Chapter Text
When Midoriya Izuku awoke, it wasn’t to the cheap pillows and scratchy sheets he had grown accustomed to at the UA dormitories, nor was it to the well loved blanket and duvet set he used when he visited his mom.
In fact, when Izuku awoke, it wasn’t to a bed at all.
His arm was bent at an awkward angle that had his shoulder aching tremendously, and did little to cushion his cheek from the grit and gravel that dug into it. Drool collated in a small puddle by his mouth and only added to the stench of blood and stale air that permeated the atmosphere.
What really clued him into the idea that something was wrong, however, was the presence of the large, uncomfortable, bulky metal ring that encircled his neck.
Izuku tried his hardest to keep his breathing deep and consistent, to give off the illusion of uninterrupted sleep, and could only pray that his heart would stop rattling at its cage and stay unnoticed. He was immediately on high alert and clenched his jaw, ears straining for any shifts in movement; for any signs of danger.
It was no use though— with the blood that had rushed to them in his panic and the loud drumming of his heart, he could just barely make out his own rustling of clothes on the ground as he breathed and after a few seconds gave up on trying to distinguish anything else.
Following a long moment spent psyching himself up, Izuku peeled open an eyelid and chanced a glance around, but the only thing he found was that he could make out very little.
Darkness seemed to engulf the very essence of the cell he was in.
No windows.
No bars.
A single door, heavy and intimidating, and spanning from floor to ceiling.
He couldn’t see much of anything else, even when he opened his other eye, and he knew that he’d reached the limit on information he could gather whilst playing dead.
Izuku attempted to get up while his eyes adjusted to the darkness, but couldn’t even manage to rise to his knees before immediately losing balance and face-planting against the ground.
Oh yeah.
That thing was heavy.
Somehow he’d managed to forget about the loop of metal around his neck, its presence encroaching on his mind now that he was once again aware of it. Grimacing at the feeling, Izuku used a hand to support the metal, lifting it to his chin, and this time rose more carefully. The weight itself was not exactly an issue, not yet, anyways but it was uncomfortable, and in an awkward position that threw off his centre of mass and made it a little harder to breathe.
He felt around it for some sort of latch, button or keyhole, but it was completely smooth the whole way round.
Well, not exactly smooth, per se.
The calluses on his palm caught on slightly raised ridges, and Izuku felt a rush of relief shoot through him as rust flaked off at his fingers. If the metal is already degrading, he thought, I’ll be able to tear it off with less than 20% of One for All.
He released a breath at the notion of being free from the imposing mass, and Izuku dug his fingers into his neck, squeezing them beneath the edges of the hoop and pulling as hard as he were able, powering up his quirk and finding comfort in the familiar rush of—
Nothing?
He tried again.
and again.
and again.
But each time the power would fizzle out pitifully before it could build to more than a flickering ember. Izuku tried over and over to hold onto the fleeting power, to harness it into something useful but instead just felt it fade away. Was this how All Might felt, trying to manage the remains of One for All? It was an uncomfortable sensation, like trying to fill a bathtub that were missing its plug. As though he were a Danaide his efforts were made futile, pouring into an eternally leaking chamber, trapped in an endless cycle with no respite.
The panic of being robbed of his quirk, of being in an unfamiliar environment, even of being kidnapped weren’t enough to dim his intelligence, and even as he continued futile attempts to activate his quirk, he had already long reached a conclusion in his mind.
Iron.
The loop was made of iron.
Though cuffs were the most common form nowadays, contrary to popular belief, ‘quirk suppressants’ were not at all difficult to acquire. In fact, ‘quirk suppressing materials’ were the basis of most pre-quirk inventions, and despite the government's attempt to phase it out, the metal was still found in almost everything, being one of the few elements still abundant within the earth’s surface.
It was even within the human body, the iron found naturally in the blood helping to inhibit quirk expression, and preventing powers from growing out of control. Its declining percentage in the chemical makeup of the body had long been agreed to be the catalyst that allowed quirks to develop in the first place, and was one of the only scientific evidences for the otherwise ‘fanatical’ quirk singularity theory, consistently referenced as the reason behind quirks growing stranger and more powerful as generations advanced.
