Izuku's Point of View
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"Finally." I sagged back against the couch, exhaling like I'd just marched ten klicks with a full pack. The laptop chimed, triumphant. System updates completed.
"Took you long enough…" I muttered, dragging a hand through my messy green hair.
The login screen glowed at me expectantly. I tapped my chin, thinking back. My mom's voice. Her arms wrapped around me when I was younger—Izuku younger, not Alexander younger. She used to let me sit in her lap while she typed, muttering under her breath at clinic reports. I remembered the way her fingers moved, the rhythm, the sound of keys, and… the password.
A grin tugged at my lips. "Thanks, Mama."
I typed it in. Izuku165midoria. Then—click. The desktop unfolded like a secret door swinging open.
I chuckled under my breath. "Hah. Seems like Google really does expand across multiple worlds." The familiar icons, the little browser window waiting for me—it was almost comforting. As if even across dimensions, Google would still be there to collect your data and annoy you with ads. Some things were universal.
But there was one question that had gnawed at me since waking up in this body. Something I'd never cared about as a casual anime fan, but now? It mattered.
"What year is it?" I whispered as I typed it into the search bar.
Enter.
The answer blinked at me, bold and simple on the screen: Year 2700.
My breath caught. My heart hammered like the moment before a firefight. "…Two. Seven. Zero. Zero."
I stared. I'd died in 2025. That wasn't decades or centuries. That was nearly seven hundred years. Centuries had passed since the desert, since my platoon, since the world I knew.
I pressed my palm against my chest, grounding myself in the steady beat. "How…?"
The confusion only grew heavier the more I thought about it. Because nothing—nothing—about my surroundings matched the number on that screen.
I looked around the apartment. Wood floors. Simple appliances. A boxy old TV. Hell, even the city skyline out the window looked closer to 2005 than 2700. And the news I'd watched this morning? Heroes chasing down villains with fists and fireballs, support gear that looked flashy but crude. If this was the future, it was the laziest version I'd ever seen.
Slowly, my mind turned over the puzzle. And then it hit me.
Quirks.
The emergence of superpowers had derailed everything. Technology hadn't soared into the stars. No colonies on Mars. No deep-sea exploration. No fusion cities or Dyson swarms. Progress had been strangled, rerouted, bent toward one thing only: accommodating quirks. Hero society. Support gear. Power-boosting drugs. Weapons designed not for exploration, but for countering people.
I pulled the laptop closer and dove into research, chasing the thought. Every article, every scrap of data pointed in the same direction: stagnation. Sure, there were breakthroughs—medical biotech, adaptive prosthetics, some advances in materials science. But compared to where humanity should be after fifteen centuries? It was laughable.
A bitter laugh slipped out of me. "Quirks stopped the evolution of tech."
It made me itch with frustration. Whole worlds of possibility wasted, traded for flashy costumes and endorsement deals. Humanity had chosen capes over the ever expanding cosmos.
But then a name caught my eye, shining like a beacon in the endless mediocrity.
I-Island.
The one anomaly. A man-made island bristling with laboratories, crawling with scientists, pumping out support tech that actually pushed the boundaries. Cutting-edge, but even then… still not where it should have been by this age.
I leaned back, jaw tight. David Shield. All Might's sidekick. America's golden boy of engineering. The only person who looked like he'd even scratched the surface of what the future could have been.
I rubbed my temples, frustration simmering hot. "So this is it… The year 2700, and the only thing standing between humanity and actual progress is a damn costume fetish."
The words tasted bitter, but I forced myself to keep typing. If quirks had strangled technology, then maybe this world still had other gifts to offer. New discoveries. New possibilities. What exactly does this universe have that mine didn't?
I pulled open a new search bar and hammered in a question: new elements discovered in modern era.
The results scrolled by, paper after paper, journal after journal. My pulse slowed with each skim. Nothing new. Not one single stable metal, not one unique mineral, not one groundbreaking element pulled from Earth or space. It was all the same roster I'd grown up memorizing in my old world's chemistry classes. Hydrogen through oganesson.
I leaned back, disgust pulling at my gut. "So that's it, huh? Fifteen centuries gone, and they couldn't even be bothered to find one new damn atom."
It wasn't just disappointing. It was vexing. Elements meant possibilities. New alloys. Stronger armor. Exotic fuels. Superconductors. All things that could have given humanity an edge beyond quirks. But instead of looking down into the earth or up into the stars, the whole damn species had stared at their glowing hands and decided it was enough.
