Chapter Text
He doesn’t always remember, memories blurring and slipping through hairline cracks, but he never forgets just how beautiful it was the day his mother died.
That July day had been warm, gentle winds coaxing only faint wisps of cirrus clouds across a blue sky. Determined to make this year a better one, the good weather had prompted a trip to the park, and then a treat of ice cream on the walk back home. He remembers his little hand held firmly to hers the entire way there and back.
The struggles of the prior year went forgotten that day. How could he possibly have lingered on such things when he had turned five? When Mama was making katsudon for dinner? When a brand new All Might toy was held firmly in his fist?
Little feet rocking on his heels, he’d chattered a storm to his mother as she cooked, an amused and indulgent quirk to her ever present smile.
“Izuku, my love, I know you’re excited, but please go sit down at the table.” The pork had sizzled in the pan, hissing and spitting as she attempted to shuffle the excitable five year old away.
“But Mama!” He’d waved the toy in the air and bounced on his toes. “How’re you gonna hear me from there? The pork’s so loud!”
Ever a veteran to her son’s exuberance, his mother had briefly left the pork to fry alone. She’d crouched down, hands on her knees, and had given him an affectionate hair ruffle. “Well, how about you go make a list of what you want to say, hmm? I’ll finish up dinner, and you can tell me all about it as we eat,” she’d suggested.
His answer had been immediate and in the form of a radiant grin and eager, scampering feet, leaving her to return to her station at the stove.
He’d been served his share of katsudon with a kiss on the head and a murmured “Happy birthday, love.” It had been followed by a giggle, and then an enthusiastic launch into what he’d been dying to say.
His memory fades here, but he knows his mother was patient as always. She’d watched her son ramble on with a distinct fondness, the evening summer sun filtering in through the windows.
The sky had still been blue when he’d picked the film he wanted to watch; The Lion King, to be exact. He’d been unfamiliar with Disney, his attention usually captured by Pro Heroes, but the cover art had caught his attention. Welcoming an interlude in his Hero fixation, his mother had put the movie in without a fuss before settling on the couch.
He isn’t sure exactly how far into the movie they were when the knock disturbed the peace. The downtime of that day is often hazy to him, leaving only pieces of the movie in his memory; a sunrise, a brother’s quarrel, a song of childhood ignorance. It’s only the knock that jolts time and place back into order, his mother’s hand stilling in his hair. On screen, a father rescued his son, and he’d watched from the corner of his eye as she stood and made for the door.
His attention had remained on the television at first. But as the minute wore on, and the scenery on screen changed from rock and bone to open fields, he’d noticed something. Something that twisted his heart with nerves, causing it to stutter anxiously.
He hadn’t heard his mother’s voice when she opened the door.
An apprehensive little head peered over the top of the couch. He did his best to crane his head, but there was no way he could’ve seen down the hall from that angle. He’d worried the inside of his cheek for a moment before, tentatively, piping up with a, “Mama?”
The lack of a response had only strengthened his anxiety. Steeling whatever bravery he could muster in the moment, he’d slid off the couch and, cautiously, tiptoed to the hall. The movie had become nothing but background noise at this point, and he’d stared down the hall at the closed door, his mother nowhere in sight.
A chill ran from his toes to the top of his head, and he’d clutched his All Might figure even tighter. Even still, he’d scrambled for a reasoning to his sudden solitude.
‘Maybe Mama’s just outside,’ he’d told himself. ‘Maybe she just didn’t want to interrupt the movie.’
His body didn’t want to move at first. He had to force it, jolting stiff legs into motion with the self reassurance that she’d be right outside the door.
With a false confidence he hadn’t felt, he’d made his way down the hall, breaths stuttering and his heart racing in his chest. There had been only a moment’s hesitation before a shaky hand turned the doorknob.
“Mama?”
His gaze landed on the clear blue sky when he’d opened the door. Had he looked just a bit further to the right, he may have seen a figure lying in wait.
He doesn’t always remember, but he never forgets just how beautiful it was when fire flickered through the blue; his vision, and subsequent memory, going dark.
