All mites survive.
He never thought he was dreaming. Perhaps that he was dead, caught in some limbo — or maybe this was hell -, but never a dream. There was no clarity, no peace, yet he felt each of those raw sensation.
Every feeling lashed at him like a whip, every sound and touch was a sharp, unbearable sting. It was as if he were stripped bare, reduced to something small and vulnerable, like a pink earthworm writhing on the surface after rain — soft, exposed, trembling under a merciless light that pulsed behind his eyes.
Time blurred, stretching and collapsing in a way he couldn't grasp, nor touch slightly. It was too much, too loud, too real. It wasn't until his frantic mind quieted, like a ripple finally settling on still water, that understanding began to seep in.
He was a newborn baby. Again.
The realisation crawled through his fractured awareness, slow and unyielding, like molasses dripping over stone. The blankets draped over his lumpy, frail arms might as well have weighed eighty kilos, pinning him in place with their smothering warmth.
His eyelashes clung together, sticky and unwilling to part, as though the world outside were too much to face. And he was tired; so tired. Coherent thoughts eluded him.
His mind, small and undeveloped, couldn't quite wrap itself around the enormity of what was happening. It was like grasping at smoke — intangible, fleeting.
He was here, he was alive, and yet, he felt like a stranger in his own skin. Was it even his own anymore, at this point?
Voices came and went, soft murmurs weaving in and out of the edges of his crib. They were blurred and indistinct, like a distant melody heard through water. He strained to catch their meaning, pricking up his ears at the gentle hum, but it only lulled him further into the haze. That comforting buzz wrapped around him like a warm cocoon, and before he knew it, he had dozed off again.
Time slipped through his grasp like mist through trembling fingers, elusive and untethered. It drifted away, one breath merging into another, one sigh folding into the next. Days, or perhaps moments, blurred into an endless rhythm of waking and dreaming, leaving him adrift in a strange, unending calm. He never cried, he just slept. A lot.
His mother was an out-of-focus figure, a smudge of color and movement against the hazy backdrop of his watered-down child senses. His vision blurred at the edges, forcing him to rely on his sense of smell like a mole fumbling through the dark. The faint scent of cookies and warmth clung to her, soothing but terribly unfamiliar.
Aquamarine hair framed her face, and her eyes—terribly liquid, glimmering like shallow pools—seemed as though they existed solely to spill over with tears. They shimmered with an unsettling fragility, teetering on the edge of breaking, and he found himself instinctively repelled by the sight. He didn't like it.
That wasn't his mother. His mother had died many years ago. His actual mother had left him alone with a monster - another time, another life. He didn't like her tears, whether they were caused by joy or by sadness; he didn't care. He didn't like her face.
Truthfully, he didn't like many things.
Starting by how time passed in a lazy frenzy, each moment bleeding into the next with little distinction. Poof — it was feeding time again. The rhythm of it all lulled him into a stupor, a haze where thoughts rarely surfaced.
It wasn't until the first time he refused to latch onto his mother's breast that something shifted. A ripple of unease brushed against him, sharper than the comforting hum of routine. The signs of commotion—raised voices, hurried footsteps — crossed the threshold of his foggy mind.
They cut through the murk like the sharp edge of a blade, leaving him momentarily confused. He didn't know why it mattered, but it did. A heavy hand pressed against his soft, downy head, attempting to guide his mouth toward the globular flesh offered to him.
His response was simple but firm as he clamped his lips shut, slick with childish drool, and turned his head stubbornly away.
His mother's green eyes twitched, restless, like leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. The tension was palpable as she tucked a stray lock of aquamarine hair behind her ear with trembling fingers; her smile trembled as she rocked him on her lap.
The fabric of her shirt slipped slightly, stretching under her grip to expose the pale curve of her collarbone and the swell of the breast she had pulled out to feed him.
It wasn't a moment of bonding. It was discomfort, maybe not hers, but surely his, simmering just beneath the surface.
The typical baby swaddling pinned his arms to his sides, trapping him in a cocoon of soft fabric that prevented him from putting any distance between himself and that overly sweet, unpleasantly soft body.
Not that his tiny, uncoordinated hands would have had the strength to do much even if they were free. From somewhere beyond his limited line of sight, a voice rumbled low and thick, cutting through the muffled hum of the room. His father's voice.
He didn't talk much, from what he had gathered. He was silent and generally very dismissive as much as disappointed.
