Chapter Text
Lightning slashed through the clouds above Mustafu. Thunder followed like the drumbeat of fate, as if the storm itself was bearing witness to something colossal.
Down slick, black roads, a small sedan sped through the downpour, its headlights cutting through the rain. Inside, two passengers were locked in a race against time toward the towering presence of Mustafu General Hospital.
“Hang in there, Inko. We’re almost there,” the deep baritone of her husband urged, his knuckles white on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
In the backseat, Inko Midoriya—once petite—was now grotesquely stretched by the life growing within her. Her face contorted in pain as she gripped the front seats like a vice.
“Hisashi! Pay attention to the road!” she barked, panic flashing in her eyes as another contraction tore through her.
Her jaw clenched. Sweat streamed down her brow. “J–Just hurry! He’s coming!”
The car swerved around a sharp corner, tires screeching as they approached the glowing emergency entrance. The hospital loomed ahead like a sanctuary—and a battlefield.
Hisashi barely stopped the car. He jumped out, yanked open the rear door, and helped his wife to her feet.
“Help! My wife’s in labor!”
He burst through the ER doors, shouting over the storm.
A nurse snapped into motion. “We need a gurney! Now!”
As the medical staff whisked Inko away, Hisashi stood helplessly in the chaos, hands trembling, eyes wide. He didn’t wait long. A nurse returned quickly and led him to the delivery room, where Inko was already strapped into stirrups, her clothes swapped for a medical gown, her face pale and determined.
A doctor crouched between her legs, trying to stay composed. His eyes flicked to her swollen belly—far larger than normal.
“Mrs. Midoriya, this is Nurse Takada,” he said, gesturing to the young woman beside him. “She has an elastic quirk. With your consent, I’d like her to assist the delivery.”
“Fucking DO IT!” Inko screamed, crushing Hisashi’s hand.
He winced. Her grip was brutal. She’d switched into a dialect he hadn’t heard since university.
The nurse moved quickly, placing her hand on Inko’s waist. Her quirk shimmered to life, and almost immediately, the doctor’s expression shifted.
“I can see the head!” he said, astonished.
“Alright, Mrs. Midoriya—PUSH!”
Inko shrieked, pushing with everything she had. Slowly, agonizingly, the baby emerged.
And kept emerging.
The doctor stared, dumbfounded, before catching the enormous child in both arms.
“I-It’s a boy,” he said, stunned. “A large one at that.”
He nodded to the nurse. “Get him and the mother cleaned up. I need to notify Dr. Tegen from Quirk Studies.”
The doctor left in a rush, while Nurse Takada gently tended to Inko and her child. Soon after, the Midoriyas were placed in a private room. Inko cradled the infant to her chest, the baby already strong enough to suckle with surprising force.
A knock at the door interrupted their fragile calm.
It opened to reveal a slender man in a white coat holding a small device.
“Mrs. Midoriya, Mr. Midoriya. I’m Dr. Tegen, quirk biologist. I was told your child may have developed a quirk—possibly gigantification, based on his size.”
He approached the bed, pausing as he saw the baby. His brow lifted. “If I hadn’t been told, I’d assume he was three months old.”
He composed himself. “This is a quirk factor detector. It’ll tell us whether your son has a quirk and give us a classification. My own quirk will help interpret it further. Do you consent to the scan?”
Inko looked down at her son, smiling. “His name is Izuku. My sweet little giant. And yes, we consent.”
Dr. Tegen smiled back and gently pressed the device to the baby’s neck. It beeped, displaying glowing data.
“S-rank, with a score of 98,” he said, astonished. “That’s… extremely high.”
He reached forward, placing his hand on Izuku’s forehead. His eyes began to glow blue—
Then everything changed.
A surge of invisible force hurled him across the room. He slammed into the wall, body limp.
But for a moment, he was somewhere else entirely.
Blackness. Endless and absolute.
A colosseum stood in the void, ancient and massive, lit by flickering glyphs. In its center stood a silhouette—titanic, humanoid, made of shadow and fire. It raised an arm.
One word echoed in Dr. Tegen’s soul.
Titan.
Then he was back, his body sliding to the floor.
Eyes wide, breath shallow, he whispered the name still burned into his mind:
“…Titan.”
Time passed. The storm that welcomed Izuku Midoriya’s birth faded into memory.
But not everything calmed with it.