Breathing deeply to try and control his spiralling heart rate, Izuku brushed his hands again over the collar and was unsurprised at the orange-brown pieces he could just about make out, iron-oxide coating his hands as he squinted closer at them. Powerful, he mused, but easily corroded, reactions with simple water and air being enough to degrade it.
He rubbed his palm over it again, thoughtful, but stilled as shuffling, then a slow, pained groan emerged from his right. Izuku’s head snapped to the source of the sound, every muscle in his body tensing as he crouched into a defensive position, weight tilting him onto his tiptoes before he regained his balance. His eyes, now somewhat adjusted to the dark, re-surveyed the room and he could’ve punched himself for his lack of awareness when his eyes landed on a tangle of limbs mere inches away from his feet.
How the hell had he managed to miss that?
Izuku stood silently, assessing the situation carefully and instinctually defaulting into ‘hero mode’ at his newfound knowledge that he wasn’t alone and at prospect of having to save someone.
Light-blue locks streaked with mud and grime shuddered as the person's body vibrated; slim, pale hands shaking against the ground as they tried—and failed—to pull themselves up. Jolting out of whatever trance he had been locked in, Izuku rushed to their side to help but the moment he touched the person’s arm, they practically convulsed, snatching it away with anger. The violent movement left them unbalanced and they crashed down unceremoniously, gasping as their throat hit the ground hard.
Izuku winced.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you—“
“What the fuck? Did you do this!?”
It was then that the curtain of hair parted to unveil his face; the boy—he couldn’t be older than twenty, really—swivelling to reveal a narrowed set of crimson eyes, accusation unbidden within their piercing gaze. If he wasn’t so worried about his safety, Izuku just might’ve scoffed. If he were the one doing the kidnapping, why would he, in the most literal sense of the term, put a noose around his own neck? In what world would that make any sense?
Something about the person was achingly familiar though, and Izuku tried his hardest to wrack his brain but he was cold, tired and afraid, and so after a few short moments he pushed the feeling aside—resolving to think more on it later—to instead focus on reassuring the civilian, pasting on his face a smile he hoped was at least a little comforting.
“Sir, I know that this situation may be startling,“ he began, only to be cut off by the other boy.
“Sir? What the—? Don't you know who I am?”
He blinked at the boy, the nagging instinct that he should know this person only growing stronger as those scarred lips twisted into a cruel smirk, cracking the dry skin further until it bled.
“I’m sorry sir, but I don’t think I quite remember—”
He was again interrupted, this time by a bark of laughter, hollow and cold.
It set Izuku’s nerves on fire.
“Oh this is rich. Absolutely rich. Fine then, how about I remind you?”
The stranger’s not a stranger you know him you know him how could you ever possibly forget hand, lithe and scarred reached for his face, fingers outstretched to grab him, grabhim? grab her, grab Tsu as he jerked back, power unimaginable residing in those fingers; power to turn his face to ash, to make her his body crumble like dust, to control the large hulking bird-like monster that’s gripping Aizawa-sensei by the hair, that’s slamming his skull against concrete, painting the ground the same shade of crimson as those piercing eyes that chase him when he blinks, when he dreams, that are coming for him next if he doesn’t move, if he doesn’t get up, if he doesn’t fight back because he needs to run he needs to go heneedstorunheneedstoescape escapeescaperightnowbefore—
The added weight of the collar had Izuku’s unbalanced body lurching back until he collided with the ground with a resounding thud, spikes of pain shooting up his back and spine. He couldn’t seem to get enough air, and his hands rushed to his neck only to be reminded by the clang of knuckles on metal of the yoke trapping him. In that moment, Izuku was helpless to prevent the onslaught of tears springing to his eyes, and felt them teeter over the edge of his lower lashes before inevitably spilling over, coating his cheeks in the salty liquid as Shigaraki’s scratchy, wheezing, maniacal laughter echoed throughout the cell.
Izuku scuttled backwards in a panic-induced, uncoordinated flurry of motion, scooting furiously on his butt until his back pressed up against concrete, heaving chest scratching up the rear of his shirt against the wall.
“Come on now hero,” Shigaraki drawled, mirth coating his voice even as he shivered against the cold of the cell. “Don’t be like that. We had a lovely conversation last time we met.”