“There has been a tragedy today. A fire started only hours ago in an apartment complex right here in Musutafu. The origins of the fire seem to have been from one unit, of which the flames, thankfully, were mostly localized. The two living in this unit, Inko and Izuku Midoriya, are the tragic victims of this fire. Izuku, according to our sources, was celebrating his fifth birthday today, leading authorities to believe that a candle may have been the culprit, but it’s still too early to say. Inko’s body has been recovered, but authorities are still working to find Izuku’s. There have been no other casualties and no major damages to surrounding units. We offer our condolences to those living in the area, and to the Midoriya’s. We hope they find Izuku soon…”
-
A day after being taken, Izuku comes to in a cold, unfamiliar room.
A headache pounds something fierce at the back of his skull and, when he swallows, his throat stings. Blearily blinking his eyes, confusion and pain overrides any possible fear of his predicament. As it is, his unfamiliar surroundings haven’t yet set off alarm bells. His thoughts are slower than usual, and he feels as though he’s been asleep for a while.
The room is small, and empty, save for himself and the thin mattress beneath him. Concrete lines the walls, ceiling, and floor, but the door to the left of him is made entirely of metal. There’s a single light with a pull chain casting a dim, dreary glow.
“..Mama?” His mother is the first thing that comes to mind. The memory of his birthday feels faint in the moment; it’s like he’s attempting to put together a puzzle without all the pieces. He does remember that he was looking for her, though. “Mama, are you-”
Izuku cuts himself off, for he hears the sound of a door creaking open. Wide eyes snapping to his left, he watches as two figures enter. His brief hope of it being his mother dissipates in a flash, and it’s quickly replaced with the chill of apprehension. Wary green eyes watch the two, a man and a boy, as they approach.
The boy can only be six or seven years older than him. He’s wiry, with a hunched posture and hands that never still. Blue hair frames wide, red eyes, and Izuku finds himself involuntarily shrinking back. The man, on the other hand, is tall, very tall, with broad shoulders and white hair. His back is straight, his suit is crisp, and he has a confidence that Izuku has never seen before. Another pair of red eyes stare down at him, but these ones aren’t alight with a frenetic energy. Instead, there’s a composure, one that also frames the lilt of his smile.
Despite himself, Izuku feels some of the tension leave his bones.
“Hello there, Izuku,” the man says. “I’m terribly sorry that we have to be meeting like this.”
There’s an earnestness to his tone. When he crouches down and offers his hand, Izuku, after briefly considering it, shakes it. The twitchy boy stays back a few paces to observe.
“I’ve heard lots about you. You just turned five, if I’m not mistaken?”
Izuku perks up a bit at the mention. He swallows, throat burning, and responds with a shaky, “Y-Yessir.”
The man’s smile widens to a grin. Somewhere deep in Izuku’s bones, some latent animal instinct screams “Danger!”, but he ignores it, for it doesn’t coincide with the kind, friendly man in front of him.
“How wonderful.” The man turns his head just enough to look at the boy behind him. “Tomura, if you could make sure everything is ready.”
The boy, Tomura, pauses where he’d been scratching at his wrist, focus finally flitting away from Izuku. He tries not to show it, but Izuku feels himself relax more without that sharp gaze on him.
Tomura doesn’t give a verbal answer. He simply nods, casts one more curious look at Izuku, and makes his leave with hurried footsteps and a slammed door. Izuku jumps despite himself and the man sighs.
“So energetic, that boy. It’s a wonder that Garaki puts up with him,” he mutters.
“Garaki?” Izuku asks, unable to tamp down his curiosity.
“Oh, he’s simply an associate of mine. You’ll meet him very soon, Izuku. He’s a very talented doctor.” The man grins once more, but the gesture is all teeth. Izuku finds that he feels much less reassured than he had before.
“S-Sir, um…” Izuku swallows around the pain. “..Do you know where my Mama is? I-I was looking for her, and….”
He trails off. The man appears sympathetic.
“No need to get yourself tangled into knots over that, don’t you worry,” he says. “I’ll be taking excellent care of you. Now.” Clasping his hands on his knees, he studies Izuku for a long moment. “You must be sore. Would you like me to take you to Dr. Garaki?”
The crypticness of his response is forgotten as Izuku remembers his headache. He’s unable to hold back a wince, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.
“I-Yes sir. Please,” he warbles.
The man offers a hand, which Izuku goes to take, but he finds himself pausing just before their fingers brush. The man quirks an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but says nothing as Izuku fights his nerves and pain to speak.
“I’m, um, sorry, sir. I-What do I call you..?”
There’s something Machiavellian to the grin that curls the man’s face, and the hand that grips Izuku’s borders on too-tight.