Izuku was excited—he’d just turned four, and his mother told him he’d be starting preschool with Auntie Mitsuki’s son, Bakugou Katsuki.
They arrived at Aldera Preschool together, the morning air heavy with anticipation. Strange looks followed Izuku the moment he stepped inside. Staff members whispered, eyes darting to his oversized frame.
Izuku blinked at them, then smiled and moved on.
“Hello! My name’s Izuku Midoriya!” he beamed, walking up to the spiky-haired boy at the center of the room.
Katsuki turned, blinking at the giant in front of him. His crimson eyes narrowed, then lit up with competitive fire. “Katsuki—the next number one hero!” he shouted, tiny hands crackling with sparks.
Izuku’s grin widened. “Wanna play heroes and villains? We could build a fortress!”
The two ran to the box of wooden blocks, working together to build a crooked, creative wall of defenses. They laughed the whole time, lost in imagination.
Until Izuku jumped over their creation.
CRACK.
A thick wooden block split beneath his heel.
The room went silent.
“Midoriya…” the teacher started, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple. “Why don’t you… go play with something else?”
Her voice trembled ever so slightly.
Izuku’s grin faded. He looked down at the broken block, cheeks flushed.
Soft giggles rippled through the room. The loudest came from Katsuki.
Izuku didn’t say anything. He simply walked away.
A year passed. His fifth birthday came and went unnoticed by most.
It happened during art class.
Izuku sat alone—again. The teacher had placed his easel in the corner, away from the others. “So everyone has more room,” she’d said.
He didn’t argue. Maybe he didn’t mind. Maybe he did.
He hummed softly as he painted, mixing swirling blues and greens together, lost in the rhythm of color.
He leaned closer, wanting to add more detail—
CRASH.
His arm swung too far, knocking over the easel next to him. Broken wood and soaked canvas collapsed into a mess.
Izuku froze.
He turned to the boy beside him, eyes wide. “I’m so, so—”
“S-Stay away from me!” the boy shrieked. “You… you monster!”
The boy ran, abandoning his painting behind him.
Izuku stared at the wreckage.
His hands curled into trembling fists.
By the time he turned six, Izuku was enrolled in elementary school.
Nothing fit.
His new uniform had to be stitched from two shirts. Inko ironed it twice, hoping it wouldn’t look odd. But to Izuku, it still felt like a costume—something meant for someone else.
The schoolyard buzzed with noise. Parents waved, children played, laughter echoed.
Izuku stood silently at the gate, towering over them all.
When the teacher introduced him to the class, her smile stretched too wide. “Class, this is Midoriya Izuku. Say hello!”
No one did.
He made his way to an empty desk in the back. As he sat, the metal legs groaned beneath his weight. They didn’t break—but they bent.
Snickers followed the sound.
Someone whispered, “He’s too big.”
Izuku didn’t lift his head for the rest of the day.
At recess, he sat alone under a tree.
Once, it had been his favorite part of school.
Now, at age seven, it felt like a punishment.
He watched from the shade as kids played tag, their laughter ringing across the yard.
He didn’t ask to join. He hadn’t asked in months.
Still... he stood.
Step by step, he moved toward the group, careful with every motion—his size, his stride, even his breathing.
The moment he got close, the laughter stopped.
One of the boys looked up and scowled. “Don’t break the slide again, Hulk.”
The others laughed.
Izuku froze.
He didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked back to the tree.
That night, when Inko asked how school went, he smiled and said, “It was fine.”
She didn’t believe him.
But she didn’t press.
When he turned eight, Izuku stopped trying altogether.
The apartment was quiet, lit only by the flicker of the television.
Izuku sat cross-legged in front of it, his massive frame curled inward like a boy trying to disappear.
Onscreen, All Might lifted a crumbling bus overhead, smiling as civilians cheered.
“Fear not, citizens, for I am here!”
Izuku smiled softly.
He stood, chest out, fists raised in imitation of his hero. He mimicked the pose—proud, strong.
CRACK.
A thin fracture spidered across the wooden floor beneath his feet.
He stared at it.
Then he sank back to the ground, arms wrapped tightly around his knees.
“I just want to be like you,” he whispered.
At nine, Izuku began noticing the way neighbors stared.
It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was unease. Disdain.
It all came to a head one gray afternoon.
