Chapter Text
It started like any other day.
The sun was setting—spilling soft orange light over the forest of Musutafu—and Shoto felt... peaceful.
For once.
His scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck. The cold air kissed his cheek in that way he liked—cool, clean, alive. He pressed his comms button and checked in with the others. Tsuyu and Uraraka were a few blocks west. Iida’s voice crackled through the line. Nothing unusual.
Good.
Shoto preferred it that way.
Peaceful.
No fights. No explosions. No screaming. Just him, the wind, and the steady echo of his footsteps against the concrete.
He turned down an alley to cut across to the next block—a shortcut.
That’s when it happened.
At first, he only felt a prickle on the back of his neck. A subtle shift in the air.
Instinct told him to turn.
He didn’t even finish the motion.
Something hit him from behind—hard—slamming into the base of his skull with sickening precision.
Pain burst through his head like a flare going off in the dark.
Then came the numbness.
His knees buckled.
He barely caught himself, hands scraping concrete, vision already flickering like static. He heard voices—two, maybe three. Male. Calm. Practiced.
“Quirk neutralized?”
“Yeah. He’s down. Hit him with the dampener.”
A second needle jabbed into his neck. Cold fire rushed into his veins. He gasped—but no sound came. His throat locked up. Muscles seized. Panic flared in his chest.
He tried to ignite his flames.
Tried to summon ice.
Nothing.
Nothing but the burning weight of paralysis climbing through him like poison ivy wrapping around his bones.
He collapsed.
The sky above blurred—spinning—orange fading to black as the world shrunk around him. The last thing he saw was the edge of a boot stepping into his line of sight.
Then—
Darkness.
When he woke up, the air was wrong.
Sterile. Too quiet. His breath echoed. Something mechanical hummed nearby—too rhythmic to be natural.
His head throbbed, like a knife was wedged behind his eyes.
He opened them slowly.
The ceiling above him was white. Fluorescent lights buzzed. It smelled like alcohol, metal, and something beneath it— sickness.
He tried to move.
Couldn’t.
His arms were pinned—his legs too. He looked down, heart pounding, and saw thick metal cuffs bolted into a steel table. Leather straps. A clamp across his chest.
He wasn’t in a hospital.
Hospitals didn’t chain you down like an animal.
He turned his head—slowly, painfully—and saw the IV lines in his arms. Two colors— red and blue. Liquids flowing in opposite directions.
Heat in one vein.
Cold in the other.
Fire and ice.
His blood ran colder than the tube feeding into his right arm.
A low, metallic whirr echoed from a machine at his side. A monitor beeped. He squinted at the screen overhead.
SUBJECT-17: Quirk Sync Calibration: 13%
Do Not Interrupt Active Test Protocol.
He stared at it.
Then the truth hit him like a blow to the gut.
This wasn’t random.
They knew who he was. They were testing him. Studying his Quirk.
He jerked against the restraints, panic rising. He pulled harder—straining every muscle—but the leather dug deeper. A sharp, sudden pain flared across his left wrist—twisted from thrashing. He hissed.
Then—
The door slid open with a hiss.
Three figures walked in.
Clipped footsteps. White coats. Masks that obscured their faces. One held a clipboard. Another had a syringe the size of Shoto’s forearm.
“Subject has regained consciousness,” one of them said coolly, not even looking at him. “Begin secondary exposure protocol.”
Shoto’s breathing picked up. Too fast. Too shallow. He clenched his fists—tried to form ice in his palm—
Nothing.
Just the awful, paralyzing sensation of powerlessness.
“Don’t move,” the third one said casually, as if speaking to a patient.
“Fuck you,” Shoto rasped, voice raw.
The man smiled behind his mask.
Then the cold flooded in again.
Shoto arched off the table, screaming.
His vision went white.
And the pain became his world.
Time didn’t pass normally here.
There were no windows. No clocks. Only the hum of the machines and the slow, rhythmic drip… drip… drip of fluids into his veins.