“Yeah sure, if by lovely you mean holding me at gunpoint.”
Izuku flinched back in fear the instant the words had jumped from his tongue, bracing for impact and cursing his loose lips, but the effect of any bite streaking his tone was completely nullified by his trembling frame, and the way he was huddled to the corner like an anxious, hissing cat. The boy man only cackled louder.
“Like I said, lovely—”
Any inclination to snark back was thwarted post-haste by the groan of rusted hinges and metal-on-metal as the locked door crept open before them, and like a switch had been flipped the two zeroed in on it, eyes glazed with intense focus, muscles tense in anticipation.
“Sorry for the wait,” a sing-song voice called out and when an unchained, unharmed and grinning figure stepped into the darkness, neither of them needed any instruction to surge forward and pounce in tandem, Shigaraki from the left and Izuku from the right in a crude but surprisingly well-coordinated pincer attack.
The former lunged forward with an animalistic snarl, using hands and feet to propel himself out of his position on the ground and reaching for the newcomer’s neck, even as his own lurched downwards at the weight of his collar. Keeping low to the ground Izuku sprinted and spun into a handstand, using the weight at his collarbones as momentum and feeling the force swivel his body into position, ready to unleash a devastating kick as he sparked his quirk on instinct, upset but unsurprised as it spluttered out the very same moment.
The man’s grin didn’t waver, and he hardly flinched at the assault, lazily lifting a hand containing some strange device and gingerly thumbing the button before pressing down—
Deep, guttural screams streaked the atmosphere and both bodies crumpled midair.
Choking at the sudden sensation at his throat, Izuku gagged until he could taste bile in his nose and grabbed desperately at the collar, shock collar his brain supplied. He drew in a desperate gasp of much needed oxygen when his throat finally opened up, and shivering on the ground Izuku relished being able to breathe, sucking in precious lungfuls of air between intermittent coughs and gags— tears, bile and spit pooling beneath him as he struggled.
Shigaraki was no better off, and vomit dribbled out of the corner of his mouth as he clawed at his neck, groaning deeply and writhing in agony. Movements jerky and stilted, they twitched against the ground for what felt like an eternity.
The man sighed.
“Now, as I was trying to say—“
Clawing forward with grit teeth and determination sparking in his eyes, Izuku struggled to his knees. He lunged, but it was too sloppy, too slow, and he knew before he left the ground that it would be unsuccessful.
Shigaraki reached out again with a reverberating growl, unadulterated anger radiating off of him in waves as the arm he was using to hold himself up trembled against the ground. He was angry, so so angry that this NPC could come and reduce him to this, would dare lay a finger on him, the leader of the league of villains and the next ruler of evil, when with just one touch he could kill him, turn him to blood and dust with nothing but his—
A finger pressed down again, languidly.
The man yawned.
Both bodies collapsed against the ground,
Twitching.
T w i t c h i n g.
T w i t c h i n g.
Then slumped, and lay prostrate before their new master.
“This thing goes up to ten thousand volts,” the villain said casually, conversationally, as if it were the weather and not their impending torture they were talking about.
Ten thousand volts—
Izuku shuddered.
Ten thousand volts, even at a low amplitude, could be far beyond lethal. How much was he using right now? Those shocks before, utterly excruciating even with his above-average pain tolerance, had to be in the thousands at least. After all, the collars were designed to shock, not to kill, weren’t they? He didn’t know how many more of those he could withstand, but if it were to increase any further—
The man waved the device around tauntingly.
“That was less than a hundred.”
Neither of them tried again after that.
Once his muscles stopped spasming, Izuku groaned and lifted himself into a sitting position, that alone taking copious amounts of effort. The villain released a deep, long-suffering sigh, as if they were the ones inconveniencing him, and shook his head ruefully, before a grin erupted from out of nowhere and overtook his expression.
“Welcome,” and as he began, a pair of elaborately-dressed, masked figures shuffled into the room, each carrying large, cumbersome contraptions, reminiscent of chairs but all the more sinister in their design, with heavy leather straps dotted along the arms and legs of them.