"Inko—" the word was strained, dark, carrying the sharp edge of annoyance poorly disguised as concern. It was the voice of someone who wanted nothing to do with the problem in front of him but felt obligated to speak anyway. The baby was the problem.
Inko; Inko. Where had he ever heard that name?; and the accent, too. It didn't sound like english. Could that be the reason why he hadn't been able to understand what they were saying even in the slightest?; and if it was, why could he now?
What had changed?; Had he gotten used to it and somehow adjusted already? - was it possible that so much time had passed?
His father paused, a heavy silence hanging in the air as his sudden and unusual voice lingered, thick and uncomfortable. His mother shifted slightly, her neck moving just enough to catch his greyish and numb gaze.
"What if he's retarded?". The words landed like a slap on Inko face, unrefined, leaving a cold chill in her wake. The question felt absurd, ridiculous even, but it still sliced through the haze of his childlike mind with unnerving clarity. He wanted to laugh.
Even his tiny body gasped, a sound, like a restrained sneeze — an instinctive reaction to the sharpness of it all. The next memory was a blur of cold metal, unfamiliar hands, and sterile white light. A medical examination, hands probing, a clinical detachment.
The doctor's voice was calm, professional, as if the words came from a script. "There's nothing wrong with him," he reassured his mother, almost too smoothly, as though the matter was already closed. "Some kids are just difficult with breast feeding, keep trying."
And then, with a dismissive wave, the doctor recommended a breast pump, as if that was the solution to the enormous discomfort that he felt. Still, better than a breast shoved in his mouth. He didn't want that with her.
Solution found, they kept going like this — day in, day out, a rhythm that had no real start or end. Poof — it was night. Poof — it was day. Time stretched endlessly, each moment bleeding into the next without distinction, as if the hands of the clock had simply forgotten to move. Or it just didn't want to.
An endless litany, cradling him in its indifferent embrace, like the wreck of a creaking ship slowly sinking into the sandy bottom of the Atlantic Ocean — its hull groaning with each passing moment, but forever stuck in the depths of earth.
Nothing changed.
Until it did.
He used to entertain himself by slamming his face into the ground. Literally. Already in the crib, he would shove his tiny hands into the blankets, pushing himself up on weak arms and shaky knees to strengthen his fragile joints. A crawling war machine in the making.
His mother couldn't explain the constant purple halos on his forehead or the deep creases forming on his tiny palms. Her baby was so calm otherwise — how could this happen?; she was sick worried.
But to him, these sessions were the highlight of his monotonous days. The satisfying strain of muscles that weren't quite ready yet, the challenge of moving forward inch by inch — it was freedom, gained step by step.
Later on his mother, though, started to revel in his small victories. She putted him on the ground, letting him try by himself. She cooed and clapped her hands, her face lighting up as though he had performed a miracle. She found comfort in this newfound activity, delighted that her child had a reason to interrupt his never-ending naps.
A reason to giggle, to kick, to behave like a normal baby.
Even his father had finally let out a long, overdue sigh of relief. Maybe he no longer thought his son was retarded. He learned to crawl quickly, with his mother's melodic hum of encouragement in the background, her soft voice repeating his name in a soothing rhythm. Izuku. Izuku. Izuku.
And on that particular day, with her lilting chant hanging in the air, he understood it. His name. His name was Izuku Midoriya.
And all the responsibilities that came with it.
Not even a month later, his father disappeared from the picture; officially, he had left for a job opportunity somewhere between China and New Zealand.
He didn't believe it for a second. Well, he had heard the reason.
Yet, just like that, one of the greatest mysteries in Boku no Hero Academia resolved itself — at least for him. Not through some grand revelation, but in the most unremarkable way. It almost shocked him more than his own rebirth, how such a significant question could be answered with a simple fight. It was Izuku's fault.
It happened on a quiet afternoon in the living room. The space was modest and cluttered, yet warm in its own way. A faded couch sagged in the corner, draped with a knit blanket that had clearly seen better days, before child meals and all. The low coffee table bore faint rings from forgotten tea cups, and the faint hum of the refrigerator filtered in from the adjacent kitchen.
Soft light poured through thin curtains, dust motes swirling lazily in its glow, adding a dreamy haze to the air. His mother sat cross-legged on the worn tatami mat, holding him gently in her arms. One soft hand rested on his tiny back, while the other absentmindedly played with his sparse, fluffy hair. The rhythmic motion of her fingers was almost enough to lull him to sleep. Almost.
He still wasn't used to all this softness.
