"Sorry kid, it's not gonna happen."
Huh?
The words hit like a punch to the temple. My brain scrambles for context, for meaning, for literally anything to hold onto. Instead, I just sit there blinking in confusion, staring at the old man in front of me.
He's bald. Like, chrome-dome bald. The kind of bald that's proud of itself. A thick mustache hangs over his mouth like a sleeping caterpillar, and a pair of weird, round goggles sits crooked on his face. Lab coat. Clipboard. Casual posture.
Doctor. Definitely a doctor.
Okay. So far, so normal. Except… what the hell am I doing in a doctor's office?
The man leans back in his chair like he's got all the time in the world. He's calm. Too calm. Which immediately makes me suspicious, because calm people in weird situations are never good news.
I open my mouth to ask who he is, but a hand rests gently on my back before I can speak. It's warm. Soft.
I turn my head and almost forget how to breathe.
The woman beside me is… tall. Like, Amazonian tall. And I'm sitting down, sure, but she's sitting too. She still towers over me. Her green hair catches the light, tied back in what I think is supposed to be a ponytail, but half of it's down, so it's doing its own thing. She's dressed like the final boss of a PTA meeting. She's wearing a pink sweater, white blouse, blue skirt that doesn't reach her knees, and heels that could double as weapons.
And those legs. Holy mother of god, they go on forever.
Not that I'm complaining. Just… making an observation. For science.
She's looking down at me with an expression of pure concern. Her voice trembles slightly when she speaks. "Oh dear, so you really think something's wrong then?"
Wrong? Lady, everything is wrong.
Before I can ask what the hell she means, I notice something else. Something way more concerning.
Where the hell are my legs?
My feet aren't touching the floor. I glance down, and my heart stops for a second. My legs are there, sure, but… short. Like, really short. My knees barely make it past the chair's edge.
No bruises. No bandages. No pain. Just stubby, tiny legs dangling like a toddler's.
Wait.
No.
No way.
I wiggle my toes. My little piggies respond, alive and well. Relief hits me for a split second before being immediately replaced by terror.
Why are my feet so small?
Why are my hands so small?
Why does the world look bigger?
A creeping realization worms its way up my spine, but before I can think about it too hard, the woman, who's still rubbing my back by the way, turns toward the doctor again.
"Most of the other kindergarteners in his class have begun to show signs already," she says.
Kindergarteners? In my class? Excuse me???
I look up at her, trying to process that sentence, but she mistakes my confusion for sadness. She smiles sadly and starts patting my hair. By Odin's Beard that feels nice. My body just relaxes on its own.
This better not awaken something in me.
The doctor clears his throat. "My records say you're a fourth-generation quirk user," he says in a tone so dry it could cause droughts. "What powers do you and the boy's father have?"
Quirk?
Did he just say quirk?
I blink once. Twice. My mind spins.
Quirks. Powers. Doctors. Green-haired woman.
Oh. Oh no.
This can't be what I think it is.
I start scanning the room like a madman, searching for anything, anything, that can confirm or deny the horrifying theory forming in my brain. The sterile white walls. The X-rays pinned to the lightboard. The faint smell of antiseptic.
It all fits.
I grab a strand of hair from my head, tug it down in front of my face, and stare.
Green. Bright green.
Oh. Well fuck me I guess.
Of all the people in all the fictional worlds to wake up as, I had to become him. My least favorite protagonist. The human doormat. The crying machine.
I'm Deku.
Just my luck.
"Izuku, stop!" the woman, Inko my brain whispers, grabs my hand before I can tug at my hair again. Then she hugs me from behind, wrapping her arms around my tiny frame. Her voice cracks as she pleads, "Doctor, there must be some kind of mistake! I can attract small objects toward me, and my husband can breathe fire! We both have quirks!"
I freeze. For a second, I almost struggle to break free, but then I feel it. She's trembling. Her whole body's shaking like she's holding back tears.
She thinks I'm trying to hurt myself.
God.
