"Izuku." My mom calls out to me. I look at her, dressed in all white, perfectly fine. No blood. No injuries. No nothing. She looks like herself.
"Mom." I say, running up, and pulling her in a tight hug. I feel tears begin to stream down my face as I cry into her shoulder, not even caring that I'm getting his pristine clothes wet
"Don't be sad. Don't cry for me." Mom mutters, and I look at her
"But.....you're dead. You died, and it's all my fault." I mutter, looking at her. She smiles sweetly. That smile could power Japan for a year. I swear.
"None of what happened is your fault. None of it. It never will be, never is. What happened.....was just a bad day. A really, really bad day." She mutters, rubbing the back of my head. I chuckle, shaking my head
"One hell of a bad day." I mutter, looking at her.
"I know, Izuku, I know. Promise me something." Mom says, her tone turning a bit more serious.
"What?" I ask
"No matter what, never forget who you are. No matter what happens, you are Izuku Midoriya. A son. A friend. A kind boy. Someone people can trust. Remember that." She says, and I nod, tears running anew down my face
"I will, Mom. I will." I say, crying again.
I sit up, screaming, thrashing, with tears soaking down my face.
"MOM!" I shout, sticking my hand, which is entirely wrapped in bandages, out in front of me. As I look around, I realize something. I'm in a house, not a hospital. I can tell by the beige walls, hardwood floors, and the pictures hanging from the walls, and couch under me. I swing my legs off of the couch, and feel the heavy wool blanket on my legs. I'm shirtless, and the house I'm in is a bit chilly.
"Маленький кролик, ты проснулся!" A familiar deep voice asks, and I look to my left, and see an old, grizzled man, looking at me, a broad smile on his face. He's probably in his fifties or sixties, based on the cropped graying hair, as well as the slight wrinkles, along with the crows feet at the corner of his eyes. His steel-blue eyes, while sparking with happiness, carry a dangerous edge. He's also freaking huge. Wide shoulders, biceps larger than most man's thighs, hands tanned and rough, likely from hard manual labor. The scars stick out more than his size though. A large one, running from his cheek, down the side of his neck, and ending at the base of his neck. Multiple small circular scars on his arms, and there's probably more.
"I..........I can't understand you." I say, looking at the man. His face falls a bit, and he facepalms.
"Конечно. Проклятые школы, никогда не учат хорошему языку.......Eh...........What name?" The man asks, in broken Japanese, under a very heavy accent.
"Izuku. Izuku Midoriya. Yours?" I ask, and he seems to think for a bit.
"Call me......Miska." He says, nodding
"Okay.....Mishka is is, then. So......where are we?" I ask
"Home. My home." He says, gesturing around the room.
"Why am I here? Why the fuck am I not at a hospital?" I snarl, and the man looks at me.
"You think they help?" He asks, and I nod
"They have too! I'm a Japanese citizen, they have to treat me!" I say, and the Mishka laughs
"наивный. Not everything is what it seems." He says, for the first time using proper grammar.
YOU ARE READING
Wrath, Violence, and Love. (Izutoru)
FanfictionIzuku Midoriya. Quirkless. Has been his entire life. Always will be. And yet, that's not all. He's bullied. Despite the impressively shitty hand life had dealt him, he still pushes forward, trying to become a hero. But when he gets shot down by his...
