Chapter Text
All men are not created equal.
This is the reality of society that I learned at the age of four.
—
The wind battered the airplane as it crossed the endless blue of the Pacific. Izuku pressed his forehead to the window, watching clouds slip past beneath him. He’d never left Japan before. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel.
They landed in New York to a world of noise. The terminal was a flood of voices and fluorescent lights, foreign words echoing off hard floors. Inko held his hand tightly, her palm damp with nerves as they spotted Hisashi waving from the arrivals hall. The reunion was awkward, Hisashi’s English-accented Japanese was clumsy, his smile too wide, too brittle.
As they walked outside, Hisashi tried to fill the silence, pointing out yellow taxis, the smell of pretzels, the promise of “real American burgers.” Izuku barely registered his words, eyes wandering over the city’s jagged skyline, the strangeness of it all pressing close.
The moment slashed open with a blare of horns.
Tires screamed. Metal shrieked and folded. The world spun, a violent, senseless ballet of glass and blood. When Izuku opened his eyes, the sky was upside down. Everything was red. Hisashi was slumped against the wheel. Inko’s hand had slipped from his, slick and cold.
He could not make a sound. His mouth tasted of copper and dust.
He crawled, somehow, out of the broken door, knees scraping the concrete. People shouted; someone screamed. Shadows flickered over him, but no one stopped, no one saw a small boy, blood soaking through his travel clothes, shivering on the curb.
He stared at his hands. They shook, but he did not cry.
A woman’s shadow fell across him. She was tall, veiled, her eyes unreadable. Talia al Ghul looked down, gaze cool and sharp as a blade. For a moment, she watched the chaos, paramedics running, police shouting, the crowd pressing in. Then her attention fixed on him.
She crouched, voice low and precise in Japanese, “Do you have anyone left?”
Izuku’s mouth worked, but no words came. He gave the smallest, barest nod.
Talia’s eyes narrowed, something flickering there—pity, calculation, or both. She offered her hand, gloved and steady.
“Come with me.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But when she stood, her hand still extended, he reached for it with fingers that barely remembered warmth.
He did not look back.
—
Izuku’s days dissolved into a blur of bruises and foreign words, the past receding behind a curtain of exhaustion and discipline. The League’s world was sharp and cold. Every lesson was a test of endurance, every mistake paid for in fresh aches and new scars.
He learned to fight first, how to move without telegraphing intent, how to take a fall and rise again before the pain could catch up. Merciless trainers barked orders in Arabic. When he faltered, they did not slow. He learned to keep up, or be left behind.
Anatomy was taught with cold detachment by doctors who never smiled. Survival meant map after map, cipher after cipher, history lessons that bled into weapon drills. His world shrank to the edge of a blade and the weight of a book.
Talia watched over it all, her approval measured in silence and the rare, deliberate correction. She chose his instructors personally, and changed his schedule on a whim. Izuku learned to adapt, to read the shifting ground beneath his feet.
He was always the youngest in the room, always the smallest. But he refused to yield. When he was thrown to the mat, he rose. When a lesson ended in failure, he stayed behind, repeating the exercise until his muscles shook.
He was battered, but never broken. The pain became background noise, another lesson to master.
He never does develop a quirk. But In the League, power was measured by precision, by will. When the tests came and went, and no ability manifested, Izuku buried the disappointment with everything else he couldn’t afford to feel.
—
Several months into Izuku’s stay at Nanda Parbat, the League’s whispers shifted. Damian was born–the heir, the blood son, the one Talia called her own. The halls grew colder, the expectations sharper. Izuku watched from the shadows as Talia inspected the infant, already planning his future with the same ruthless precision she’d applied to Izuku’s training.
Brother. The word felt foreign, delicate in his mouth. Yet it was not a title given lightly in the League, nor one Izuku took for granted. If anything, the arrival hardened his resolve. He was not blood, but he would be indispensable.
He doubled his efforts—memorizing languages, dissecting strategy, enduring spar after spar until bruises layered over bruises. Sleep became another lesson in discipline; rest was earned, not given. He studied late into the night by lantern light, tracing maps and ciphers with aching hands, replaying every lesson Talia assigned him, every order barked by his tutors.
