The infant emerged without sound. Thick black hair plastered to its scalp, streaked with crimson like wet ink bleeding into rust. Its eyes snapped open—bright, unnatural rubies that reflected the delivery room lights without blinking. Around each tiny wrist and ankle, thin bands of metallic gold shimmered, cool and seamless against newborn skin.
Midwife Saito recoiled instinctively, fumbling her sterile gloves. "No cry?" she whispered, more to herself than the exhausted mother. Her fingers trembled as she checked the airway. Clear. Lungs inflated. But the silence pressed like physical weight.
Inko Midoriya reached out, voice frayed with exhaustion and fear. "Is he—?"
"Breathing." Saito forced calm into her tone. She lifted the child. The golden rings felt denser than they looked, humming faintly against her touch. "He's...observing."
Across the room, a heart monitor blipped steady green rhythms. The baby turned his head toward it slowly. Deliberately. His crimson gaze tracked the pulsing light, unblinking. A nurse dropped a metal clipboard. It clattered loudly on the linoleum.
The child didn't flinch.
Hisashi Midoriya hovered near the doorway, knuckles white on the frame. "Red eyes?" he breathed. "And those markings..."
Inko gathered the silent bundle against her chest. Her thumb brushed one gold band. It felt warmer now. Alive. "Hello, Izuku," she murmured. His stare lifted to hers—ancient, knowing—before drifting toward the window. Outside, dusk painted long shadows across Musutafu's skyline.
---
Izuku grew strangely. At two, he'd stare for hours at blank walls, tiny fists clenched around air like grasping at invisible threads. Other toddlers stumbled toward bright toys; Izuku ignored them, transfixed by dust motes swirling in sunbeams—or perhaps by something deeper *within* the light itself. Playground laughter echoed hollowly around him. Once, when a balloon popped beside his ear, the other children shrieked and cried. Izuku merely blinked, his irises flickering briefly with an emerald phosphorescence, sharp as broken glass. Then his gaze drifted past the noise, locking onto the lengthening shadow of a swing set, as if deciphering a secret written there in dusk.
By four, the silence in him had settled into something heavier. Preschool teachers noted his unnerving stillness during story time—not restless distraction, but a profound, watchful quiet. While classmates squirmed over picture books, Izuku's ruby eyes tracked the slow crawl of shadows across the floorboards. Sometimes, a tremor would run through him. A flicker of jade light would ignite behind his pupils, vivid and brief as a camera flash, and his small body would tense as if bracing against a gale only he felt. "Do you see the storm, Izuku-kun?" a gentle teacher once asked. He didn't answer. His fingers traced the cool gold bands circling his wrists, now seamlessly fused to his skin, humming faintly like tuning forks struck deep underground.
The green flashes grew more frequent during thunderstorms. Five-year-old Izuku would press his palms flat against the living room window as rain lashed Musutafu. Lightning fractured the sky; thunder shook the apartment walls. Instead of fear, a silent vibration thrummed through him. Behind his eyes, viridian energy pulsed—a rhythmic echo of the tempest outside—and his pupils dilated wide, swallowing the crimson into near blackness. He'd whisper fragmented words, lost beneath the drumming rain: "...Chaos...control...too slow..." Inko would hover nearby, tea cooling forgotten in her hands, her heart aching at the unbridgeable distance in her son's gaze. He wasn't just looking *at* the storm; he seemed to be listening for whispers riding the thunderclaps.
Hisashi, home on rare visits, mistook the stillness for detachment. "Smile, son!" he'd boom, ruffling Izuku's perpetually messy black hair. The boy would flinch minutely, not at the touch, but at the sudden disruption of…something else. When coaxed, Izuku's lips might twitch upward. It never reached his eyes. Those ancient, watchful rubies would slide past Hisashi's face, focusing instead on the long shadow Hisashi's frame cast across the hallway—a shadow that, for a fraction of a second, seemed *darker* than it should be, as if swallowing the light around its edges. A cold emerald glint would flare behind Izuku's stare. Then he'd turn away, drawn once more to the mundane darkness pooling beneath the dining table. It was quieter there. Safer. Familiar.
