His white coat was spotless, and several framed qualifications hung behind his desk.
He did not introduce himself to Izuku.
“Sit,” he said.
Inko’s polite smile tightened.
She took one chair.
Izuku climbed onto the other, his feet hanging above the floor.
The doctor opened a file.
“Mother’s Quirk?” “I can attract small objects towards me,” Inko answered.
“Father’s?” “Fire breathing.” “Any history of delayed manifestation?” “Not that I know of.” He wrote something down.
Izuku leaned forward.
“Do you know what mine is?” The doctor continued writing.
Inko looked at him.
“My son asked you a question.” The doctor finally glanced up.
“We’ll discuss the results in a moment.” He stood, removed an X-ray from a folder and placed it against the illuminated panel behind his desk.
It showed Izuku’s foot.
The doctor tapped the smallest toe.
“I’m afraid the boy is Quirkless.” For several seconds, Izuku waited for the rest of the sentence.
Nothing followed.
He understood every word separately, but together they made no sense.
Quirkless people were part of the twenty percent.
They were numbers in school programmes.
They were not Izuku.
The doctor began explaining something about bones.
Izuku stared down at his hands.
They looked exactly as they had that morning.
Those were the hands he had imagined using to rescue people.
Hands that would pull civilians from rubble, carry injured children and wave to cheering crowds.
Now they seemed terribly small.
“The additional joint in the little toe is the principal indicator,” the doctor said.
“Most people with Quirks possess only one joint.
Your son has two.” Inko’s fingers closed around Izuku’s hand.
“What did his blood test show?” “The blood work was routine.” “And the results?” “Nothing requiring further investigation.” “What about genetic screening?” “Unnecessary.” “Neurological imaging?” “Also unnecessary.” The doctor returned to his chair.
“At four years old, with no signs of manifestation and this skeletal indicator, the conclusion is straightforward.” Izuku’s throat tightened.
His mother’s hand was warm around his.
“Straightforward?” Inko repeated.
“The chance of him developing a Quirk is negligible.” “Negligible is not impossible.” “For practical purposes, it is.” Izuku looked up.
His mother was still smiling, but it was no longer her real smile.
It was the polite expression she wore when shop assistants ignored her or strangers pushed ahead in queues.
“I would like the remaining tests performed,” she said.
“They would serve no medical purpose.” “Testing his Quirk factor would serve a purpose.” “The expense cannot be justified by parental disappointment.” Izuku felt his mother go still.
“My disappointment?” The doctor sighed.
“Mrs Midoriya, denial is common in these circumstances.
It is better for the child if the family accepts the diagnosis early.” “You looked at one X-ray.” “I applied an established diagnostic standard.” “You have not discussed his blood results.
You have not performed genetic testing, Quirk-factor imaging or a neurological scan.” “None are indicated.” “I am asking you to perform them.” “Hospital policy leaves that decision to the attending physician.” “Then I would like to speak to the attending physician.” “You are.” “The head of paediatrics, then.” The doctor folded his hands on the desk.
“I am the head of this department.” Silence filled the room.
Inko slowly rose from her chair.
Izuku watched her.
Her face had gone pale, but her voice remained controlled.
“I would like copies of all his records, including the blood results and your written diagnostic notes.” “You can make the request at reception.” “I will.” She helped Izuku down.
The doctor removed the X-ray from the light box.
“You may seek another opinion, but I advise against encouraging unrealistic ambitions.
Children adapt more easily when their parents accept reality.” Inko stopped at the door.
When she turned back, her polite smile had disappeared.
“My son has been sitting in front of you throughout this appointment.” The doctor frowned.
“You have referred to him as ‘the boy’ and ‘the child.’ You have not asked him how he feels.
You have not explained the diagnosis to him.
You have not even used his name.” “Mrs Midoriya…” “His name is Izuku.” She opened the door.
“And we will be seeking another opinion.” The corridor outside seemed painfully bright.
Izuku walked beside his mother with his eyes fixed on the floor.
His new plaster was still attached to his arm, All Might smiling from its centre.
The hero’s smile no longer made him feel brave.
At reception, Inko requested his records.
She spoke quietly and clearly, thanking the receptionist even when she was told the paperwork could take several days.
Izuku stood beside her.
He wanted to ask whether the doctor had lied.
He wanted to ask whether another examination might discover something hidden.
He was afraid his mother would give him the same answer.
They reached the car without speaking.
On the drive home, Musutafu passed beyond the window in a blur of colours.
Hero offices occupied the brightest buildings.
Advertisements showed professional heroes selling drinks, clothing and household insurance.
A sidekick with four arms directed traffic near a construction site.
Two children raced along the pavement, one leaving brief clouds beneath every step.
Izuku looked down at his shoes.
“Mum?” Inko’s eyes moved towards the mirror.
“Yes, sweetheart?” “Did I do something wrong?” The car shifted slightly within the lane.
Inko corrected it, then pulled into a quiet side street beneath a row of trees.
She turned in her seat.
“No.” “Was it because I didn’t eat my vegetables?” “No, Izuku.” “Or because I stay awake when I’m supposed to sleep?” “No.” “Did I break my Quirk?” Inko reached into the back and took his hand.
“You did not break anything.” “But the doctor said my body didn’t change.” “Quirks do not appear because children behave properly.
They do not disappear because children make mistakes.” “Then why don’t I have one?” Inko’s mouth opened.
No answer came.
Her eyes filled, and she looked away for half a second.
“The doctor may be wrong,” she said.
“He said he wasn’t.” “Doctors can be wrong.” “But he’s the head doctor.” “That only means he has a larger office.” A tiny laugh escaped Izuku.
Inko smiled through her tears.
“We are going to find someone else.
Someone who will perform all the tests.” “What if they say the same thing?” Her smile weakened.
“Then we will face that together.” It was not the answer Izuku wanted.
He wanted her to promise that a Quirk would appear tomorrow morning.
He wanted certainty, bright and solid enough to stand on.
Instead, his mother turned back towards the road.
As they pulled away, Izuku noticed a small white van parked near the entrance to the side street.
A man sat behind the wheel.
Izuku could not see his face clearly beneath the brim of his cap, but the man seemed to be looking directly at their car.
Then a bus passed between them.
When it was gone, the van had pulled into traffic.
Izuku forgot about it before they reached home.