The silence hung heavily in their small, state-assigned apartment. It had been five long years since Izuku disappeared (Year 40 P.A.), five years since the world had shattered and reshaped itself under the cold, efficient control of the Core Authority. For Ochaco Uraraka, that silence felt like a heavy blanket, smothering the vibrant memories of the past—laughter echoing through U.A.'s dorms, the cheers of the crowd rallying behind Deku, and Izuku's own hopeful, earnest voice. Now, all that remained was the soft hum of the building's nutrient dispenser, the distant buzz of Authority patrols, and the gentle breathing of her son.
gazing out at the sterile urban landscape, which was lit artificially by controlled lights.
Grief was no longer the piercing, crippling agony of that first year, it had become a dull, lingering pain in her chest, a place where Izuku used to be her life. With her own Zero Gravity quirk restrained by the obligatory inhibitors she wore as part of her 'compliance' with the new system, she ran her fingertips along the edge of a chipped cup. It gave Haru an opportunity.
Haru Midoriya, just five years old, sat on the floor, meticulously stacking nutrient paste ration blocks. He had inherited his father's wild dark green hair and a sprinkle of freckles, but his eyes sparkled with Ochaco's quiet determination, already dimmed by the harsh realities of the world he was born into. He glanced up, his little brow knitted in concern.
"Mommy," he asked, his tiny voice barely breaking the stillness, "when is Daddy coming home?"
Ochaco felt a lump in her throat. It was the same question he asked every few months, less often now, but it still hit her like a punch to the gut. She turned away from the window, forcing a soft smile onto her face. Kneeling beside him, she pulled him close, feeling how small and delicate he was against the heavy burden of the world outside their door.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, gently running her fingers through his hair. "Remember what Mommy told you? Daddy… Daddy had to go away. To help people. Very far away." It was the story she had crafted, vague enough to keep a child satisfied, yet safe enough to avoid triggering the Authority monitoring systems that were rumored to be lurking even in their home.
Haru leaned into her embrace, but his next words struck a nerve. "Are the scary men… the ones in white armor… are they why he can't come back?" He was talking about the Shepherd Corps patrols, the enforcers of the Core Authority's will, always lurking as a reminder of the new order.
Ochaco froze. How much did he really understand? How much had he picked up from those hushed comm calls before she severed ties with the broken remnants of the hero underground? She squeezed him tighter. "The Shepherds… they just help keep the rules, Haru. And the most important rule for us is to stay quiet, safe, and out of sight. That's how we can help Daddy best right now—by being good and staying hidden."
"Hidden?" Haru frowned. Suddenly, the ration blocks next to him wobbled, floating just half an inch off the floor. A faint, almost invisible green energy flickered around them.
Ochaco gasped softly, quickly glancing at the apartment's main sensor panel—thankfully, it was still passive. She gently pushed the blocks back down. Haru blinked, and the energy vanished quickly. "Oops," he whispered.
That was the echo. The faint, unpredictable spark of One For All, woven into Izuku's very DNA and passed down, manifested in Haru but a sudden bursts of energy. It was there—a risky sign in a world that dreaded uncontrolled evolution.
"It's okay, sweetie," Ochaco reassured him, her voice a mix of strain and calm. "It's alright. It's just… like a hiccup. Sometimes things float. We just need to be careful it doesn't happen when others might see, okay?" She gently held his small hands in hers. "Haru, look at Mommy. Your father… he was the kindest, bravest man I ever knew. He believed in saving everyone. But the world… it's different now. It's scared. To keep you safe, I had to make some promises. I registered us with the Authority and agreed to their rules. I gave up being Uravity." She squeezed his hands tighter. "I did it so they would leave us alone, so you could grow up. Do you understand?"
Haru nodded slowly, though a hint of confusion still lingered in his eyes. "So… if we're quiet… maybe Daddy can find us later?"
Ochaco felt tears prick at her eyes, but she fought them back with determination. "Maybe, sweetie. Maybe." She pulled him onto her lap, holding him close against the heavy silence of their grief, against the crushing weight of the Engineered Age. She had given up so much, trading her past for his future. Now, all she could do was keep him safe, nurture the quiet spark within him, and hope that the faint genetic echo of the world's greatest hero wouldn't attract the wolves of this new era. The connection stretching from Izuku to Haru, and into the uncertain future generations, would be marked by secrecy, resilience, and the heavy burden of a legacy that the world had tried to bury.
The polished gates of Eternal Academia High's Primary Induction Center didn't shine with hope; instead, they mirrored the dull, overcast sky and the fear in six-year-old Haru Midoriya's eyes. He gripped his mother's hand tightly, the sterile, intimidating facade of the institution looming over them like the jaws of a great beast. This wasn't a school; it felt more like a factory. Mandatory Quirk Assessment and Enrollment at age six—that was the Core Authority's rule, supposedly meant to guide and nurture young quirks for the sake of societal harmony. But Ochaco knew the truth. they just want to control people, suppression, and spotting potential threats early on. Especially threats that might be tied to a name like Midoriya.