Only Inko earned the flickers of warmth. Late evenings became sacred. Curled beside her on the worn sofa, Izuku allowed himself a fragile vulnerability unseen elsewhere. A cartoon dragon soaring across the TV screen might coax a soft, breathy chuckle – a fragile sound, almost lost. His small fingers would unconsciously trace the warm metal circling his wrist. When he leaned his head against her arm, his crimson gaze softened, losing their unnerving sharpness. A rare, fleeting peace settled over him, mirrored by the faintest glow within his golden bands, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. It was here, cocooned in lamplight and unconditional love, that Izuku sometimes whispered fragmented things: "Shadows…talk," or "Cold rings...warm now." Inko would simply hum, holding him closer, her own silent vow echoing louder than any spoken word.
The kindergarten courtyard was a stark contrast. Chaos reigned with shouts and giggles, sandcastles meticulously built and gleefully demolished. Izuku remained an island. He'd perch silently on a low bench, knees drawn up, chin resting atop folded arms. His ruby eyes tracked not the children, but the intricate dance of shifting shade beneath the climbing frame as clouds drifted past the sun. Sometimes, a tremor would seize him – a phantom wind rippling through his small form. The emerald flash behind his pupils would ignite, fierce and brief. A nearby ball rolled towards him, kicked by a laughing classmate. It stopped inches from his bench, as if hitting an invisible wall. Izuku blinked, the green light fading. He didn't look at the child who'd kicked it, didn't acknowledge the confused stare. His gaze sank back into the shifting shadows, seeking solace in their silent patterns. The world felt too bright, too loud, too *fast*.
His only companions were the whispers only he could hear – murmurs from the shadows pooling beneath the slides and swings. They spoke of cold stars and lost battles, fragments echoing from lifetimes folded into his marrow. Izuku listened, head tilted slightly, fingers absently tracing the humming gold at his wrists. Everything else felt jarringly ephemeral. Except blue. Whenever a teacher pushed a bright blue cart laden with toys past the courtyard bench, or a classmate proudly showed off a cobalt raincoat, Izuku's crimson gaze would snag and linger. A ripple would cross his stillness – not the violent tremor of the green flash, but a softening. His head would lift a fraction, eyes losing their ancient sharpness for a heartbeat, replaced by something profoundly wistful. It wasn't attraction, not quite. It was remembrance. A deep, aching pang resonating from the golden bands fused to his bones, whispering of impossible sapphire skies and the roar of engines against gravity.
The kindergarten teacher, Miss Tanaka, noticed. She saw him track the cerulean glaze on her coffee mug with an intensity that bordered on reverence. "Do you like blue, Midoriya-kun?" she asked gently one quiet afternoon. Izuku didn't reply, his gaze still locked on the mug. His small hand drifted up, hovering near the gold band on his wrist as if seeking warmth. The humming within it intensified, a low thrum resonating beneath his skin. Behind his eyes, a fleeting image surfaced – a vast expanse of blue, impossibly deep, streaked with light. A silhouette moving at impossible speed. Then it vanished, leaving only the echo in his chest, a silent grief for something he couldn't name. He lowered his hand, the wistfulness hardening back into guarded stillness, a fortress built around an unknowable sorrow.
This silent mourning for blue became a quiet counterpoint to the storms he absorbed. One humid Tuesday, Mrs. Kobayashi from apartment 3B bumped into Inko and Izuku in the lobby. Her bright turquoise scarf was vibrant against the grey concrete walls. Izuku froze mid-step, his ruby eyes widening. The usual hum of his bands sharpened into a distinct, high-frequency chime. He stared, utterly transfixed. Not with childish delight, but with a heartbreaking depth of recognition that stopped Inko's breath. His small fingers curled into fists, knuckles white against his shorts. Mrs. Kobayashi smiled, mistaking his stillness for shyness. "Such big eyes!" she cooed. Izuku flinched minutely, breaking the trance. He pressed closer to Inko's leg, his gaze dropping to the patch of worn linoleum beneath his feet, seeking refuge in its mundane shade. The chime faded back to a low thrum. Inko felt the tremor running through him – a silent sob contained within his small frame.