I clenched my fists on the keyboard. "You traded the cosmos for parlor tricks."
I forced myself to exhale, steadying the frustration. If materials science wasn't going to hand me a miracle, then I'd have to focus on something more immediate. Money.
I clicked over to finance feeds, market analysis, company profiles. The familiar hum of numbers and graphs filled the screen, and despite the centuries, some things never changed. Corporations still ruled. Stocks still moved. The wealthy still set the rules for everyone else.
And at the very top, one name gleamed like a banner: Yaoyorozu Group.
I sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. Current CEO: Renjiro Yaoyorozu, head of the family. His wife: Sayuri Yaoyorozu, matriarch and founder of the Yaoyorozu Cultural Foundation.
A slow smile tugged at my mouth. "So these are Momo's parents."
I scrolled through reports, foundations, cultural projects, investments. They had their fingers in everything from pharmaceuticals to real estate, from cultural preservation to education. A dynasty in all but name. If this family ever went public, they'd dominate the markets overnight.
"They're interesting," I muttered. "Very interesting."
I clicked through a few more charts and found exactly what I expected: the Yaoyorozu company wasn't public. No stocks to buy, no foothold for an outsider like me.
But that didn't discourage me. A chuckle slipped out, low and quiet. "That's fine. I can be a patient son of a gun. Time changes everything. When they open the gates, I'll be waiting with cash in hand at least that's my hope."
The cursor blinked at me, waiting for my next move. I tapped the keys, pulling up another name.
Detnerat.
If Yaoyorozu was prestige, Detnerat was reach. A massive lifestyle-support company that had carved its empire by adapting to quirks. Shoes. Clothing. Customized products turned around in three days. A corporation built on convenience and efficiency. Their CEO was plastered across the page: Rikiya Yotsubashi.
But my stomach twisted the moment I saw his name. I didn't need the articles to remind me. I knew this man. I knew what he really stood for.
"Re-Destro," I whispered.
The Meta Liberation Army's leader. To the public, Detnerat was "for the people." To the shadows, it was indoctrination disguised as consumerism. A company turned cult. The financial backbone for quirk supremacists, the front for recruitment, the infrastructure for something far darker.
I clicked through their history anyway, double-checking against my memory:
• Started as a shoe manufacturer.
• Expanded into clothing, lifestyle products, quirk-friendly gear.
• Branded themselves as heroes of accessibility.
But the surface was just that—a mask. What they were most likely doing was quietly retooling their entire empire for something far less innocent. Every factory, every logistics hub, every employee indoctrination seminar—they weren't just selling shoes or quirk-friendly jackets. They were building infrastructure that could pivot overnight into supplying and supporting a private army. The MLA didn't need soldiers marching in the streets when they already owned the machines that clothed, fed, and armed half the population.
I leaned back on the couch, sighing. "Of course. Same mask, different era."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to think tactically. Right now, only two major threats loomed over the horizon: All For One, the demon king in the shadows, and the Liberation Army—this army of quirk extremists hiding behind a smile and a logo. Both had the infrastructure, the patience, and the ruthlessness to bend society until it broke.
"Other than All For One, this group takes top priority," I muttered, my voice flat.
The TV droned in the background. Some reporter's voice rose over stock footage of burning storefronts, announcing the capture of a new villain whose rampage had trashed half a district. I tuned it out. Another costumed thug with too much power and not enough sense wasn't my concern right now. My focus stayed locked on the laptop, on the names and faces and empires sprawling across the screen.
This was my new battlefield. Not desert sands and rifles, but data, corporations, and enemies who wore smiles instead of uniforms.
Before I could reflect further, the apartment door slammed open so hard the frame rattled. I flinched, fingers skidding across the trackpad as the laptop hiccupped. Then a booming, cheerful voice filled the room like someone tossing a grenade of noise into a quiet camp.
"Izu-kuuuu! Your favorite aunty's here! I came to see the only kid in this neighborhood who isn't a complete brat like my son!"
The sheer bluntness of it caught me off guard. I blinked once, then actually giggled from where I sat on the couch. So this is Mitsuki Bakugo, huh?
I'd seen plenty of her in the anime, sure. But hearing that voice tear into the apartment in real life? It was… oddly comforting. Sharp, fiery, unapologetic—like artillery fire that you somehow knew was friendly.
Still, I couldn't help but think: Poor woman. Having to wrangle that dog of a boy every day must grind her nerves raw. No wonder she's like this. Then I shook my head, smirking to myself. Nah, she was probably always like that.
