Ryukyu
She transformed—but something went wrong.
Her body shifted, bones cracking, wings flaring—but the majesty of her dragon form was lost. The wings were tattered, one twisted unnaturally, her fangs chipped and dulled. Her scales, once golden and radiant, had gone an unsettling shade of gray.
Civilians didn't cheer.
They screamed.
Children cried behind their mothers. Cars swerved to avoid her. News broadcasts blared warnings:
"Unstable transformation. Stay away from the monster."
She tried to speak—but her voice came out as a roar, garbled and unrecognizable.
Hospitals closed their doors.
Schools painted over her posters.
Even her sidekicks fled.
She landed in a dark alley, huddled in the wreckage of her own power.
Ryukyu looked down at her claws—shaking, bloodied—and wondered if she ever truly had control at all.
---
Mirko
She fought tooth and nail, as always—until something wrapped around her legs.
Chains.
For the first time, not from villains—but red tape. Bureaucracy. Rules. Protocols. Every step forward dragged a hundred regulations behind it.
She tried to jump—and was pulled back.
Courtrooms, hearings, suspension threats.
Monitors hovered in a circle around her, each flashing a word like a slap across the face:
"Reckless."
"Unhinged."
"Too aggressive."
"PR risk."
"Liability."
She screamed and kicked and punched, but the world around her didn't move. Her body—once a force of kinetic justice—was held in place like a wild animal in a zoo.
Then came Maki's whisper.
"You loved the fight… but what if they never let you fight again?"
Mirko fell to her knees, teeth clenched—not because she was weak, but because they were making her feel like she was.
---
Edgeshot
Silence.
Not peaceful silence—but suffocating, absolute nothing.
He stood alone in a cityscape frozen in time. No wind. No sound. Not even a heartbeat. His footsteps didn't echo.
He reached out to shift into thread—but nothing happened. His body didn't stretch. His form didn't respond.
His quirk was gone.
He tried to whisper—to call out—but his voice didn't carry. He clapped. Shouted. Begged.
Nothing.
People walked past him, through him. Other heroes. Civilians. Friends. No one noticed.
His name wasn't on the Pro Hero boards.
His photo was missing from the memorials.
His presence had been erased.
"You vanished to protect others," Maki said softly, from somewhere far away. "But now… you don't exist at all."
And that, more than death, terrified him.
---
Mt. Lady
The cameras still flashed.
But the cheers were gone.
She struck a pose—no applause. She grew tall—someone shouted "Tryhard!" She shrank down—someone laughed "Irrelevant!"
She was always too much or not enough.
Her agency pulled back funding.
Sponsorships vanished.
Fans called her "a product," not a hero. On screens, critics mocked:
"Overhyped."
"Only got in for the looks."
"It would be better if you dropped being hero and bent in front of the right people!"
"Nothing without filters."
She tried to smile through it—but her reflection in a shop window didn't even look like her anymore. It looked tired. Fading.
"The stage lights fade," Maki whispered, "and no one cares who you are backstage."
Mt. Lady stood alone in an empty studio, cameras turned off, makeup smeared—and for the first time, the silence hurt more than the noise.
---
Kamui Woods
He reached for the sky—but his limbs snapped.
His branches, once strong and swift, splintered midair. He tried to grapple—his wood turned to brittle ash.
The cities he once swung through had no more trees. The skyline was concrete and glass. Nature was gone.
His forests had burned.
Birds didn't nest in his limbs.
Squirrels didn't climb his shoulders.
He walked through blackened woods, fallen logs, and scorched earth—his legacy reduced to charcoal.
"You grew tall with purpose," Maki's voice echoed, "but the world has no room for trees anymore."
He reached for one last sapling—but it turned to dust in his palm.
---
Gang Orca
The courtroom doors closed.
The schoolyard emptied.
The hospital lobby buzzed with whispers.
No matter where he went—children cried.
They hid behind their parents. Some screamed. Some clung to fences. His deep voice, always calm, only made them cry harder.
He bent down, smiled gently, waved—but they ran.
Teachers pulled them back.
"Monster."
"Scary."
"Not safe."
The news headlines screamed:
"Hero or Hazard?"
"Public uneasy about hero's appearance."
His heart, strong and steady, twisted.
"You're not a hero to them," Maki's voice said, almost pitying. "You're the nightmare parents use to scare their kids into behaving."
He stood alone, watching the world he protected from afar, barred by the very people he swore to protect.
---
Captain Valor (America)
The flag burned behind him, tattered and upside down.
He stood at the steps of the Capitol, his shield cracked, his helmet dented. Statues around him crumbled—not from war, but from public revolt.
Protests surged. His teammates glared.
"You pushed too far."
"You led us into this."
"You broke the trust."
The air crackled with chaos.
He turned—and saw himself. A dozen versions. Smiling. Saluting. Marching with pride and blind conviction.