“You can call me Sensei, my Little Songbird.”
Five months after being taken, Izuku receives his first Quirk.
Sensei calls it Hollow. He explains that it’ll hollow out his bones akin to a bird’s, making him much quicker and exceptionally light. The pain is so great that Doctor and Tomura are forced to put him into restraints when he starts to writhe and scream.
His night is spent in agony, an ache deep within the marrow of his bones. The very next day, once the pain has gone, it’s put to the test. Sensei declares it a success when Tomura is able to lift him with no effort. Izuku secretly hopes that he never has to receive another Quirk.
Two years after being taken, Izuku begins to lose his name.
Two years after being taken, Songbird receives his second Quirk.
It doesn’t hurt in the same way Hollow did, not all at once with no chance of reprieve, but he does quickly discover just how awful sensory overload can be.
Sensei initially calls it Hyperesthesia, but he changes the name to Heightened Senses when Songbird has trouble pronouncing it. It does exactly as advertised, and Songbird initially hates it. His eyesight becomes much sharper, but bright lights and too much visual stimulation give him headaches. Strong smells seem to burn, and he’s initially only able to stomach bland food. Touch lingers and scrapes in a way it didn’t before. Sounds rattle his brain and make his ears ring.
He grows used to it after a couple months, but the learning curve is steep and painful. Tomura laughs at him more during that time. It’s accompanied by spiderwebbed scars of cracked glass.
Three years after being taken, Songbird learns the reasoning behind his nickname and his Quirks.
He’s been hurt a lot during his time with Sensei, he has the scars to prove it, but he doubts he’ll ever feel a pain that compares to That Day again. It’s a long process. Excruciating, too, due to a purposeful lack of pain medication. Doctor only takes pity on him and allows him to drift in and out of anesthesia when shock threatens to kill.
He’s unable to move from his spot on the floor for the first week, agony lancing through his shoulders and spine whenever he so much as twitches. He only discovers what Sensei did when, once he’s able to lift his head again, Tomura eagerly shows him his back with a mirror.
Two massive, steel structures jut out from the back of his shoulder blades. There’s a permanency to the disfigurement that makes him want to cry.
A year after his surgery, and four years after being taken, his first set of wings are installed to the mounts.
Two months after that, Songbird takes his first flight.
Most of the pain is gone, only some residual achiness that will fade with time, but he’s become good at blocking out pain. It helps as he fumbles with his new appendages; he’s used to moving the mounts at this point, but wings are entirely foreign.
Still, he puts knowledge and instinct to the test and manages to take off briefly, fluttering and flapping just above the ground before he tumbles over himself in a messy landing. Tomura claps and Sensei’s eyes glimmer with self satisfaction.
Songbird misses his mother.
He learned what’d happened to her from Tomura. Sensei had allowed Songbird to keep hope of seeing her initially, but when he began to try and rebel a few months in, Tomura was allowed to tell him the truth. He’d decayed some of the skin of his upper arm in the process, but it’d hurt less than the overwhelming anguish.
He doesn’t remember her well. Only glimpses of her face and voice, her soft smile, her warm hands. She had kind eyes, he’s sure of it, and green hair just like his. When he thinks of her, he envisions an angel.
His memory can be fickle sometimes, particularly when it comes to That Day, but he misses what he used to have. He misses it with a grief that gnaws at his very core. He misses the blond haired boy that he used to call Kacchan. He misses the sky above his head, the crash of the ocean, the smell of grass after rain. He misses the comfort of his bed, the taste of katsudon, the warmth of his mother’s embrace.
He misses being Izuku Midoriya. The name slips from him often these days, but he does his best to cling to it.
Sometimes, when it’s just him and his mattress and the light with the pull chain, he’ll pretend he’s back home. He’ll play back that July day, trying to etch every last detail into his brain, and when he misses something he’ll go back. He’ll repeat until he gets it right.
He doesn’t have his mattress today, or the light with the pull chain. Instead, he has metal bars and too tight chains and a long, dark hallway of cells just like his. If he were younger, he may have imagined getting rescued. A Hero coming to save him, to take him home.
But he isn’t little anymore. Not in the way he used to be. Dreams of Heroes have been long stamped down. Freedom is nothing but a fleeting thought.
Nine years after being taken, Izuku gives up hope of ever being rescued.