The pain started in waves.
Subtle, at first—like muscle cramps under his skin. Then worse. Tightness. Pressure. Like his own blood was expanding inside him, trying to burst out through every pore.
His vision swam.
His hands shook.
Then the door opened.
Three figures stepped into the room again. The same white coats. Same surgical masks. One of them—tall, expressionless—pressed buttons on a panel mounted near Shoto’s head.
The lights dimmed to surgical white.
The room shifted from sterile silence to a place of cold, mechanical intention.
“You’re awake,” one of them noted, scribbling on a clipboard. “Good. Conscious readings during this phase are valuable.”
He wasn’t supposed to be awake for this.
He knew it. They knew it.
The fear was acid in his throat. He swallowed, but his mouth was too dry.
The restraints shifted tighter with a hiss.
One of them wheeled in a tray.
Silver tools glinted under the fluorescents—scalpels, clamps, syringes with thick needles. Bone saws. A cauterizer.
A gag reflex surged in his chest.
“Begin Quirk isolation procedure,” the scientist murmured.
They didn’t sedate him.
They didn’t even warn him.
The first cut sliced just below his collarbone.
Clean. Deep.
The scalpel was sharp, but he felt it—his skin parting, the warm gush of blood soaking through his shirt. He screamed as the pain flared red-hot, his whole body instinctively jerking, but the restraints held.
He wasn’t just restrained.
He was exposed.
One of them pulled the torn fabric of his shirt apart like wrapping paper. His own blood pooled across his stomach and chest, warm and slick.
“Subject shows high vascularity near the Quirk focal points,” another said clinically. “Begin mapping neural responses.”
They inserted a needle directly into the open wound.
Shoto shrieked.
It was a thick needle—glass and steel, attached to wires that ran to a black monitor. His body seized violently as electricity coursed through it. White-hot lightning shot through his limbs, his muscles contracting so hard he thought his bones might snap.
Then came the cold.
Something pumped through the IV—liquid nitrogen or something like it. His right arm frosted over in an instant, ice crackling under his skin, but it didn’t spread outward like his Quirk usually allowed.
It spread inward .
Freezing his nerves. His organs .
He vomited blood.
One of the scientists sighed. “Subject is beginning to destabilize. Initiate fire counterbalance.”
They burned him next.
His left arm ignited in unnatural flame—not his fire. A chemical reaction. He smelled his own skin blistering.
Tears streamed from his eyes. Not from weakness.
From fury.
This is what they wanted. To tear him apart molecule by molecule. To study what happened when he was forced to overuse both Quirk halves at once—something even he didn’t do unless he had no choice.
“You’re monsters,” he gasped, voice shaking.
They didn’t respond.
They never did.
One of them leaned over him, adjusted the restraints around his torso, and slid another needle beneath his sternum. The pressure was immense. He felt a rib crack.
That time, he didn’t scream.
He choked.
The blood clogged his throat, warm and coppery.
His body convulsed again—spasming violently. His vision blurred with a white haze, like snow falling behind his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t fight.
Only feel.
Only endure.
He blacked out.
When he awoke, the room was still humming. The restraints were still tight. But the pain…
It was everywhere.
Inside his bones. In his lungs. His fingers. His soul.
He’d been changed. Broken down.
Dissected.
Stripped bare.
A hollow ache replaced his fury. A pit that nothing could fill.
He turned his head slowly and caught his reflection in a surgical tray on the floor.
Blood smeared his face. His lips were split. His left eye swollen shut. His body looked like it had been mauled.
But it was still his face.
Still him.
Somewhere, buried deep under the agony, he clung to that thought:
I’m still here.
Time had become a weapon.
It wasn't marked by minutes or hours anymore—just by sessions .
Pain was a clock. And Shoto had lost count.
He'd been strapped down again. Same cold table. Same restraints biting into his raw wrists. Blood had dried in the creases of his elbows and beneath his fingernails. The wounds from the last procedure hadn't fully closed yet.