Izuku watched silently as the chairs were placed adjacent to one another, in the centre of the room. Another person entered, right hand awkwardly dragging in a small table while his left curled protectively over—
A laptop?
The two boys remained sprawled on the ground, observing the scurry of motion with eyes that grew increasingly wary following every piece of ‘equipment’ that was ushered in. It wasn’t silent; no, on the contrary, the man hadn’t ceased talking since he set foot in the room. Something about society forcing his hand, about them being unfortunate collateral?
The switch from solemn to loud and exuberant was jarring, and perhaps the most disconcerting thing about the whole experience. The man was clearly unstable, and perhaps a touch mentally-ill, but completely and utterly terrifying.
Izuku found himself paying very little attention to the words themselves; very little attention to anything, really. He felt disconnected from reality and stared ahead unseeing, with viridescent eyes that lacked their regular spark and seemed a little greyer than usual. He felt off, detached in a way that he could only seem to describe as ‘floaty’. It was like he had panicked so dearly that he’d gone all the way round and landed back at calm.
The heart that had been beating wildly at his chest was now thumping in a gentle, steady rhythm. He felt like he could hear clearer too, the blood that had rushed to his ears eventually rescinding as his breathing slowed.
A tickling sensation at his nose bridge had him raising crooked fingers towards it, and he marvelled at the wetness that greeted them, only then taking notice of the tears trailing from his eyes. When had that happened? He didn’t, after all, feel particularly sad. Or particularly angry. Or particularly anything. Izuku only felt empty as he realised with a soul-sucking, startling clarity, a definitive truth that settled in his chest and made its home in his heart.
He was going to die here.
It felt less like a revelation, and more like an irrefutable truth he was only now acknowledging. He watched, numb, as they set up at breakneck speed, wondering if this was really the end for him. Him. He was UA student, a hero student and he was going to die in a dungeon?
His index twitched.
Is this what would become of him, become of the legacy he carried? One for All, a quirk passed down for nine generations for the sole purpose of defeating the world’s most powerful villain, snuffed out by some relic of a shock collar?
Numbness began to make way for anger as he silently seethed. How could he let this happen? He was supposed to be a hero, training to be the number one and yet he was going to let himself be defeated here? Whispers of useless, quirkless, unworthy, nobody flitted across his mind but he shoved them back with vengeance, gritting his teeth in anger as his resolve crystallised. He had been through too much, had come too far for this.
No matter what life had thrown at him, no matter what it had ripped away from him, he had struggled and persevered and survived. He wasn’t deserving of this quirk, nor worthy to carry this legacy, but All Might had chosen him, and there was no way he’d let it die with him. There was no way he’d go out like this.
Clenching his fist tight, Izuku’s arms trembled against the floor as he gathered his knees beneath him, standing with tense muscles and a fluttering heart-rate. He wobbled but quickly found his balance, planting his feet firmly onto concrete and breathing deeply to control his anger. He would not die here. He’d defeat this villain, right here, right now, like a hero would, like All Might would. He had come too far to be killed so easily, and was carrying too important a legacy to sit here and be slaughtered like—
“Here boys~”
Body curled over his knees, the man called out with a deviously wicked grin that perfectly matched his mocking tone. Brows creased in mock-pity, he patted his thighs to beckon them over, to beckon him over like—
Like they were animals.
Opening his mouth, Izuku attempted to snarl back a denial, a criticism, an insult, something, but instead felt his jaw snap down with an audible click before he could even register the movement.
Any words he had wanted to spout died on his tongue the second the man’s thumb brushed over that damned button.
Izuku’s hands unfurled, his arms dropping, muscles going lax and a pathetic, wounded sound leaving his lips as icy terror abruptly doused any fire of rebellion that had been kindling within him.
Humiliation curled in his gut as he was treated like a dog, and he couldn’t give in, he was better than this. He had his pride as a hero, and as a person. There was no way he could debase himself like that, he had to have had at least some level of self respect left.
But that button…
The villain’s smirk turned daring as he spotted the turmoil swirling in Izuku’s eyes and he turned his gaze directly onto him, grin stretched so wide it was painful to look at. ‘Go on’, it seemed to say, ‘defy me.’
‘I know you won’t.’