His mother had been called into work, so Auntie Mitsuki picked him and Katsuki up from school. The walk home was uneventful—Katsuki, for once, didn’t speak.
At the base of their apartment building, Mitsuki waved goodbye.
Izuku started up the stairs alone.
He was halfway to the third floor when it happened.
Mr. Regi, a cranky old tenant from the floor below, turned the corner just as Izuku rounded the landing.
Izuku bumped into him.
“A-Ah, sorry, Mr. Regi,” Izuku said quickly, stepping back. “I wasn’t watching where—”
“Knock it off, kid,” the man snapped. “You did that on purpose.”
Izuku blinked. “Huh?”
“Everyone in this building knows what you are,” the man growled. “You’re just a villain waiting to happen.”
Izuku’s breath hitched.
“N-No! I’m not a villain! I want to be a hero!” he protested, eyes wide with hurt and confusion.
But Mr. Regi wasn’t done.
He scoffed. “Sure, sure. I’m sure I’ll see you on the news one day—dangerous mutant arrested after rampage.”
Izuku flinched, taking another step back.
He didn’t see it, but faint orange lines formed across his cheeks—subtle cracks pulsing like heated stone.
Regi shoulder-checked him hard on the way down the stairs, muttering curses.
Izuku stood frozen.
His fists clenched tight—nails digging into his palms.
Tears burned in his eyes.
“I will be a hero,” he whispered through grit teeth.
He made it to the apartment and collapsed onto the couch, wiping his face, anger and heartbreak welling together until he couldn’t tell one from the other.
That was how Inko found him.
She opened the door, groceries in hand—and dropped them when she saw her son curled into the cushions, crying silently.
“Izuku! Sweetie, what’s wrong?” she rushed over, kneeling in front of him. Her head barely reached his chest as she cupped his face.
He wouldn’t look at her.
Then, through a thick sniffle: “A-Am I a monster…?”
His voice was fragile. Wounded.
“Are you… scared of me?” he asked, eyes full of a terrible need.
Inko’s face twisted into a scowl—not at him, but at whatever made her son feel this way.
“No, baby. No, you’re not a monster,” she said firmly. “And I could never be afraid of you.”
She reached up, brushing tears from his cheeks.
“You’re not scary. You’re just… more. More to love. More to protect.”
Izuku lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her. A giant’s hug, crushing and warm.
She hugged him right back.
At age ten, Izuku learned something harsh: people fear what doesn’t fit the mold.
Today was his annual doctor’s visit—both for general health and a check-in with his quirk counselor. While his quirk hadn’t evolved much in terms of new abilities, the changes to his body were impossible to ignore.
He hadn’t trained. Hadn’t lifted weights. Yet muscle packed onto his frame like it was being built by divine design.
When asked to remove his shirt, the doctor stared for a long moment before clearing his throat.
“Well… that’s certainly… something.”
The man walked around Izuku slowly, examining his form. “He looks like one of those marble statues—like a Titan from myth.”
At ten years old, Izuku stood twelve feet tall .
His arms were as thick as small tree trunks. His legs, carved and powerful, rippled with muscle. He hadn’t earned this strength—but it was his all the same.
Despite the surreal growth, the doctor gave him a clean bill of health.
As they walked home, Izuku felt… numb.
Until they turned a corner and the day unraveled.
A man burst out of a store ahead of them, clutching a small bag. He sprinted right past Izuku and Inko without so much as a glance.
Seconds later, the shop owner stormed out, eyes wild.
He spotted Izuku—twelve feet tall, looming—and instantly redirected his rage.
“You just let him get away?!” the man yelled, pointing. “You were right there!”
Izuku blinked, confused.
Inko stepped forward, raising her hands. “Sir, we were just walking—”
“No!” he barked, turning on her. “He saw it! He could’ve stopped him! What’s the point of that freakish size if he’s just gonna stand there like a useless slab?!”
Izuku’s eyes widened.
His mother flinched.
Something inside him snapped .
“Enough!” he roared, voice deeper than a boy’s should ever be.
The very air shuddered.
The man flew backward, launched a dozen feet down the sidewalk by the sheer pressure of Izuku’s voice.
Silence followed.
Then sirens.
Izuku and Inko found themselves seated in a stark, cold interview room at the local police precinct.
Fluorescent lights buzzed above. Izuku’s knees were too high for the chair. He curled inward, trying not to break anything.