"Remember, Haru," Ochaco whispered, kneeling down to adjust the collar of his plain, state-issued tunic. Her expression was carefully neutral, but her eyes were filled with urgent warnings. "Don't show off. Don't stand out. If… if you start to feel that fizzing sensation, push it down. Picture smooth water. Imagine being invisible. Just stay quiet. Quiet and safe." She squeezed his hand one last time, her touch lingering for a moment before the automated guide drone signaled that it was time for her to go. Following the rules meant keeping contact to a minimum and avoiding any fuss. She turned and walked away without looking back, leaving Haru alone in the echoing intake hall.
The assessment room was cold, sterile, and had a faint smell of ozone. Haru stood on a designated circle on the metallic floor, facing a panel of emotionless assessors behind reinforced glass. Probes scanned him, needles extracted blood samples with unsettling efficiency, and a calm, synthesized voice began issuing instructions. "Subject: Haru Midoriya. Initiate Quirk Manifestation Test."
Haru squeezed his eyes shut, recalling Ochaco's words. Smooth water. Invisible. But the pressure, the cold probes, and the memories of the Shepherds his mother feared all swirled inside him. He felt the 'fizzing' start in his chest, a frantic energy eager to break free. He tried to hold it back, clenching his small fists, but a faint green spark leaped from his knuckle to a nearby probe, causing it to short out with a snap.
"Unstable kinetic and bio-electric discharge recorded," the synthesized voice droned on, devoid of any emotion. "Minimal voluntary control exhibited. Output erratic."
Behind the glass, Chief Assessor Kaito Ishikawa let out a weary sigh, tapping his stylus with growing impatience. He quickly flipped through the file—Midoriya, Haru. The son of Deku. There had been some expectations, maybe just a hint of his father's legendary power, either refined or transformed? But instead, he was faced with this. Chaotic, useless energy spikes. A genetic letdown.
"Classification?" an aide whispered next to him.
Ishikawa didn't hesitate. "Sub-Class Seven. Limited potential, high instability factor. Assign to Sector Epsilon dormitory, standard suppression curriculum. Flagged for minimal resource allocation." He made a note. "Such a waste of a significant bloodline. Proof that sentimentality has no place in engineered evolution." He turned away from the window, dismissing the son of the former Symbol of Peace as easily as he'd dismiss a faulty drone.
Haru could feel the sting of their dismissal even from behind the glass. The terms 'Sub-Class Seven' and 'minimal resource allocation' were lost on him, but the chilling finality in their gazes and the way they turned away spoke volumes. He was seen as insignificant. A failure. Perhaps… perhaps that was a safer place to be?
Living in the Sub-Class dormitories of Sector Epsilon was a never-ending loop of drab grey uniforms, tasteless nutrient paste, and relentless drills aimed at enforcing obedience and stifling any sense of individuality. Haru was just one of hundreds of kids whose quirks were labeled too weak, too unpredictable, or simply not from the 'right' lineage to qualify for Core or Prime status. Their training was less about nurturing abilities and more about imposing control—rigid, unyielding control, often achieved through exhausting physical workouts, psychological conditioning, and low-level quirk inhibitors sewn into their uniforms.
Haru was in a constant battle. His quirk, echo, refused to be completely muted. During physical drills, unexpected bursts of speed would send him tumbling. In focus exercises, nearby objects would quiver or flicker with faint sparks. Each little incident, no matter how minor, brought down harsh reprimands, extra conditioning sessions, or the quiet disdain of instructors who viewed him as a glitch in the system. Some older students, echoing their instructors' biases or trying to win favor, would target him. "Midoriya the Misfire," they would jeer. "Son of a traitor hero, can't even manage his own sparks."
He discovered how to build walls inside of himself. He remembered his mother's weeping face and her fervent request that he keep quiet and be safe. He recalled the whispered stories of his father, the man who had rescued lives, not the failed figure Academia depicted. To survive was to become inconspicuous. He became perceptive, reserved, and only spoke when required. He immersed himself in his studies—the sterile history, the complex sciences—silently succeeding, expecting that mastery of'safe' disciplines would make up for the seeming shortfalls of his quirk.
He would find himself reciting Ochaco's mantra, "Smooth water," as a protective barrier while staring at the wall during the required "Quirk Control Therapy" sessions, which felt more like poorly veiled suppression exercises. invisible. safe and quiet. He was able to regulate the fizzing energy that occasionally surged beneath his skin, reminding him of the father he could hardly remember, the power he battled to control, and the legacy he carried. He resisted it, pushed it down, and bore the system's harsh scrutiny.