Dr. Garaki, meanwhile, looks completely unfazed. The man has the emotional range of a rock. He points toward the X-rays on the board and says, "Izuku should have already manifested one of these quirks or a combination of both. But after reviewing his scans, I don't think he's going to."
He gestures toward the X-ray of my feet. "When superpowers first appeared, doctors discovered a connection between the bones in a person's foot and their chances of developing a quirk. People with quirks have only one joint in their pinky toe. Your son, however, has two."
He says it like he's commenting on the weather.
Inko, on the other hand, looks like someone just told her the world's ending. "But-!" Her voice cracks as tears gather at the corners of her eyes.
I cut her off, forcing my voice to stay calm. "Mom. It's okay. I don't need a quirk. I'm still me. You're still you. Everything's fine. I've gotten this far without one."
Her eyes widen, and for a second, I see the confusion flicker across her face. Like she can't decide whether to be proud of my maturity or heartbroken that I'm saying it at all.
I tilt my head up to meet her gaze. She's crying now, silently.
And that's when it really hits me.
I'm still me, huh?
What a joke.
What a cruel man I am, to say that to a mother who lost her son, using the very voice of the boy she'll never see again.
She hugs me tighter, whispering apologies I don't deserve, and all I can do is sit there, trapped in the arms of a woman who loves a ghost.
The rest of the appointment goes by in a blur.
Forms. Nods. Sympathy.
The doctor says something about "further observation" and "possible delayed manifestation," but I can tell even he doesn't believe it. His voice is just filler, the kind of tone people use when they're saying "Sorry for your loss" at funerals.
Inko thanks him between sniffles, clutching my hand like I might disappear if she lets go. Which, to be fair, would be accurate, just not in the way she thinks.
The receptionist gives us a polite smile on the way out. I can feel her pity radiating like heat from a furnace. It's not even malicious, just… uncomfortable. She's seen this before. The little hopeful kid who walks in one person and leaves another.
Outside, the afternoon sun hits me like a spotlight. The air smells too clean, too bright, too alive for what just happened inside. Cars hum down the street, a kid laughs somewhere, and a hero advertisement blares from a screen above a nearby pharmacy.
Some buff guy in spandex grins as the logo "A World Made Safe By Quirks!" flashes behind him.
Perfect timing. Universe really knows how to twist the knife. At least it would if I cared about having a quirk. But the original Deku must be rolling in his grave right now.
Inko squeezes my hand again. "Come on, sweetie," she whispers. Her voice wobbles, but she's trying to sound normal. "Let's… let's get you home."
I nod, because what else can I do? I'm a five-year-old. Correction: I'm a five-year-old Izuku Midoriya. My options are limited.
We walk to the car in silence. The pavement feels warm under my tiny shoes. She unlocks a modest green sedan with faded paint and a fuzzy steering wheel cover. I remember seeing this in the show once, though I guess I never cared enough to notice how heartbreakingly ordinary it is.
She opens the back door for me, and I climb in. The seatbelt's too big, so she leans in to buckle it herself. Her perfume hits me, something floral and faintly vanilla, and for a second the reality of it all claws at me again.
She smells like a mom. Like comfort. Like safety.
But not mine.
I swallow hard. The seatbelt clicks, and she gives me a shaky smile. "There we go."
"Thanks, Mom," I hear myself say. It just slips out, natural, automatic. It sounds right, and that somehow makes it worse.
She freezes, then nods, tears threatening to return, and shuts the door.
The driver's seat creaks when she gets in. She grips the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping her grounded. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
The car hums to life.
The silence is awful. Not peaceful. Not gentle. The kind of silence that fills your lungs and makes you choke on your own thoughts.
Inko keeps her eyes on the road, blinking rapidly every few seconds. Her hands are trembling, just slightly.
I look out the window to avoid watching her. The streets of Musutafu blur past: families walking together, a kid levitating a soda can, a man casually breathing tiny bursts of flame to light a cigarette. Little reminders everywhere of just how different this world is. What happened to using your quirk in public being illegal huh?