All of them had blood on their gloves.
"You stood for a dream," Maki whispered, coldly, "but all dreams wake up."
He tried to speak, but the people had already turned their backs—and the flag hit the ground in ashes.
---
Éclair (France)
She stood in the Louvre.
But the masterpieces crumbled.
The Mona Lisa sobbed silently, paint dripping like tears. The Eiffel Tower in the distance fractured and fell sideways like a toppled crown.
She tried to walk forward—but the marble beneath her cracked with every step.
The crowd booed.
Her beauty no longer dazzled. Her charm became a mask.
"Traitor."
"Pretender."
"Where were you when Paris bled?"
She looked into the shattered glass of the Louvre—only to see herself aged, forgotten. A relic.
"You were light," Maki whispered, "but the world moved on to shadows."
And as the lights dimmed, Éclair stood surrounded by a city that no longer needed her.
---
Raksha (India)
He sat in lotus pose, the wind around him still.
But the gods turned away.
The great statues of Vishnu, Shiva, Durga—they crumbled. Their eyes closed, arms breaking off, a storm of dust and divinity.
In the distance, India burned.
Floods raged in Kolkata. Riots in Delhi. Children screamed in Bengaluru. And he—he could not move.
He tried to summon his power—his strength, his wisdom.
But the air hardened.
His hands cracked under invisible weight.
"Even karma can be cruel," Maki whispered, "even dharma forgets."
He had devoted his life to balance, to honor—but now, even the cosmic laws had abandoned him.
Raksha sat in the ruins of his homeland's faith, asking the one question he feared most:
"Was I not enough?"
---
And the Others…
The Quirkless Strategists found themselves with quirks… and realized they didn't know how to use them. They tripped, failed, became burdens.
"You envied power," Maki whispered, "but never understood its cost."
The Speed Team? Time froze. Their muscles screamed. No momentum. Just stillness and fear that the world had outpaced them for once.
The Nordic Rune Users watched their runes fade, ancient symbols erased as modernity consumed their traditions.
The Middle Eastern Guardians saw unity dissolve—nations torn, sacred sites ruined, people divided in their name.
---
And through it all… Maki laughed.
Her voice echoed, not in the minds of individuals anymore, but in the core of the Summit's soul.
A laugh that was feral, divine, delirious with power.
In the Convergence Hall, heroes dropped to their knees. Others stumbled back. Some clutched their heads. The pride of nations—the champions of peace—reduced to wide-eyed husks staring at phantoms only they could see.
Above them, a voice lingered—sweet and wicked:
"You wore the mask of hope... but I see what's underneath. And now so do you."
The storm inside the Convergence Hall had ended.
Not with fire.
Not with violence.
But with silence.
Each hero now knelt or staggered, breathless, shattered by individual phantoms that only they had seen. The aftermath wasn't physical—it was existential. Something sacred had cracked in every one of them, something deeper than bones or pride.
And in the center of it all… Maki stood.
She hadn't moved a step.
Still as the helmet clutched in her gloved fingers, she finally raised it—slowly—revealing her face.
Pale. Damp with sweat. Her crimson eyes shimmered like dying embers—soft, yet gleaming with quiet triumph. No arrogance. No hunger for applause. Just completion.
Her voice was a breath, low and steady.
"Mission complete."
Silence followed, until a familiar sound crackled in her earpiece.
A single click.
Then a voice—warm, proud, and unmistakably his.
"Great Work," Izuku said. "I knew you could do it, Maki."
He slowly withdrew his hand from the circuit grid.
For minutes that he had held the live electricity in his hand it felt like hours to him although he was enjoying it, his palm had been pressed against the exposed core—blue lightning threading through shattered conduits, siphoning raw data and electricity.
Now, as he pulled away, the energy around him flickered and died. The grid sparked once, feebly, then went still.
The room fell into silence.
Just the hum of a dying system—and two figures in the middle of it.
Izuku stood alone near the end of the control hall, his silhouette backlit by cracked, pulsing screens. His green hair was dusted with static, the remnants of his direct connection to the electricity grid.
His body still radiated a faint afterglow—residual sparks of Glitch quirk pulsing just beneath his skin, like embers clinging to a burnt-out fuse.
Ahead of him, Maki sat calmly in a high-backed steel chair— both her eyes glowing like crazy as slowly they returned to normal eyes, something she wasn't able to do before when only one of her eyes had the cursed eye.
Her posture was relaxed, yet unnaturally still. Her helmet rested in her lap. Her breath was slow, but deep, as if returning from somewhere far beneath the surface of reality.
The great New York city, once buzzing with global authority, stood empty—reduced to shadows and static, its power stripped bare.
Izuku's eyes, faintly aglow, found hers across the distance. No words were spoken at first. Just the shared silence of a mission completed… and the quiet knowledge that the world had just changed forever.
Then—softly, steadily—he began to walk toward her.