Haru Midoriya found solace in the sterile hum of the Sub-Class Research Archives. He was seventeen now, and he slipped with a trained air of invisibility through the busy hallways and simple study halls of the lower tiers of Eternal Academia. For him and other Sub-Class Seven kids, high school was all about reaching quotas, demonstrating unwavering control, and becoming proficient in the support disciplines that were considered suitable for their status—not about dancing or making friends. Haru found comfort in the complex, difficult field of theoretical quirk science, while others pursued med-tech qualifications or jumped into logistical programming.
He leaned over a data terminal, his fingers gliding through intricate equations that mapped out Quirk Factor Decay Rates in fourth-generation subjects. His instructors often acknowledged his knack for the sciences—though they did so quietly, as overt praise was frowned upon in Sub-Class. They noted his impressive scores in Theoretical Genetics and Applied Metaphysics, but what they didn't realize was that his interest ran deeper than mere academic curiosity. To him, understanding quirks—their origins, their potential, their unpredictability—was the only way to make sense of the faint, unsettling energy that sometimes buzzed beneath his skin, a lingering reminder of a legacy he couldn't claim. It was also, in a way, a means to connect with the father he never had the chance to know.
Staying under the radar had become second nature for Haru. He donned the standard grey uniform without any modifications, kept his dark green hair neatly trimmed, and spoke only when absolutely necessary during seminars. He had mastered the art of blending in, ensuring that while his test scores were stellar in his field, they never attracted unwanted attention during general assessments. He avoided making eye contact with Core-Class students in the rare shared spaces, brushed off the occasional sneer about his 'Misfire' status from classmates, and never, ever let the 'fizzing' show. His mother's childhood warnings echoed in his mind: Stay quiet. Stay safe. Stay hidden. To be noticed was to invite danger.
In the quiet corners of the archives, where flickering holo-texts danced and the soft hum of data streams filled the air, a different kind of curiosity ignited within Haru. Once he wrapped up his assigned research, he often found himself sneaking a peek beyond the usual boundaries, using low-level code obfuscation tricks he picked up not from textbooks, but from keen observation and a bit of rogue experimentation. His focus? The Heroic Heritage Archives, particularly the records from the legendary Hero Age, just before the Collapse.
Every time he searched, it was the same trio of names: "Midoriya, Izuku." "Deku." "Ninth Symbol."
And every time, the results were infuriatingly predictable.
ACCESS DENIED: PRIME CLEARANCE LEVEL 9 REQUIRED.
FILE REDACTED: CORE AUTHORITY DIRECTIVE 7.4.
SUBJECT ASSOCIATED WITH QUIRK SINGULARITY INSTABILITY EVENT [CLASSIFIED]. REFER TO OFFICIAL HISTORICAL RECORDINGS (APPROVED CURRICULUM EDITION).
He stumbled upon references, of course, in the heavily sanitized official histories. Deku, the powerful yet ultimately tragic figure whose struggle to harness his immense power was said to have played a part in the Singularity Collapse. A cautionary tale that served to reinforce Academia's strict control. It felt off, dissonant, clashing harshly with the whispered stories Ochaco had shared—tales of a hero who wept, who saved villains, who held onto hope above all else.
"He carried so much weight, Haru," his mother's voice lingered in his mind, soft and laced with the sorrow of years gone by. "He wanted to save everyone. Maybe… maybe the world just wasn't ready for that much heart."
Frustration tightened around Haru's chest like a vice. He desperately wanted to believe his mother's story, to grasp the truth about the man hidden behind those redacted files. Who exactly was Izuku Midoriya? Why did the Authority go to such lengths to erase him from existence? Was the chaos truly his fault, or was there something deeper at play? Was the echo he felt within himself a sign of his father's failure, or was it something more intricate? These questions fueled his passion for quirk science, driving him to dive into archives late into the night, but they always hit a wall of classified information.
Suddenly, a proximity alert chimed softly on his terminal, signaling that someone was approaching. Haru quickly shut down the restricted access portals, wiped his search history, and switched the display back to his assigned project on Quirk Factor compatibility algorithms. He managed to mask his emotions, adopting a calm facade just as Instructor Rylan stopped beside his station.
"Midoriya," Rylan said, his voice sharp as he glanced at the complex equations on the screen. "Your progress on the compatibility project is satisfactory. Keep it as your main focus. Letting your curiosity wander won't help with Sub-Class development." The instructor's gaze lingered for a moment, a flicker of something—was it suspicion? Indifference?—before he moved on.
Haru kept his eyes glued to the screen, feeling his heart rate gradually settle. That was too close. Way too close. He sensed the familiar fizz of energy stirring in his fingertips, a response to the stress, and he forced it down. Invisible. Silent. His research and questions about his father had to stay buried deep. His love for science was acceptable, even beneficial to the system. His heritage, however, was not. He lived in the shadows of his father's erased legacy, and for his own safety—and to honor his mother's sacrifice—that's where he needed to remain.