This Is As Pretentious As It Gets
"Not all people are born equal," says a young boy, echoing with thousands of other words, spoken and unspoken, heard and unheard.
That is a constant truth in many realities across the infinite cosmos of possibilities, only further proven by every universe that rings with that truth, which is to say, an uncountable number that is a fraction of the uncountable numbers of everything that has, will, and does exist.
If you are here today, reading this very transcript, then it is only right to assume that you are well aware of the rules of this story, of this multiverse.
And so you must also know of Midoriya Izuku, the boy that your view of this story revolves around.
You must know of Midoriya Inko, his mother and long-time believer.
You must know of Yagi Toshinori, or more known as All Might, his idol-then-mentor, and now his father figure.
You must know of Bakugou Katsuki, his old tormentor, his rival, and then his friend.
You must know of Todoroki Shouto, the one he so inspired to accept himself and use all aspects of his power, and perhaps even his come-to-be-lover, if you think of the young man that way.
You must know of Uraraka Ochako, the first friend he made when he took his first step into becoming a hero, and maybe another lover in the place of Todoroki.
You must know of Iida Tenya, the friend after Uraraka, who he saved from the clutches of cold revenge and from a death at the hands of a villain.
And you must know of Shinsou Hitoshi, a boy whose power is said to be perfect for a villain’s, who constantly fights against that idea, and faced off against Midoriya.
If that is the case, then you are welcome to enter into a version of this story with two people you are not familiar with at all in the canon you were entrusted.
You will not know of a version of Midoriya’s father who was just as absent as the man in the world you’re familiar with but for good reason, who breathes fire and fought with the ferocity of ancient dragons, only to fall at the hands of a man who is described as the death of society itself.
You (may) not know of a man of another world who is clad in a dark cloak and an orange mask, with spirals peering into an eye that gleams red and is full of suffering, whose entire body is wracked with pain every time he uses his power, and watched not once but twice as whoever was his greatest friend at that moment breathe their final breath.
So if you so wish, you can come to know these two and all the people previous.
If that is the case, then continue, and observe.
The dark shroud of night comes.
The masked man sits on a rooftop, his eyes gleaming with an unnatural red so unlike the world he lives in. He wears a black cloak with a hood that covers his entire body. His legs dangle precariously off the ledge, but his stillness and unnaturally silent demeanor shows no signs of worry.
He thinks that he looks completely suspicious just, well, sitting there clad in a cloak on a rooftop. But he couldn’t care less, he’s trying to relax. Besides, he could just as easily escape. No regular Pro Hero or Villain could catch up to him anyway, much less get into his face. But even if someone did...
If they were to look into the holes in his mask, they’d find nothing but black. But if this person was a threat, they wouldn’t find black. They would find an unholy red, filled with killer intent towards their entire being. In one moment they would be staring the man down, and in another their body would be contorted and pierced by wood, their limbs hanging limply as blood drips from every new opening made in their body.
It’s not something he’s fond of doing, but if there are no other options, well... as long as he gets the job done.
He inhales in some fresh air and cranes his head around, taking in the sight in front of him.
The city blares with undying intensity – just like any other night, then. But it isn’t, if it weren’t for the young vigilante currently chasing after someone into an alleyway. He sighs. He recognizes the costume – the cowl, the bloom of the dark green jacket, and the batons. It almost disappoints him to see the boy running around at night, chasing whispers and fighting criminal elements. He wishes he could stop him, but he knows that his words would only fall flat on the young man’s ears.
That is, if he even has a chance to speak.
Oh, it doesn’t matter. As long as the boy is alive and particularly uninjured, his promise wouldn’t be broken and he can continue along with his mission.
Promise. The word sticks in his head and starts ringing, dredging up old feeling and thoughts. His chest feels heavy and a weight appears all over him, and he can already feel the despair clawing its way out-
No. He must repress those feelings and not let them get in the way of the job. He decided that long ago. Those sorrows will only pull him down. A grimace finds its way onto his face, not that it mattered.
Deciding his relaxation session to be over, the man gets up and stands on the edge. He looks at the ground below, and, seeing no one around, he lets his body fall.
The feeling of the air around him gives him a strange sense of freedom, but the fast approaching ground cuts it short.
(Something glows red.)
The ground is right there, now – it won’t be long, no, it won’t even be a second before death – but it never comes, as instead, he disappears into the pavement. Not a single sound echoes, nor no eyes look at the commotion. It’s as if nothing ever happened.
Elsewhere, the young vigilante stands over an unconscious criminal.
Batons holstered, he opens the man’s mouth (seems like they had some sort of strength augmentation Quirk but increased to unholy levels, he assessed earlier in their short scuffle) and pulls out his tongue. It’s completely black.
Trigger, it seems, has found its way around again. Dammit. Looks like he’ll have to ask around and investigate some of the local gangs, even if it involves some rough brawling.
He’s just about to tie up the man and wait for him to gain consciousness to interrogate him when his phone rings with a familiar tune. He takes it out of a pouch and reads the notification that popped up. Ah, thirty minutes before mom comes home.
Sighing dissappointedly, he takes out his backpack and puts his batons in. One by one he changes out of his vigilante outfit and into his civilian attire – a middle school uniform.
The boy stands up and walks away, casually ignoring that he’s leaving a knocked out man in an alleyway.
Midoriya Izuku is his name, and frankly he can’t give a shit, because he’s lost every one of them ever since his dad got his body cut in half nine years ago.
After declaring the coast to be clear, he sprints off into the night with only twenty five minutes to go.
NEXT CHAPTER: CHAPTER 1 - OF PURPLE HAIR AND BULLSHIT