Her footsteps stomped closer, fast and confident. A second later, she burst into the living room. Her sharp eyes immediately caught the sight of me: tiny body perched on the couch, TV blaring hero-vs-villain highlights, laptop balanced on my knees.
She chuckled, then rushed forward in a blur.
"Oi, what's this? My little broccoli nerd getting serious?"
Before I could react, she scooped me up in a bear hug. I yelped, scrambling just enough to set the laptop down safely out of reach before her arms locked me in.
"Aunty!!" I squealed, the word tumbling out in a childlike burst before I could stop it.
Mitsuki laughed, loud and genuine, spinning me in a quick circle. My stomach lurched, and I clutched her shoulders as the room blurred. "Haha—careful!"
"I'm getting dizzy!" she cackled, collapsing onto the couch with me still in her grip. The next thing I knew, her fingers were at my ribs.
"Nonono—!" I squirmed as she tickled me, laughter tearing out of my throat whether I wanted it to or not. High, light, unguarded. She grinned like she'd just won the lottery.
"Look at you! You're too damn adorable—I could just eat you up!"
"Wait—no—!" I gasped between giggles, heat rushing to my cheeks. Then she actually leaned down and pretended to chomp at my stomach, growling playfully.
"Chomp chomp chomp! Rawr! Broccoli snack!"
I shrieked with laughter, kicking my legs, completely undone. Deep inside, the soldier in me buried his face in his hands. God. Spark Plug was right. Auntys are so embarrassing!!
Finally, when she'd had her fun, Mitsuki leaned back, smirking triumphantly. "Alright, mister big shot. Time for you to fess up."
I blinked, still catching my breath. "H-huh?"
She wagged a finger at me, mock-serious. "Don't think I didn't hear it. Why didn't my cute little broccoli want to hang out with his favorite aunty today? Hm? Saying some nonsense about being 'big.'"
Heat crept up my neck. I scratched at my cheek and muttered, "I… I just didn't want to bother you."
Her eyes narrowed immediately. Sharp. Disbelieving.
"Uh-huh," she said, leaning in until her nose was almost touching mine. "Kid, you were never a good liar. You're cute, but your poker face is garbage."
I blinked at her, thrown. "…What?"
She sighed, shaking her head. "Don't play dumb. You didn't want to come over because of your quirk, right?"
The words hit me like a misfired round. My throat tightened. So… she doesn't know?
I thought for sure Mama would've told her. That it would've come up as she asked her to watch over me. But from the look on Mitsuki's face, she wasn't in on it. She thought I was hiding some brand-new quirk, embarrassed to show it off.
A weight pressed into my chest. I hadn't wanted this moment to come just yet. I didn't want to risk breaking something good before it even started. Because even through the screen, back when I was just a fan, I'd always thought she was the kind of woman who cared fiercely, who protected fiercely. A good mom and now a better aunt.
But there was no point lying now. So I braced myself.
"…We found out yesterday," I said quietly. My hands balled in the hem of my shirt. "The doctor… he said I don't have a quirk. He also said I could never be a hero."
Silence.
Mitsuki froze, eyes wide, lips parted like the words had stolen her breath away. The pause stretched, heavy, sharp enough to make me wince inside. I watched her, heart pounding, waiting and testing for her reaction.
Then she moved.
Her arms swept around me so suddenly. She pulled me into a hug so tight it knocked the air right out of my lungs.
"Oh, sweetie…" Her voice cracked, raw around the edges. "I don't care what that damn doctor said. You're still you. My favorite little broccoli. And I love you just the way you are, quirk or no quirk."
Something hot stung my eyes. I let out a shaky laugh against her shoulder. "…I'm glad, Aunty. I'm happy you don't care. I'm still your favorite broccoli, right?"
She snorted, squeezing me even tighter. "The only broccoli worth keeping around, kiddo."
I smiled into her shirt, warmth blooming where worry had been. For once, I let myself just… be held.
But in my relief, something slipped out that I hadn't meant to say. "I also didn't want to deal with Katsuki."
Her whole body went rigid. She pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes, sharp gaze narrowing like a laser sight.
"…What did you just say?"
My stomach dropped. I realized too late what I'd done. I hadn't called him Kacchan. Not the childhood nickname. I'd said Katsuki. Flat. Detached.
Mitsuki's focus sharpened instantly, hyper-aware, her motherly instincts firing like a barrage. "Izuku… why don't you want to deal with him? What's going on between you two?"
Her tone was still warm, but beneath it was steel. I swallowed, my mind racing knowing that I may have revealed more than I should.