She tries to speak once. "It's… it's not the end of the world, you know? You can still…" She trails off before finishing, the words collapsing under their own weight. I can tell she was about to say something like "You can still be a hero."
I don't think she believes that anymore. It's sad.
The radio's on, but barely audible. A cheerful announcer's voice leaks through the static, something about the latest All Might rescue and how "he continues to inspire the next generation."
Inko's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. I realize she's not breathing evenly, so I speak up. Not because I want to, but because I feel like I have to.
"It's okay, Mom," I say softly. "Really. I'll be fine."
Her breath catches. She doesn't look at me, doesn't answer. Just drives.
The city passes by in streaks of color, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm watching someone else's life through tinted glass.
After a while, I give up on pretending and close my eyes. Maybe if I sleep, I'll wake up again. Maybe I'll be me.
But deep down, I already know.
I'm not waking up from this.
The rest of the drive feels like someone pressed mute on the world.
Every sound's muffled; the hum of the engine, the faint rumble of tires on asphalt, even my own heartbeat. Outside, heroes fly, people laugh, traffic lights blink. Inside, it's just me and a woman who thinks I'm her son.
The silence begins to weigh on me, because I know that very same lady is tearing herself up inside. But what would I even say? "Hey, sorry for the identity theft, ma'am, your real kid's gone but at least you got me instead"? Yeah, that would go over great.
The car pulls into a familiar apartment complex. Familiar in that I've seen it in the show a hundred times. It's weirder seeing it in real life. Everything looks a little smaller. Duller. Realer.
Inko parks and sits there for a few seconds, hands still gripping the steering wheel. Her reflection in the windshield looks tired. Not just physically tired, but soul-deep tired. Then she forces a shaky smile and turns to me.
"We're home," she says softly.
Home. Sure.
She gets out, and I follow, my legs wobbling a little from how short they are. The stairs feel steeper than they should. By the time we reach the door I'm slightly out of breath, which is humiliating by the way. I used to be six feet tall. Now I can barely reach the doorknob without tiptoeing.
Inko unlocks the door and steps aside to let me in first. The moment I cross the threshold, the air hits me. It's that faint, lived-in smell of food, laundry detergent, and something floral. It's cozy. Safe. Too safe.
It's everything my old apartment wasn't.
There's a pair of pink slippers by the mat, a framed photo of Inko and a toddler on the shelf, and a half-folded blanket on the couch. The kind of space that says, someone cares here.
And it hurts.
Not because I miss my world, though I do, but because this one already has someone else's fingerprints all over it. Someone else's memories.
Inko heads to the kitchen like it's instinct. "Why don't you go rest for a bit, Izuku? I'll warm something up for dinner."
I nod without a word and walk toward the hallway. The walls are decorated with childish crayon drawings. Hero sketches. All Might smiling like the sun. I recognize the handwriting, his handwriting. It's messy and hopeful and alive and all the things you would want the joy of a child to embody.
Each one feels like a gravestone.
I push open the door to "my" room. I guessed on the first try. Didn't even think about it really, yet I'm confident this is the right place.
It's smaller than I expected. A twin bed with All Might sheets, a desk covered in notebooks, and action figures arranged neatly on a shelf. There's a faint dusting of glitter near the window. Probably from some craft project.
I walk over to the mirror on the closet door.
And there he is.
Round cheeks. Big green eyes. Curly hair. Freckles. The perfect picture of innocence.
I stare at the reflection for a long time. Then I smile. It's small. Hollow.
"Hey, Deku," I mutter. "You picked the wrong body to trade places with."
The kid in the mirror smiles back, because of course he does.
I sit down on the bed, the springs creaking under my tiny weight. My legs don't even reach the floor. I rest my face in my hands and let out a shaky laugh.
This is insane. I died (or something!!!) and now I'm here, in a world where people shoot fire out of their elbows and I can barely tie my shoes. And yet, all I can think about is the life I left behind.
My friends. My family. The job I used to hate but at least understood. All gone.