The room reeked of antiseptic, metal, and burnt flesh.
His flesh.
“Subject 17 has shown resilience beyond previous specimens.”
“Begin phase two: Quirk suppression and neural overwrite.”
They spoke as if he wasn’t even there.
Like he was just equipment .
Like he hadn’t been screaming into the void with every fiber of his being for the past however many days.
The older scientist approached, holding a syringe filled with something murky black—thicker than any fluid should be.
“What the hell is that…” Shoto muttered, his voice hoarse and cracked.
The man didn’t respond. He simply injected the substance directly into a catheter near Shoto’s neck.
Immediately, everything changed.
The fire inside him died.
It didn’t fade. It was ripped out.
It was like someone turned off a switch in his soul.
He gasped, his back arching. His heart raced. He tried—desperately—to summon even a flicker of heat, a spark on his palm—
Nothing.
The warmth was gone.
He screamed.
Not from pain this time.
From terror.
“You took it—what the f**k did you do—what did you do to me—”
He thrashed so violently that one of the leather straps snapped. The scientists moved quickly, tightening it again, injecting another sedative into his thigh. But he fought it with every last ounce of willpower.
His breath came in ragged sobs.
The fire was his father's.
Yes. But it was still his.
Even if it reminded him of the abuse. Even if it made his stomach turn sometimes.
It was still his .
They had stolen it.
“Subject appears to be experiencing emotional dysregulation,” one of them noted, recording his reaction like a goddamn zoo exhibit. “Begin left hemisphere suppression procedure.”
What followed was worse .
Two mechanical arms lowered from the ceiling—robotic prongs with glowing blue lights—and pressed against either side of his skull. A high-pitched whine filled the air, a sound like cicadas screaming directly into his brain.
Shoto’s muscles locked.
The prongs sent electric pulses deep into his frontal cortex—short, sharp bursts. Meant to disrupt neural pathways. Specifically, the ones that controlled his ability to regulate and balance his dual Quirks.
The pain wasn’t physical—it was inside him.
His thoughts fractured.
Memories surfaced out of order:
His mother’s fingers brushing ice from his hair.
Midoriya laughing.
His father yelling.
Fire.
So much fire.
The voices of the scientists became warped, stretched out like recordings underwater.
The machine shrieked again.
Shoto screamed with it.
Something snapped .
He felt it—not just in his head but in his soul. Like a thread had been severed.
Suddenly, his right side exploded in uncontrollable frost.
Cracks shot across the table and walls—sharp, jagged icicles piercing through the air like broken glass. One scientist yelped and ducked as a shard narrowly missed his throat.
Shoto’s body seized violently. Frost bloomed from his veins. His lips turned blue.
Too much ice. No fire to balance it.
His body convulsed harder, chest heaving, frost creeping up his jawline like a death mask.
They were killing him.
One of the scientists cursed. “Overload. Suppression too aggressive—he’s destabilizing.”
Another voice: “We’re losing the left side of his neural profile. If the fire Quirk’s integration collapses entirely—he’ll die.”
“He’s a hybrid. His system can’t survive on one half alone.”
You should’ve thought of that before, Shoto thought bitterly, as the world flickered red and white and black.
Then—
The pain stopped.
Everything just... stopped.
The table fell silent. The whine of the machine went dead. The frost halted in place.
Shoto stared at the ceiling, gasping, his body shivering uncontrollably, twitching in aftershock.
He was alive.
Barely.
But something was missing.
The fire. His fire.
It felt like there was a hole in him—burnt out and frozen all at once.
Later, when they left him in the dark again, he turned his face to the side and cried.
Not loud. Not sobbing.
Silent.
Steady.
Ashamed.
Like a child.
Because he was scared.
Because he was alone.
Because maybe this time… they really had taken something he couldn’t get back.
The lights flickered red overhead.