When Damian grew old enough to walk, Izuku became his shadow, his tutor, sparring partner, and protector. He taught Damian to read, to fight, to calculate risk and recite League doctrine. And each time Damian scowled in frustration or challenged Izuku’s authority, Izuku only pushed himself harder. He would be the best, if not the chosen.
If he could not be family by blood, he would be family by skill, by loyalty, by sheer, unyielding will.
And so Izuku learned, and learned, and learned—because it was all he could do, and because he did not know how to stop.
—
Years blurred together, marked only by the rhythm of bruises and lessons. Izuku, no longer just the orphan Talia had rescued, became a fixture at Damian’s side, his guide and, sometimes, his shield. It was Izuku’s quiet hand that adjusted Damian’s grip on a blade, Izuku’s voice that drilled him through ancient texts and ciphered war journals, Izuku’s patience that endured Damian’s prodigious arrogance and bottomless rage.
In the training room, Damian bristled under correction, lips twisting in a scowl as Izuku nudged his stance or tapped his elbow into place. “You’re too tense,” Izuku would say, voice steady, “You’ll telegraph the strike.” Damian would snap back, always proud, always angry—yet he listened.
Their sparring was brutal, competitive, and wordless. Both boys bore the pressure of legacy: one made on an impulse, the other by design. They fought to win, but also to teach, each strike a lesson, each bruise a reminder of how far they still had to go. Sometimes, in rare moments between dusk and dawn, they would collapse side by side, breathless and battered, finding a strange comfort in shared exhaustion.
With time, respect grew, a wary mutual understanding forged in pain and effort. Izuku became more than a tutor. He was Damian’s confidant, the person Damian trusted to keep his secrets and his pride. In quiet moments, Izuku was the only one Damian allowed to see him fail.
Above it all, Ra’s watched from the shadows, eyes unreadable. He never spoke Izuku’s name in the same breath as his “family,” but he could not deny the results. Damian was sharper, colder, deadlier—thanks to the boy who was never meant to be there.
Izuku never forgot his place. But in Damian, he found the closest thing to belonging the League would ever allow.
—
Damian’s glare was sharp enough to cut. “You’re holding it wrong. That isn’t what Mother showed me.”
Izuku’s reply was calm, almost cold. “Your stance is too rigid. You’ll lose your balance if someone sweeps your legs.” He stepped behind Damian, nudging his foot into place, ignoring the younger boy’s bristling.
Damian jerked away, voice rising. “You are not my brother. You are not even blood.”
Izuku’s expression didn’t falter. He shrugged, voice flat. “That doesn’t matter. You’re stuck with me anyway.” There was no malice in the words, just resignation.
Damian scoffed, chin high. “Tt. I don’t need your help.”
Izuku allowed himself a small, sly smile. “Then prove it. Try to land a hit.”
They moved. The spar was fierce, silent except for the slap of feet against the ground and the sharp exhale of their breath. Damian attacked with precision, frustration fueling each strike. Izuku absorbed the blows, countered, corrected, never quite letting Damian win. Not until Damian’s blade flicked past his guard, drawing a thin line of red across Izuku’s arm.
Izuku stilled, then smiled—proud, almost gentle. “See? Better already.”
For a moment, Damian looked away, lips pressed thin, refusing to acknowledge the praise. But Izuku could see it, the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, the silent trust growing between them.
—
Prague, Czech Republic, Winter, 3:17 AM
Izuku crouched on the slanted copper roof of a centuries-old townhouse, his breath ghosting in the chill wind. The city was a maze of narrow streets and black river water, old stone and new glass, the kind of place where secrets had made their home. He counted the footsteps below, watched the flicker of a guard’s cigarette through a rain-streaked window, and waited.
He was small for his age, wiry and sharp-eyed, with hair cropped close and clothes dark enough to disappear in any alley. The League had made sure of that. They’d made sure of everything.
He slid a gloved hand into his jacket and checked the time on the battered wristwatch Talia had given him. He had seven minutes before the next patrol circled the block. Plenty.
He dropped from the roof, landing silently as a falling leaf in the wet gutter behind the estate. Across the courtyard, a single security light buzzed, throwing a pale arc of yellow over the rear servants’ entrance. The window above was cracked open, just as it'd been left earlier in the night.