Boots echoing across the marble floor. Every step measured. As he reached closer he sat on the chair while Maki sat in his lap as he said, "I'm proud of you. Maki. And now it seems you don't need that eye patch anymore to hide your eyes."
Maki let out a breath—a sound caught somewhere between relief and disbelief—as she leaned into him. Her body, which had endured the full weight of a thousand minds unraveling, now melted gently against Izuku's chest.
Her head rested on his shoulder, arms slipping around his neck, the helmet clattering softly to the floor beside them.
"I didn't think I'd make it through this one," she murmured, her voice hoarse with fatigue. "Not intact. Not like this."
Izuku's hand moved instinctively to the back of her head, fingers weaving through strands damp with sweat. He pressed a kiss to her temple—a soft, grounding touch.
"You did more than make it," he whispered into her hair.
Maki shifted slightly to face him, her legs folded loosely over his lap, arms still around him as she studied his face up close. He looked older—not physically, but in the eyes. There was electricity behind them, but not from the grid. From witnessing it all.
"I saw everything," he added. "The way you handled them. The control, the precision... the restraint. You could've broken them totally. But you didn't. You let them break themselves."
Maki's lips lifted into a tired smile. "Didn't think you'd approve of the laugh."
"I did," he said. "It was badass."
She chuckled softly, forehead pressing against his. "So now what, Deku? The summit's done. The world's leaders are in a terrible need for therapy. The surveillance is fried. The grid's gone."
His eyes flicked downward to her uncovered face—specifically her eyes.
Both crimson.
Both glowing.
But no longer cursed.
Beautiful. Steady. Whole.
He cupped her face gently, thumbs grazing beneath her eyes. "You're free now, aren't you? Those eyes… I see it's not permanent anymore, now you can turn them back to normal eyes. It seems to me that you've mastered it."
"I didn't know I could," she whispered. "It always took something from me before. Control. Pain. Emotion. But this time… it gave something back."
She leaned in and kissed him.
Not feverish.
Not desperate.
Just soft. Certain. The kind of kiss born from survival, from shared fire and silence and trust in a world built from ruins.
Izuku responded in kind, his hand cradling the back of her neck, the other pressing lightly to her back caressing her back gently. When they parted, his forehead still rested against hers.
"I always knew you'd be the one to change things," he said quietly. "And now… you're the one who gets to choose what comes next."
Her voice was smaller now. "And what if I want the world to be quiet for a while?"
"Then it will be," he answered without hesitation.
She breathed out, smiling faintly, lips brushing his again before she pulled back slightly and looked around the control hall one last time.
"The gods of the old world are broken," she said. "Now let the new ones rise slow… with mercy."
Izuku nodded.
Then he stood, lifting her easily in his arms. She curled into him without resistance, exhaustion finally crashing into her like a wave. He carried her through the cracked glass doors of the electricity grid, the remains of global dominance fading behind them.
Outside, New York was silent.
Izuku carried her through the still-smoking streets as they reached a suitable place from where he teleported back to their house where they had stayed for their America trip. He kicked the door open gently, stepping inside.
Everything was quiet.
He made his way to the bedroom and carefully laid Maki down atop the sheets. Her fingers reluctantly let go of his jacket, eyes fluttering in protest as he pulled the blanket over her.
"It's alright," he whispered, brushing hair from her face. "You've done enough. Now just rest, everyone will be happy to hear your exploits so rest well."
Maki tried to speak, but sleep claimed her before she could. Her breathing slowed, deepened. Her expression softened into something peaceful for the first time in days.
Izuku stood for a moment, watching her. As he cleaned her up, changed her clothes to a pair of comfortable shorts and tank top as he slowly covered her with blanket as she slept blissfully.
Then he reached toward his side, where a flicker of energy formed—and with a small flash, a clone stepped out.
"Look after her," Izuku said. "Ensure her sleep isn't disturbed and inform me once she wakes up."
The clone nodded silently and took a protective stance, watching the street outside.
Izuku pulled on his gloves, rolled his shoulders, and walked out the door without looking back.
As the ashes settled, Izuku stepped alone into the open air, back in Manhattan.
The sky above was stormy, painted in the dying light of dusk. Smoke drifted from the towers behind him. Distant sirens began to wail—late, confused, directionless.
His boots crunched over the broken glass and crumbled marble.
In his mind, Maki's voice echoed faintly—sleeping now, but still present. Still his partner in every sense of the word.
"We've got one stop left."
"The prison," she had said.
He nodded to the memory, his breath fogging slightly in the wind.
"There is still one more thing left of the checklist, let's get it done with quickly as well."
His hand clenched.
"That place holds the people they called monsters. Some of them—are heroes in chains. And some of them… we need." he muttered
Ahead, the distant mountains shimmered with electrical defense grids. At the edge of the continent—Sector Z-01. The most secure correctional facility on the planet.
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