Sirens blared, distant and rhythmic, like a heartbeat on the edge of panic.
Something was happening.
Shoto didn’t move right away.
He didn’t
trust
it.
He’d heard sounds like this before—false alarms designed to test his reactions, or worse, to provoke them.
He lay still, his breath rattling shallowly through cracked lips. His arms ached. One of the restraints was digging into an open burn. The ice had stopped forming days ago, the suppression drug doing its job too well. His fire was gone. He was too cold to sweat and too numb to scream anymore.
He waited.
The sound came again— closer this time.
BOOM.
The walls shook.
Screams. Not his. Theirs.
That was new.
Then a voice.
His voice.
“–Where is he?!”
Shoto blinked, breath catching in his throat.
That can’t be…
Another explosion. Boots slammed down the hallway. Doors crashed open.
He heard shouting. Barked commands. Someone sobbing. Someone else begging. Another boom.
Then silence.
And then—
The door to his cell burst open in a shower of sparks and splintered metal.
He flinched, instinctively trying to roll away. The restraint on his arm stopped him with a brutal jolt.
Through bleary eyes, he saw a silhouette in the smoke.
Messy black hair.
Tired, furious eyes.
The goggles were up, the scarf shredded, his arms covered in blood— not his own —but Aizawa looked like a force of nature. Like someone who had fought through hell just to get here.
“Shoto,” Aizawa breathed, stepping forward. “God… kid—”
Shoto tried to speak, but his throat was raw. He managed a strangled, “Is it really you?”
Aizawa crossed the room in three strides.
“I’m here,” he said firmly, crouching beside the table. His voice was low but cracked at the edges. “It’s me. I’ve got you now.”
Shoto’s lips trembled.
He didn’t believe it. Couldn’t.
He expected hands gloved in cold rubber and more injections.
But instead—
Warm fingers. Real. Solid.
Aizawa cupped the side of his face. Not forcefully. Not to hold him down.
Just… there. Anchoring.
Shoto shuddered.
“Don’t—don’t touch the left arm,” he rasped. “They—burned it. Injected—something.”
Aizawa’s jaw clenched. His eyes scanned the table, the wires, the filth, the dried blood staining the restraints. Every inch of his posture screamed rage, but his hands stayed gentle.
“They’re not touching you again,” Aizawa whispered.
And then, voice tighter: “I’m sorry it took so long.”
Something broke in Shoto then.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But a tear slipped free.
Then another.
The shame burned more than the wounds. He tried to turn his face away, but Aizawa didn’t let him.
“You held on,” Aizawa said quietly. “That’s all I ever needed you to do.”
Shoto closed his eyes.
He didn’t remember when Aizawa cut the restraints. He didn’t remember falling forward into his arms. But he remembered the way the warmth returned for just a second.
Not fire.
Not his Quirk.
But a different warmth—one that said he wasn’t alone anymore.
That he was seen. Found. Loved.
He was wrapped in a blanket. IVs in both arms. Oxygen mask fitted to his face.
But he was conscious.
Aizawa sat beside him, still smeared with blood and grime. Every so often, he’d glance over and brush a hand through Shoto’s hair, like checking he was still there.
Shoto reached out—fingers trembling—and clutched his teacher’s sleeve.
“I thought I’d die in there,” he whispered.
“You didn’t,” Aizawa replied. “Because you're too stubborn. Just like me.”
A shaky laugh. A half-sob.
“Is it gone?” Shoto asked. “My fire…?”
Aizawa’s expression tightened. “We don’t know yet. But Recovery Girl and the others are already preparing to evaluate. Whatever they did—we’ll fight it.”
He added, quieter, “And if you want it back… we’ll find a way.”
There was a pause.
“Even if we don’t,” Shoto murmured, voice rasping, “will I still be... me?”
Aizawa met his eyes, and for a moment, the weight of everything they’d both endured hung between them.
“You are not your Quirk,” Aizawa said. “You never were.”