The overwhelming warmth, the constant closeness—it made his skin crawl in ways he couldn't articulate. But refusing it outright wasn't an option. Not without earning the label of a troubled child. And that, he decided, was a hassle he couldn't afford. Not again.
Inko noticed his discomfort enough to limit herself, but she was just so clingy.
Her real nature seeped through in small, constant gestures. Her hands indulged in soft touches, tracing circles on his back or gently tugging at his hair. She was utterly obsessed with his hair, always smoothing it down as though she could tame the unruly tufts.
She begrudgingly respected his unspoken no-kissing rule, though he sometimes wondered how long it would last. At the moment, he found himself in that frustrating limbo where babies fumble between crawling and standing. He had to reach the last step.
He was leaning against his mother's thighs, enveloped in her terribly warm embrace, his stubby legs wobbling with determination.
The air around them felt heavy with her encouragement, her quiet giggles filling the room. She was rather happy.
The outfit he wore did nothing for his dignity — an All Might-themed onesie, complete with canary-yellow bunny ears stitched onto the hood. The ears flopped with every slight nod of his head, an absurd detail that he found both mortifying and oddly endearing.
In contrast to the cozy scene, his father stood detached in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. Now that his vision had sharpened enough to focus properly, he could make out the man's features clearly.
Long-limbed and tall, with hair dark as bark and eyes an unremarkable grey. In fact, there was nothing remarkable about him, no spark of warmth, no sinister edge. Just a man — distant and uninterested, fading quietly into the background of their lives.
He wasn't part of the small celebration surrounding Izuku's progress toward walking. Instead, he lingered on the edges, snorting at regular intervals as if he were allergic to joy. His broad shoulders leaned against the doorframe, a heavy presence that neither added to nor subtracted from the moment.
That was when, leaning against his mother and watching his father's passive indifference, the weight of it all began to settle in his young mind.
This was his life now. These were his parents. And he didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad one. They couldn't be worst than the last pair. The tension in the room grew thick enough to cut with a knife. Izuku's round, numb yet innocent, eyes shifted to his father instinctively, because of his train of thoughts.
The large irises catching the light as they blinked up at the tall figure leaning against the doorframe. It wasn't intentional — he wasn't seeking attention or affirmation. It was simply natural, given how his and Inko's bodies were positioned, both of their torsos facing Hisashi's direction.
But Inko seemed to interpret it differently.
"Darling," she said, her voice deceptively sweet, though the subtle furrow of her brow betrayed her irritation. She adjusted her grip on Izuku, holding him just a touch closer, as if shielding him from an invisible force. "Why don't you compliment Izuku on his progress? You could even play with us."
Her words were simple, but the impact they had on Hisashi was anything but that. His face turned an alarming shade of pink, blotchy and uneven, as though Inko had just hurled a deep and personal insult at him.
He stiffened against the doorframe, his crossed arms unraveling as he fumbled to find a response.
"I, uhm,-" he stammered, his voice shaky and weak. A few nervous breaths escaped him, frantic and shallow, filling the room with his discomfort. He wanted to, yet he didn't.
Inko's expression shifted. The warmth she had shown to Izuku just moments ago cooled into something sharper, more deliberate.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her arms tightening in a protective band around her son's tiny torso. Something was going on.
"Why on earth wouldn't you, Hisashi?" she muttered, the softness of her voice now laced with quiet contempt. "Why you never do?".
The question hung in the air like a challenge, daring Hisashi to answer. But he didn't.
He couldn't. Instead, he looked away, his grayish eyes flickering with something unreadable — guilt, perhaps, or maybe just irritation. Whatever it was, it wasn't enough to prompt him to move.
He was disappointed, as always.
Izuku, nestled in his mother's embrace, felt the tension radiating from both of them. He might not have understood the clear subtext in the words exchanged, but he understood the weight behind them. And for the first time in this new life, he felt the unmistakable sting of disappointment.
Inko knew something.
Hisashi released a heavy sigh, the kind that seemed to expel years of pent-up frustration, deflating like a punctured beach ball. "Come on, Inko," he taunted, his tone sharp and biting. "He's not even nine months old."
Inko's chin jerked forward at the remark, her hands instinctively tightening around the fabric of Izuku's onesie, crumpling it against his tiny chest. A tremor twisted her mouth, fury bubbling up like a kettle about to boil over. His childlike body wanted to laugh.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Hisashi cut her off, his voice growing louder and more strained with every word. "Don't tell me you don't find it strange! You gave birth to this—" His voice caught, almost like he had to force the word out, "—this thing! He doesn't have a Quirk, doesn't speak yet, but he's already walking! And the way he looks at me—like he's got some kind of problem with me. Hell, with you too!". Well, no shit, Sherlock.