The door opened, and a man entered—tan trench coat, fedora, tired eyes, and a five-o’clock shadow. He carried a notepad and a small voice recorder.
“Hello,” he said, voice calm. “I’m Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi. I’ll be handling your interview.”
He nodded at Izuku.
“Now, young man, you understand that using your quirk in public is illegal, correct?”
Izuku nodded slowly, his voice barely audible. “I do.”
Inko reached out and gently placed her hand on his arm.
“Detective,” she began, trying to stay composed. “Izuku didn’t mean to use it. He’s still learning what his quirk even does. We had just left the quirk counselor’s office when that man started yelling at my son—then at me.”
Tsukauchi’s brow furrowed.
He flipped through his notes. Something didn’t add up.
“Wait… did you say he’s still learning his quirk?”
“Yes,” Inko replied. “Izuku is ten.”
The detective blinked.
His head slowly tilted as he looked at the boy again—no, the mountain of a boy. He had assumed, from the size alone, that Izuku was a young adult.
Now, he realized…
They had dragged a ten-year-old into an interrogation room.
His face dropped.
“I… apologize,” he said, sighing. “That information was not relayed to me.”
He set the notepad down and turned on the voice recorder.
“This is Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi of the Mustafu Police Department, Badge Number 044583. I’m interviewing Izuku Midoriya, age ten, and his mother, Inko Midoriya, age twenty-nine, regarding the incident along Alderaan Way.”
He looked between them. “My quirk is called Lie Detector . I can sense when someone is being dishonest.”
He offered a faint smile. “Please—just tell me what happened.”
By the end of the interview, Tsukauchi was rubbing his temples.
He believed every word. His quirk left no room for doubt.
Izuku hadn’t attacked out of malice. He hadn’t even meant to use his quirk. He had simply reacted —a scared boy protecting his mother.
After a brief pause, Tsukauchi stood and motioned to the hallway.
“Sansa will drive you home,” he said. “He’s cleared to operate the BearCat transport.”
The hulking, feline-faced pro-hero waited outside, his broad frame somehow less imposing than Izuku’s.
As they rode in silence, Izuku didn’t speak. Not even at home.
Over the following weeks, Inko noticed the change.
At school, Izuku grew even quieter. Teachers reported he rarely spoke unless called upon. Students avoided him entirely. Even at home, his voice came in whispers.
He was retreating again. Shrinking inward, despite his size.
The storm from the night of his birth had long since passed.
But in Izuku’s dreams, it returned.
The apartment was quiet. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Inko stood in the kitchen, drying dishes. The day had passed in quiet exhaustion. Izuku had gone to bed hours ago.
Or at least… he had tried.
In his dream, there was no light.
Not darkness— emptiness . A void. The kind of silence that pressed on the chest and pulled at the soul.
Izuku stood in the center of a scorched battlefield.
The earth beneath his feet was cracked and glowing, carved by molten veins that pulsed with heat and life. Ash drifted down from a sunless sky, slow and heavy, like it had nowhere else to go.
There was no wind.
No breath.
No heartbeat.
Just him.
And it .
Across from him, at the edge of the molten divide, stood a figure.
Towering. Broad. Blurred by heat and shadow.
Its form was human—but impossibly massive. Its skin was lined with glowing fractures, like a statue cracked by fire. Power radiated from it. So did sorrow.
And somehow, impossibly—
—it looked like him.
Izuku tried to move, but the space around him held firm, like gravity itself had grown thick.
The colossus raised its hand. The motion was slow. Deliberate.
Then came the word—not spoken, but felt , like a tremor in the chest.
Titan.
And then it moved.
A massive arm swung toward him—
Izuku gasped awake.
His eyes shot open, chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged breaths.
He was in his room. The dream lingered like smoke.
The soft buzz of his nightlight hummed in the corner. Moonlight spilled faintly through the curtains. The hallway light glowed from under the cracked door.
His blanket was kicked halfway off the bed. Sweat clung to his brow.
He sat up slowly, trying to breathe, trying to calm the thunder in his chest.
Then he looked down at his hands.
Massive. Callused. Strong.
But trembling.
“I just want to be a hero,” he whispered to no one.
In the hallway, Inko stood frozen—glass of water in hand. She’d come to check on him.
She had heard his words through the door.
And her heart broke just a little more.