Later that evening, cocooned on the sofa, Izuku finally spoke unprompted. The glow of his bands pulsed softly against the dim light. "Blue," he murmured, the word thick, unfamiliar on his tongue. He didn't look at Inko, his gaze fixed on the dark blue pattern of her teacup resting on the low table. "Blue...is...gone." The sorrow in his whisper echoed the profound loss etched into his ancient eyes. It wasn't a question. It was a declaration of a wound older than his body. Inko wrapped her arms tighter around him, her heart cleaving as she felt the faint vibration of unshed tears against her sleeve, a silent storm of impossible memory swirling within her silent son. The shadows deepened around them, seeming to lean in, whispering comfort only he could truly understand.
The incident happened two weeks after Mrs. Kobayashi's turquoise scarf. Inko, bustling with grocery bags, called Izuku from his shadow-gazing beneath the hallway shoe rack. "Come help Mama put things away!" He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, crimson eyes lingering on the dark pool beneath the radiator. A bag slipped from Inko's grasp, an onion tumbling towards the edge of the kitchen step – a perilous drop onto tile. Instinctively, Izuku's hand shot out, small fingers curling into air. A blinding sapphire flash, sudden and silent yet profound as a supernova, erupted around him. Not merely light, but pure spatial distortion – the air humming with ozone and static. When the blue vanished, Izuku stood solidly on the lower kitchen floor, the onion nestled safely in his palm. Gold bands pulsed fiercely golden-green against his skin.
"Oh!" Inko gasped, dropping her other bags. Tears welled instantly, relief and wonder warring on her face. She rushed down, kneeling before him. "Izuku! Sweetheart! That… that's your Quirk!" Her hands trembled as she cupped his cheeks. "You manifested! Oh, you saved my onion!" She laughed, a wet, joyful sound. Izuku stared back, utterly composed. The fading blue light clung momentarily to his outline, like phantom exhaust. He blinked once, the unnatural stillness settling back over him like dust. "Not Quirk," his voice was soft, flat, devoid of her excitement. "Something… else." He turned his palm, examining the onion as if it were alien technology. "Chaos… Control," he murmured, the words tasting familiar on his tongue, resonating deep within his humming bands.
Confusion dampened Inko's initial elation, but protocol prevailed. They sat in the sterile Quirk Registry office days later, the smell of antiseptic sharp against Izuku's senses. The cheerful doctor, clipboard gleaming under fluorescent lights, beamed down at him. "Alright, Izuku-kun! Your Mama says you did something amazing! Made a flashy blue light and popped down a step?" He leaned in conspiratorially. "Teleportation! That's top-tier!" Izuku sat stiffly on the examination table, crimson gaze fixed on the doctor's thick shadow stretching long and distorted across the bright linoleum. "Chaos Control," Izuku stated quietly, ignoring the doctor's enthusiasm. The doctor chuckled, jotting notes. "Creative name! Bit dramatic for teleportation, though." He turned to Inko. "We'll register it officially as Short-Distance Spatial Relocation with Visual Phenomena." He ruffled Izuku's messy hair; Izuku flinched – a micro-tremor shuddering through him, emerald flashing sharp behind his pupils. He pulled away subtly, seeking the silence beneath the doctor's chair.
The walk home was steeped in heavy twilight, Musutafu's neon signs painting shifting hues on wet pavement. Izuku's small hand felt cool in Inko's grasp. "Chaos Control," she whispered, testing the unfamiliar syllables. She squeezed gently. "It's a powerful name, Izuku. Like a superhero." He glanced up, the city lights reflecting crimson in his eyes. For a fleeting second, a ripple crossed his face – not wistfulness, but profound weariness, the weight of epochs in a child's gaze. "Not… hero," he murmured, his voice almost lost beneath the distant wail of a siren. His free hand drifted to his wrist band; its faint hum seemed louder now, harmonizing with the deepening city shadows pooling around streetlamps. It felt like a signature, not a title – etched into his bones long before the doctor's sterile ink touched paper. The shadows stretched longer, whispering secrets Izuku understood far too well.