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The child, barely appearing older than five-years-old, stared, horrified and confused, at the red liquid seeping from underneath the truck. Something odd was spattered on the road, reeking of iron and coated in the same red liquid. There were chunks of white things the child numbly realizes are bones. The same realization came upon the red liquid, identifying it as blood, the substance that leaks from his scrapes he earns whenever falling or playing with Kacchan. But it never appeared in the amount that was under the truck. He cried and his mother would fret with hesitance akin to handling glass dishes, dishes he was often scolded for being too rough with when he was younger, more at the age of a toddler. The blood would be gone with a bandage applied by his father, with All Might’s smile beaming at him, and a kiss to make the pain go away. No one was there to help the man under the truck. His father, who had thrown him away from the hurt he was likely experiencing, was under there. Briefly, he notes the dull pain throbbing against his temple, signifying that he hit the ground harder than he realized. The shock at the situation was too great to properly comprehend anything; too much on the young child’s still-developing mind. “HISASHI!” cried his mother, her voice holding something he never heard from her before. Anguish plaguing every syllable with a hoarse tone telling him that she was crying. He couldn’t look at her though, too entranced by the blood that continued to pool from under the thrown truck. His mother screamed something else, incomprehensible in her sobbing state, and Izuku was conflicted on whether he should kiss his father’s ouchies or turn around and pat his mother’s arm to comfort her. In his contemplation, he barely missed the sign that flew past his face, clipping the skin on his cheek and his ear. The force of the wind, and the blow that resulted in a warmness on his face and ear as something flowed down his face, knocked the child back to the floor with a cry. Tears easily poured from his eyes and his attention was drawn from his father under the truck, to the pain on his face and odd feeling it brought upon him. He wailed, sniffling and hissing as his tears touched the burning-hot pain on the right side of his face, making his injury hurt more than he was used to. In search of comfort, he turns for his mother, only to stutter to an abrupt stop at her appearance. She was covered in dust, green strands of hair framing her red-rimmed eyes and standing up in odd places. It looked as if her hair had gone through a wind tunnel, all over the place and covered in tiny pieces of debris from the fight still ongoing. The fight didn’t particularly scare the child. It will be alright in the end anyways, the hero always won! No matter the hardship. At least, that was what Izuku knew. Villains were too evil to win! The child’s thoughts returned back to his mother, following her eyes to the truck where his father lay underneath. He was fine though, right? He always got up, even when Izuku and him played and he won as the Hero, Mighty Might! So, why was his mother crying so much? Wobbling to his feet, he shuffles over to the woman who birthed him, his face growing numb and cold. He felt dizzy, and his body felt really heavy, but his mama needed help. And he was going to be a hero! So, he could save her like he always did and pull her out from under the blanket with a cry of “I’M HERE” and she would smile. But, when he approached and she locked eyes on his disheveled form, she didn’t smile. He attempted his best smile, grinning so large that it split his face in two, ignoring the ache that resulted in the process. The tears in his eyes remained and he tugged at her shirt, leaning over her kneeled, cowering self. “I’m here, mama!” He attempted with a weak, cracking voice, barely lifting above a whisper. He didn’t realize his throat hurt so much, “We can get papa and go home, right?” Something flicked like a switch inside his mother’s head, the pieces clicking into place and painting a morphed picture for the hysteria-grief-driven woman. Her shining eyes almost seemed to dry under the fire that lit inside that fierce, green gaze. She yanked her sleeve from the child’s grip, an angry, self-righteous scowl marring her usually kind features. It looked unnatural on her soft, round face, surprising Izuku at the change in his mother. He flinches violently when her manicured hand encircles his tiny wrist, yanking him to her harshly with an unkind grip that hurts him. Inko glares with the fury of a thousand suns, making her son shrink under the furious stare. He tries to retreat from the situation, taking a meek step back as his body screamed for him to get away from this woman who is always so kind and gentle with him. Not this new person that he can’t recognize under the anger and anguish in her green eyes that were once so vibrant, now a dark color that reminded the child of the villain he saw on TV that had a plant quirk he was so interested in. He is unable to leave the grip, the woman only holds on tighter, making the child whimper at the pain that blossoms from the unexpected grip. “This is your fault,” she whispered to him breathlessly, voice holding a weight that made it sound true, “you did this.” Her seething tone, had him avert his gaze nervously, unused to confrontation. Kacchan was the confrontational one, always exploding his quirk from his palms and screaming at people to “get away from his side-kick.” Her grip only increased at his lack of eye contact, forcing tears from his eyes as he felt something move in a way it wasn’t supposed to in his wrist. He flinches, suddenly terrified and struggling to keep his breathing under control, as an explosion rocks the ground once again. The woman who was once his mother barely pays attention to the commotion, choosing to take her time punishing the child who apparently caused his father pain. “B-but-” he whimpered, legs shaking underneath him, “w-what did I d-do? T-this h-urts mama- c-” the child gulps, “can y-you st-op?” Inko chuckles something hysterically, shaking her head as if amused by the child’s confusion as he stutters past the weight in his throat constricting him. “He’s dead because of you!” She screeches, “I should’ve never had you!” “You should've died instead of Hisashi.”