Stuttering out a breath, Izuku took slow steps forward, fully intending to use the man’s distractedness—his infuriating, cocky assurance—to sneak up on him, snatch the device and maybe deck him in the face too, but as he advanced closer towards him, his feet stilled without permission and he hovered in front of the chair.
For about thirty seconds Izuku stood in front of it, weighing up the pros and cons, psyching himself up to do something, but it wasn’t until a whispered, coo of “good boy” had his anger spiking again that he made his decision.
He sat in the chair, head bowed in deep, all-consuming shame.
From the corner of his eye he could vaguely make out Shigaraki’s expression, mouth dropped open in astonishment, and he didn’t need to lift his head to feel the triumphant glee that painted the villain’s face.
Shame choked him and his face burned as the room was plunged into silence.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty seconds.
Until he felt the slightest shift in the air; the quietest rustle of clothing. A few seconds after he glanced to his right, and saw Shigaraki slink into the chair beside him, splotchy red looking entirely out of place against the natural pallor of his skin.
The others in the room wasted no time in strapping them to their respective chairs and Izuku cringed at the hands that dug into his arm, manhandling them onto the arms of the chair with sharp and domineering movements, in spite of his lack of resistance.
Leather straps were pulled taught around his wrists, forearms, triceps, ankles— anywhere they could reach. Three larger, thicker straps were looped over his torso and out of curiosity Izuku tested them, not in an attempt to escape but merely wondering how strong the leather could really be.
The slightest dig of metal against his sternum let him know that they were fitted with chains, and the hawk-like gaze of the villain who had put him into this predicament in the first place had him sitting back immediately.
As soon as their restraints were secured, the other people in the room left the frame, leaving only the main villain standing behind them. He hummed and hawed for a moment, before clicking his fingers and one of the assistants scurried forwards to set up the laptop on the small table they had brought, lifting the lid of the outdated device to reveal—
A mirror image of themselves?
Sure enough, his own terrified gaze stared back at him, and he flinched at how defeated he looked. His hair was more unruly than usual following the electricity, puffed up and sticking out awkwardly in certain places. His clothes were scuffed and dirty, and his eyes were red-rimmed, clear evidence of his crying earlier. Worst of all though, was the fish-eyed gaze he had been giving the camera. He looked done, defeated—
Dead.
Subconsciously he adjusted, trying to sit a little taller, frown a little less. Using the opportunity, Izuku took the time to observe the villain; his glittery, eccentric purple attire, reminiscent of a circus-master. He trailed his eyes up the poorly fitted trousers, over the lapels missing a button and up to the mask that sat upon his nose bridge, almost bird-like in nature and bedazzled with feathers and gems. Dragging his eyes up further, Izuku spotted two beauty marks on the inner corner of his nosebridge, and following the line to the villain’s eyes—
Izuku dragged his gaze immediately back to the floor, trembling minutely from the eye-contact they’d made through the screen.
It’s just eye contact, why are you breathing so fast? What are you so afraid of? Get it together Izuku.
“And we’re live!”
The tone of joyful glee had Izuku flinching forward, before he registered the words and felt horror creep into expression as his head whipped back up to stare at the screen.
They were live? As in, live?!
A blinking green dot at the top of the screen stared back at him, tauntingly.
All too aware of the fact his every move was being observed, he tried to school his expression to something resembling neutral, but could see in real time just how unconvincing it looked. His eyebrows were drawn tightly together irrespective of his efforts to relax them, the rise and fall of his chest was noticeably fast and his ring finger was tapping the edge of his chair in an anxious pattern.
So focused on himself, he almost missed when the villain resumed his speech.
“Welcome to the stream, where you, dear viewer, are our number one priority!”
Shigaraki shifted beside him looking wildly uncomfortable in front of the camera, and Izuku found himself, against his will, feeling sorry for the man he can't be a boy, no matter how young he looks he can’t be a boy we are not the same we have to be different he’s a killer and a murderer and he cannot be a boy— and they both watched as the view count rose steadily, the number fluctuating around 50 for a bit, before seeming to settle at 54.
The screen had all the features of a regular stream display; a view count, chatbox— even an option to donate. The only abnormal feature was inside the live chat where people had already begun to comment, in that every username showed up as [redacted].