No one here even knows I existed.
And worse, no one out there knows I'm gone.
I fall backward onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
The ceiling stares back.
There's a faint crack near the corner, shaped almost like a lightning bolt. For a second, I imagine it splitting open. I imagine light pouring through, a voice telling me it's all a joke, that I get to go home now.
But the crack stays still. The light doesn't come.
Inko calls from the kitchen, voice soft and careful. "Dinner's ready, Izuku."
My throat tightens at the name. I sit up, rub my eyes, and force a smile she can't see.
"Coming, Mom," I answer.
It feels wrong yet right. But it's all I can do.
I slide off the bed and head for the door, one small step at a time, pretending for just a moment that I belong here.
The smell of dinner hits me before I even reach the table.
Miso soup. Rice. Something fried. Maybe tempura? It smells good. Like comfort food. Like something a mom would make when the world's falling apart and she doesn't know how else to help.
The table's already set for two. Inko's moving between the counter and the stove, trying to look busy. I can tell she's been crying, her eyes are still red and her smile too practiced. She gestures to my chair, cheerful but fragile. "Come sit, sweetie. It's still warm."
I take my seat without arguing. The chair feels too big for me, the table too tall. Everything's just slightly off, like I'm living in a funhouse version of reality.
Inko sits across from me, folding her hands in her lap before quickly standing again to grab napkins she doesn't need. Then soy sauce. Then chopsticks. She's doing that thing where you keep moving because stopping means you'll think.
She finally settles back down, and we both start eating.
The sound of chopsticks tapping bowls fills the silence. It's not unpleasant, just… empty.
The food's great. Real food, not takeout or microwave junk. For a moment, I just eat quietly, focusing on the flavor instead of the reality of who cooked it.
"You like it?" she asks softly.
I look up, nod. "Yeah. It's good."
She exhales like she's been holding her breath for an hour. "I'm glad."
A few more bites pass in silence. Then, like she can't stop herself, she says, "You know, Izuku… there are lots of heroes who didn't have their quirks right away. Maybe yours is just… taking its time."
Her voice cracks halfway through the sentence.
I keep my face neutral. I know what she wants. Reassurance. Hope. But I'm not her son. I can't give her that. Not in any real capacity. Not right now.
Instead, I hum noncommittally and shove another bite of rice in my mouth. "Maybe."
She smiles at that, a tiny flicker of warmth returning to her face. It kills me a little.
She thinks I believe her.
"Even if you don't get one right away," she continues, "you're still… special, you know? You've always been such a kind boy."
I freeze mid-bite. There's a lump in my throat that isn't food.
You've always been such a kind boy.
That "you" doesn't belong to me. It belongs to someone else , the real Izuku Midoriya, the one who should be sitting here instead of me.
I swallow hard and look down. "Yeah. Thanks, Mom."
The word slips out again, uninvited. Every time I say it, it feels a little more real and a little more wrong.
Her eyes soften, and she reaches across the table, placing a gentle hand on mine. "You'll find your own path, Izuku. Quirk or not. I know it."
She means it. She really does.
And that's what makes it unbearable.
I force a small smile. "You always say that."
It comes out so naturally that for a second, I scare myself.
Who said that? Me? Or him?
Inko chuckles weakly and pulls her hand back, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. "Well, it's true."
The conversation dies there. We finish eating quietly. I don't even notice when my bowl's empty. The food might as well have been air.
After a while, she stands and starts clearing the dishes. "You should take a bath before bed, alright? It's been a long day."
"Okay."
She gives me one last tired smile before disappearing into the kitchen.
I sit there for a moment longer, staring at the clean bowl in front of me. My reflection warps in the curve of the porcelain. Big eyes, round face, too young to hold the kind of exhaustion sitting behind them.
The real Izuku Midoriya would've been crying right now.
I can't even manage that.
I slide off the chair and pad down the hallway toward the bathroom. The floor creaks softly under my small feet.
The mirror above the sink catches me again as I pass.