He moved quickly, fingers finding the edge of the drainpipe, boots braced for the climb. The metal was slick but sturdy. He ascended in near silence, pushing up with knees and toes, arms flexing with the easy strength of relentless training. At the top, he paused, listening for the scrape of shoes or the rustle of fabric, anything to suggest he’d been detected. Nothing.
He slipped through the window, dropping lightly onto the hardwood floor of the upper study. The room smelled of paper, ink, and the faint ozone tang of the aged light fixtures. He scanned the space: antique desk, glass cases full of books and curios, his gaze following towards a safe set into the wall behind a faded tapestry.
The League’s target was simple: obtain the dossier locked in the safe. The client, a man he’d never met, whose name he’d only seen once in a coded briefing, wanted the information on a politician’s contacts, proof of something that would topple a government or start a war or make a fortune. Izuku didn’t care. His job was to retrieve, not to judge.
He padded across the room, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard he’d mapped out hours before. At the desk, he pulled a slim pouch from his belt and unrolled a set of lockpicks, tools he’d mastered before he could read.
The safe was old, mechanical, but well-maintained. He pressed an ear to the cold steel, turning the dial with slow, measured precision. The tumblers whispered secrets to him, each click a step closer. Twenty seconds later, the lock yielded with a soft click. He swung the door open.
Inside, the dossier rested atop a stack of passports and a pistol. He took only the folder, slipping it into a waterproof bag and tucking it against his back. He left everything else untouched.
He checked the hallway—empty. He moved with purpose now, retracing his steps to the window, pausing only to listen for any change in the house’s rhythm. The League had drilled him in hundreds of languages, dozens of accents, the art of blending in and vanishing before anyone knew he was there. He, he spoke flawless Czech, could mimic the cadence of a street vendor or a bored aristocrat. But tonight, he was a ghost.
Back on the roof, he flattened himself against the tiles as a security guard passed below, a flashlight beam sweeping the yard. Izuku counted down, then dropped to the gutter, rolled, and vanished into the alley. He navigated by instinct: left at the crumbling arch, right past the dumpster, a quick hop over a locked garden gate. Within two minutes, he was three streets away, face shadowed by his hood, posture slouched into the nondescript gait of a local boy out too late.
He ducked into a shuttered shopfront, peeled off his gloves, and checked the dossier. The League’s instructions were precise: verify the documents, then deliver. He scanned the pages, mind flickering through languages—Russian, French, German—absorbing names, dates, bank codes, and memorizing key details in case he ever needed to recall them.
Satisfied, he resealed the bag and moved on. He passed two police cars—one idling at a corner, the other parked outside a bar. Neither gave him a second glance. He’d chosen his disguise well: black boots, a battered hoodie, the kind of face nobody remembered the next day.
At the rendezvous, a church square empty except for frozen puddles and the statue of a saint with a broken nose, he waited. The contact was a man in his thirties, face hidden behind a scarf, eyes sharp with paranoia.
Izuku said the code phrase in flawless Polish, watched the man’s shoulders relax, and handed over the bag.
The man nodded, slipped him a coin—a League marker, cold and heavy in Izuku’s palm—and vanished into the dark.
Mission complete.
Izuku lingered a moment, watching the man’s retreat. He let the silence of the city fill him. He felt no triumph, no excitement—just the dull, familiar satisfaction of a job done right. He’d been here before, in cities all across the world: London, Istanbul, Marrakesh, Hong Kong. Each mission was different, but the shapes of the night never changed.
He turned and melted into the city, already planning his route back to the safehouse. He would report in, clean his gear, and write a mission summary for Talia or Ra’s or whichever handler was assigned tonight. Then he would sleep—a few hours, maybe—before rising to train again.
He moved through Prague like a shadow, never stopping, never lingering, always alert. A stray dog barked somewhere in the dark. Izuku ignored it, slipping past neon-lit storefronts and shuttered cafes, blending into the ebb and flow of the city’s sleepless night.
He didn’t think about the people in the house, the consequences of the documents he’d stolen, the lives that might change or end because of what he’d done. That wasn’t his concern. He was a tool, a whisper in the dark, a name only spoken in code.
He’d been raised for this.
And tonight, once again, the world would wake up changed, never knowing who had passed through its shadows.