’What is this?’ the most recent comment read and the villain absolutely lit up, elated to answer.
“Well dear viewer, I’m so glad you asked. This—“ He threw his hands out with a flourish, “—is a fun little activity I’ve set up for you. A game, if you will.”
Izuku felt his shoulders hike to his ears as his body became rigid, stiffening with discomfort, but also with shock at the sheer audacity of the man as he threw his hands around their shoulders and pulled them in like they were old friends.
“I have here two lovely volunteers here that have chosen to be contestants today, all for your viewing pleasure.”
He should say something. He knew he should say something, ask a question, ask for help, at the very least refute the claim that they were here willingly. He shuddered under the attention, and felt bugs crawling in every place the villain's skin touched his own, but his voice remained lodged behind his throat, a weak croak escaping when he spoke.
Shigaraki seemed to have less of his disinclination to engage, and shrugged the man off his shoulder with a muttered “Fuck you”. Despite how quiet the words were though, it was clear to hear the way his voice wobbled as he spoke, and the scarce eye contact paired with the lack of bite behind the words betrayed the extent of his fear.
The villain only laughed jovially, before patting him on the head, as if he were simply a misbehaving puppy and not a highly wanted villain with a lethal quirk and a skyrocketing desire to use it.
“Anyways, as you can see, they’ve been equipped with some pretty fancy necklaces. If you look to the left of the chat box, you’ll see a poll, with the option to vote for your least favourite player.”
Izuku felt dread recollecting with a vengeance.
“The contestant with the most votes won’t be eliminated—“
It spread like fire through his belly, burning fingers stretching out to encircle his lungs—
“—however, we can’t just let them off scot free—“
Trailing embers around his heart—
“—and so they will be—”, he wiggled the device in time with his eyebrows, “—punished.”
—and squeezing hard, so that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; might as well be dead already.
“However,” the villain sighed, after a short moment, “if nobody votes, if nobody wants to play, then I’ll have no choice but to let them go.”
Izuku tried desperately to stamp down any modicum of fluttering hope in his heart. There was no way they’d be let go, was there?
Was there?
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Most importantly, nobody voted.
And after a pause that had felt like hours—but probably lasted no more than a minute—the villain sighed, and would have seemed deeply regretful of not for the theatrical nature of the exhalation.
“Well then, if you’re sure.”
There was clear goading behind the words, yet still silence lapsed again. Twenty more seconds before the villain slumped and this time, the sigh was genuinely rueful. Izuku watched the villain’s face flit between surprise, confusion, relief, and devastation, a contradictory mix that looked strange on his face.
“Alright then.”
He muttered not to the camera, but to the others stationed in various parts of the room.
“Wrap it up.”
Izuku’s heart shot up in disbelief, in suspicion, but primarily in hope. Was that really it? Would they really be set free? It made no logical sense, kidnapping such high-profile hostages only to let them go, but as a man reached to release the strap restricting his left forearm, Izuku couldn’t help but choke out a sob of relief. They could go home. He wouldn’t have to die here, have to disappoint Aizawa-Sensei and All Might and his own mother any more than he already had. They were being let go, they were really being let—
Ping!
Izuku froze. He could barely stand to turn his head, to look past the masked figure who was part way through unclasping the first strap, but the curiosity overpowered his trepidation and had him turning his neck towards the screen; slowly, disbelievingly, hoping— praying that it wouldn’t be—
A pixelated ‘1’ stood proud against the stark white background, firm and unwavering beside Shigaraki’s icon.
At that moment, there was no one in that room that Izuku hated more than himself. He hated that his first thought had not been despair, nor hopelessness at the knowledge that they were seconds away from being free and were now stuck with rapidly decreasing odds of escape.
It wasn’t anger at whichever stupid, evil, masochist had voted, had forced them to live out this sick game on some whim.
It wasn’t even fear for their lives, and for the punishment that was to come.
No, in that moment, the only thing that Izuku could feel, that he could focus on, was relief.
Consuming, mind-numbing relief as the traitorous voice in his brain whispered reverently, repeating the words over and over again.
Thank goodness it was Shigaraki.
I’m so glad it wasn’t me.