I glance at it, half-expecting to see me. The old me. But all I get is a kid with freckles and eyes too wide for his own good.
"Guess we're stuck together, huh?" I whisper.
The kid doesn't answer. He just stares.
I splash water on my face, hoping the cold will wake me up from whatever this is. It doesn't.
From the kitchen, I hear the faint clatter of dishes. Inko's humming something to herself. It's a sweet tune, soft and trembling.
I lean against the sink, dripping, and stare at nothing.
She hums like everything's going to be okay.
And I let her.
Because what else can I do?
Steam fogs up the bathroom mirror, blurring the reflection until it's just a vague green smear. I turn off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around myself. Everything's too big. The towel, the sink, even the toothbrush looks like it's built for someone else.
Which, technically, it is.
I brush my teeth anyway. Not because I need to, but because it's something to do. Something human.
After that, I head to the bedroom. The floor's cold against my feet. The bed looks soft, small, and safe.
I crawl in and stare at the ceiling again. Same crack. Same silence.
That's when it hits me all at once.
How unfair this is.
Unfair to Inko , who lost her son and doesn't even know it. Who's probably sitting in the next room, telling herself she'll do better tomorrow, that maybe this is just a phase, that maybe everything will go back to normal if she just tries hard enough.
Unfair to Izuku Midoriya, who got replaced without warning, without a reason. One second alive, the next gone. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just erased.
And unfair to me! ME!!! Who got ripped out of his life and thrown into someone else's without even a choice. No warning. No grand cosmic purpose. No "you've been chosen." Just a cruel spin of the wheel.
Everyone loses.
It's funny, really. Most people online would probably kill for this. "Waking up in MHA," "being the main character," all that fantasy crap.
I used to read those stories too. The guy dies, wakes up in a new world, gets powers, flirts with girls, and saves the day. A neat little reset button wrapped in hero merch and self-insert wish fulfillment.
And now that it's me? I just feel hollow.
Sure, I can appreciate that it's not that bad. I didn't wake up in Attack on Titan or Berserk. I'm not running from eldritch horrors or twelve-foot cannibals. No, I got the safe world. The bright and colorful PG-13 kind of nightmare.
But at least those other worlds are honest about how cruel they are. This one just hides it behind smiles and capes.
I roll over, staring at the wall.
I think about my old life. My friends. My apartment. My phone. The stupid ringtone I never changed.
And her.
My girlfriend.
We argued the day before this. Whatever "this" is. It was something stupid. Something that mattered too much in the moment and not at all now. I can still hear her voice, frustrated but soft at the edges. She hated fighting but never backed down.
I don't even remember what started it. Something about plans, timing, priorities. Typical couple stuff.
I remember hanging up first.
I remember meaning to call her back later.
Now I never will.
She'll never know what happened. She'll never know that I didn't stop caring, that I didn't give up. That I wanted to say sorry, not because I was wrong, but because it didn't matter. Because we mattered more than whatever we were fighting about.
And now she's just... out there. Living her life, waiting for a call that's never coming.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The room feels smaller. Heavier.
I'm not crying. I can't. It's like my body doesn't know how.
Instead, I just lie there, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me. This life that isn't mine, this mother who doesn't know, this world that keeps turning no matter who it steals.
My hand curls into the blanket, and I whisper into the dark, barely loud enough to hear myself.
"I want to go home."
No one answers.
The city outside hums quietly, alive and indifferent.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The next morning comes like a punch to the eyes. It was still pretty early in the afternoon when we got home, but I couldn't leave the bed. A full day has passed.
Light slices through the blinds, stabbing directly into my skull. I groan and pull the blanket over my face, but it's no use. Morning's here whether I like it or not.
For a moment, I lie still, staring into the fabric inches from my nose. The quiet hum of the apartment seeps in. There's a faint clatter from the kitchen, the soft sound of a kettle heating up, the low hum of city life beyond the walls.
So yeah. Still here. Still Deku.
I sigh into the pillow.