By now, Hisashi's neck had turned a deep, angry purple, the veins standing out as if someone had wrapped their hands around his throat. His voice cracked with the weight of his own resentment, spilling his insecurities into the room like poison gas.
"Stop." Inko's voice came out like a flood, a torrential rush that drowned out Hisashi's rant. Her hands shot up to cover Izuku's ears, her trembling fingers brushing the soft tufts of his silky hair. "If you don't want to be here, you don't need to be here," she hissed, her voice breaking only slightly. "But don't you dare insult our—my baby."
The finality in her words cut through the air, sharp and clean like a guillotine's blade. Hisashi stood there for a moment, silent and stunned, his jaw working uselessly as he tried to form a response. But there was nothing left to say. The line had been drawn, and Inko's trembling yet unyielding form made it clear that crossing it would not end well.
Izuku's round eyes stared up at his mother, the innocent childlike sheen wasn't there. His baby body betrayed nothing, but his mind — sharp and resentful— simmered beneath the surface. He knew exactly what was happening, and it ignited a spark of cold contempt in him. How ironic, wasn't it?
He didn't feel comforted by Inko's defense, nor was he impressed by Hisashi's pathetic attempt to justify himself. Instead, he felt a detached, simmering anger at the sheer absurdity of the situation. It wasn't even about the insult or the tension in the room. It was about the fact that, even as a reborn infant, he couldn't escape the all-too-human ugliness of weak men and desperate women.
As Hisashi floundered, blinking in stunned silence at Inko's sharp rebuttal, Izuku thought bitterly, Seems like I am a disappointment to my father in every life. He just had to lack of something even in that amazing world.
And yes, he knew that the very point of that anime was to teach children and adults to believe in their dreams, that conformity wasn't a requirement to reach them; the Quirk didn't matter and all that stuff. He just didn't care. It was nice to read, but in the practice - well, it was really just horseshit.
He leaned his head against Inko's chest, not for comfort but because he knew it would signal submission to her warmth. He felt her arms tighten around him protectively, her breaths shallow and rapid as she stared down her husband. Izuku didn't sigh, didn't cry, didn't do anything but observe and catalogue the moment for later. To remember it.
It wasn't comfort that washed over him as Inko's trembling hands brushed through his hair. No, it was resignation. Resignation and the cold certainty that later on Hisashi Midoriya would have been a good riddance.
Hisashi's words hung in the air like a guillotine ready to fall. "Kid, Inko—" he started, his jaw visibly tightening as if the rest of his sentence had to be physically forced back. Then, with a resigned exhale, "Maybe it's best to part ways for a while—". Was this the new euphemism for divorce? Izuku's baby fingers clenched slightly, unnoticed by either of the adults, as Hisashi continued, "I've received this job offer. I'll send money—".
The rest faded into white noise. Izuku wasn't interested in whatever half-hearted excuse his father had lined up. Hisashi's departure had been inevitable the moment Izuku first saw the hollow way the man looked at both him and Inko; even if he hadn't known the original plot, he still would have guessed something on that line. This moment was merely the final, predictable nail in the coffin.
But something else dug its claws into Izuku's mind. Hisashi's earlier words made his tiny heart race, still reverberating like a cruel echo: Without a Quirk?
Did they already know?
The thought struck him like a lightning bolt. In this world, so advanced and precise, with endless medical tests and futuristic diagnostics, surely there had been signs. Surely they must have known before he was born. And knowing canon, that was crazy.
That single, offhanded comment of almost a year ago — What if he's retarded? — now carried a much sharper edge, carving its way through his thoughts. He now understood.
She knew, he realised, his baby-soft cheeks unmoving as the pieces clicked together. Inko always knew. The warmth of her arms around him, the gentle caress of her fingers in his hair, the constant buzz of encouragement in her voice — it all took on a crueler light. Because every hug, every whispered assurance, every tear she shed wasn't just for the baby she thought she had; it was for the Quirkless son she already knew she was raising. She had decided to raise.
Izuku's small hands curled tighter into the fabric of her shirt as a cold thought settled over him: Deku's story wasn't just tragic; it was preordained. By his parents.
And for the first time, he thought the weight of living as Izuku Midoriya — for the real Izuku Midoriya — must have felt unbearable.