—
Mission after mission blurred together: espionage, memorizing guard rotations, cracking safes, thefts, almost always ending with blood on his hands. Each assignment stripped something away from him, but added a new edge to the weapon he was becoming. Hesitation faded. Compassion dulled. He learned to ignore the tremor in his hands when the job was done.
Returning to Nanda Parbat sometimes felt like surfacing from underwater. That day, the halls were too quiet. Servants kept their eyes low. From the far side of the courtyard, Izuku heard the echo of raised voices, then Talia’s unmistakable command.
He rounded a corner and froze. Talia was dragging a limp, broken boy toward the Lazarus Pit, her expression unreadable. The boy’s face was pale and slack, his body slack as a doll’s. Izuku recognized the signs of death, he’d seen them often enough.
He stayed in the shadows, watching as the green light of the pit flickered over the stone walls. Talia murmured something he couldn’t hear, then pushed the boy in. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the pit began to churn.
Izuku’s breath caught as the boy—Jason, he would later learn—exploded from the Lazarus waters, gasping, screaming, alive and feral. The sound echoed in Izuku’s bones, old fear mingling with a grim, hollow sympathy. He’d seen miracles twisted into curses before.
He did not approach. He simply watched, silent and wary, as the League’s newest revenant thrashed in the arms of his own resurrection. Another weapon, another lost soul. In the League, that was all any of them were.
Izuku turned away, jaw clenched, and steeled himself for whatever came next.
—
The weeks after Jason’s return were jagged and raw. He was a live wire, violent, volatile, eyes always burning with something Izuku recognized as hunger and hurt. Servants gave him a wide berth. Damian eyed him with open suspicion. Most of the League merely watched, waiting to see if he would break.
Izuku, however, was unafraid. He approached Jason in the training hall with the same calm he’d use with a wounded animal, careful and quiet, never flinching from the violence. At first, their sparring was wordless, all blows and bruises, the air thick with unsaid things. Jason fought like he wanted to hurt someone. Izuku fought like he’d already learned pain was a language.
One day, as sweat dripped from his brow and bruises bloomed along his arms, Jason grunted, “You fight like a Bat.”
Izuku, lips quirking into a rare smirk, replied, “I learn fast.”
Something shifted after that. Silence gave way to short, sardonic exchanges. They didn’t speak about the pit, or Gotham, or the ghosts that haunted both of them. But they understood each other, both survivors, both weapons forged in someone else’s war.
Damian joined them sometimes, prickly and proud, quick to criticize Jason’s form or Izuku’s tactics, but always returning for the next round. The three of them, for all their scars and secrets, fell into a wary rhythm, a team built on bruises and mutual respect.
—
One afternoon, as dusk bled through the high windows, Jason slumped against the cold stone wall, breath ragged after another brutal round. Shadows carved sharp lines across his face; his knuckles were raw. He shot a glance at Izuku, voice rough. “Why do you stick around here? The League isn’t exactly the nicest place to grow up.”
Izuku met his gaze, unflinching. His answer was almost a whisper, but there was no tremor in it. “Perhaps. But it’s all I have left.”
Jason looked away, jaw clenched in understanding and anger, both too old for their faces, haunted the silence.
“Yeah,” Jason muttered, voice softer. “I get that.”
They sat there, the weight of things unsaid pressing down. The word “brother” never crossed either of their lips, but in the League, words weren’t needed. Shared scars and quiet endurance spoke for them. For a moment, bruised and breathing in the half-light, they weren’t just survivors, they were something like family, in the only way the League allowed.
—
At twelve, Izuku was back in America, slipping through alleyways, earpiece humming with instructions. The night smelled of oil and rain. He moved with the precision of muscle memory, every step calculated, every movement mapped out.
He paused by a flickering newsstand, the headlines blaring in English he barely registered until one title cut through the static: Joker escapes Arkham again—police warn public.
The world seemed to narrow to a pinprick. He stared, pulse hammering, as Jason’s words echoed in his mind, his death and resurrection, the rage that the League had never managed to burn out of either of them.
His hands curled into fists. The earpiece buzzed with League chatter, but he barely heard it. The mission didn’t matter, not now.
He turned away from the newsstand, heart cold and clear.
Izuku made the easiest decision of his life.