Honestly? I don't feel better. Not really. The ache's still there, buried somewhere deep, like a bruise I can't stop poking. But it's dulled now, smoothed out by exhaustion and resignation.
Guess I'm past the breakdown phase. Moving on to the "what now" part.
I sit up, rub my eyes, and squint at the clock. Early. Too early. Apparently this body's an overachiever even in sleep deprivation.
For a few minutes I just sit there, half-awake, staring at my small hands. Then I snort. "Am I really gonna sit around all day like a pansy?"
I didn't want this. I didn't ask for it. But it happened.
And as much as I'd love to curl up and pretend the world doesn't exist, the fact is, it does. And I'm in it.
I don't have to "move on" right away, but I still have to live.
I stretch, bones popping in ways that probably shouldn't happen to a five-year-old, and stand up. The floor's cold, the air smells like some type of food, and there's the faint sound of humming from the kitchen.
Her humming.
Inko's humming.
That woman out there, the mother of this body, she still deserves a son. I don't know if I'll ever be able to think of her as my mom, but it's not her fault any of this happened. She doesn't deserve to be spurned by what she thinks is her child for no reason.
So yeah. I'll try.
I open the door and shuffle into the kitchen.
"Good morning, sweetie," Inko says, turning from the stove. She's wearing a soft yellow apron with a cartoon rabbit on it. Her hair's tied up messily, a few strands framing her face. She smiles when she sees me. It's tired but real. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a rock," I lie, sliding into my seat.
Breakfast's already on the table. There's rice, eggs, and grilled fish. Gonna have to get used to rice and fish being a breakfast staple. She sits across from me, and for a few seconds, we just eat quietly.
Small talk follows. Easy stuff.
"How's the food?"
"Still good."
"That's good."
Then I glance toward the clock again and groan. "Do I seriously have to go to school?"
She chuckles lightly. "Yes, you seriously do."
"Fantastic. I just got out of school in my other life and now I have to start over. My cosmic reincarnation really needs better scheduling."
Inko tilts her head, clearly not understanding, but smiles anyway. "It's important to play with friends your age."
"Yeah, because nothing screams friendship like getting judged for having two pinky toe joints."
Her smile wobbles, so I quickly add, "Kidding. Mostly."
We eat in silence again for a bit before I clear my throat. "Hey, Mom?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I was thinking… maybe you could enroll me in a dojo or something."
Her chopsticks freeze midair. "A dojo?"
"Yeah. You know, martial arts. Self-defense. I figure if I don't have a quirk, I should at least be able to punch above my weight class."
She blinks, clearly unsure if I'm serious. Spoiler: I am.
"I just mean," I continue, "it could be good for me. A little exercise, some structure, maybe build some discipline. Plus, think how cute I'd look in one of those tiny karate uniforms."
That gets a laugh out of her, which feels like a win. But then her expression softens into something more cautious. "Izuku… about your future, maybe we should talk about some other paths. Ones that don't involve fighting or danger."
I raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Well," she starts carefully, "you could be a teacher, or an architect, or even a detective! There are so many ways to help people without… without risking your life."
Her voice trembles near the end. She's trying to sound casual, but I can hear the fear underneath.
I set down my chopsticks and meet her eyes.
"No."
The word's simple, steady.
Her breath catches. "Izuku…"
"Quirk or not," I say, "doesn't change anything. I'm going to be a hero."
The kitchen falls silent.
For a moment, she just stares at me, searching my face for doubt, hesitation, something to argue against. But there's nothing.
She looks away first, eyes glistening. "You're just like your father," she whispers.
I don't know what to say to that, so I just smile faintly and go back to eating.
The rice tastes a little saltier than before.
Inko excuses herself to wash the dishes, but I can see the way her shoulders shake. Guilt twists in my stomach, but I don't take it back.
Because it's the truth.
I might not be the real Izuku Midoriya. I might not have his dreams, his past, or his future. But right now, I'm the one sitting in this chair. I'm the one who made that promise.
And I'll be damned if I let this world decide who I get to be.