Work Text:
Once, there was an old Arabic man walking across the span of a beach. It was something he did fairly frequently, often enough to see some of the same faces as the breeze soothed scattered thoughts.
However, one day, the old man saw a new face.
A young foreign man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age dressed in a black suit with a red tie lounging on a bench in the shade, eyes obscured by a pair of opaque shades and green hair dancing in the wind with a black briefcase in his lap.
His curiosity piqued, the old man approached the young one and asked “Good evening young man, might I ask what you're doing today? It is quite rare to see one of your age enjoying the moment after all.”
In response, the young man allowed a small, bemused smile to cross his face and answered the old man, in near flawless Arabic, with “Me? Nothin really. I’m just… watchin the day bleed away.”
“Hmm… well then, have you seen anything interesting in Time’s bleeding wound?” the older man asked while sitting down upon the young man’s bench.
“I cannot truly say. These eyes of mine can see the wound, its cause, and the scar it will become. Yet they are blind to what it bleeds.” The young man mused, turning his gaze upward to the branches of the tree and the sky that laid past them.
“Oh? Then it seems you see more than most.” The old man observed.
“Perhaps, but I also see less.” The young man retorted.
“The price of perception. For everything one can see, they are forever blind to what they cannot.” The old man observed, reaching into his coat and removing a wooden box that he then opened to reveal a pipe, matches, and tobacco.
“Such is the way of things.” The young man agreed while the old man packed his pipe.
“Indeed.” The old man declared with a nod as he struck a match against the bottom of his shoe and used it to light his pipe.
Raising the pipe to his mouth, the old man took the first drag, savoring the taste of the smoke before letting it free in a cloud that danced in front of him for only a moment before the breeze carried it away.
“Might I ask you your name, Young Man?” The old man asked, listening to the waves crash against the shore.
“My name… I cannot claim those words to be solely mine anymore. I am simply “I” and that “I” has been called Izuku Midoriya by those separate from it.” The young man introduced himself, obscured eyes still cast to the heavens barred by branches.
“I see…” the old man nodded, closing his eyes as the weight of his compatriot’s words fell upon him, allowing the breeze to lessen the blow.
However, by the time the old man opened his eyes once again to respond and introduce his own being, the young man who spoke as if his age was infinitely larger than what it seemed had gone.
Like the clouds of smoke that floated for only a moment, he was now forever lost to the wind.
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“How does it feel, to treat me like you do? When you've laid your hands upon me and told me who you are?” the young man mumbled to himself, singing along to a song that had lodged itself in his head as he walked down the winding hill path lit only by the moon and the stars.
Light that was absorbed by the black case in his left hand and reflected by the revolver in his right.
“I thought I was mistaken, I thought I heard your words, Tell me, how do I feel? Tell me now, how do I feel?” the young man continued to mutter, thumb cocking back the hammer and finger wrapping around the trigger as he looked deeper into the forest, and down the hill.
There she was, lit by the moon and visible for all to see as she leaned against the tree, taking in massive gasps of air and wiping away the blood from the many cuts and scrapes she had acquired by running through the undergrowth.
Miss Violet Jack.
“Those who came before me, lived through their vocations, from the past until completion, they'll turn away no more.” He continued, watching her over the rims of his sunglasses with fascination as she gasped and bled.
“And still, I find it so hard to say what I need to say. But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me just how I should feel today…” the young man, no longer muttering now, continued while raising his gun and taking aim.
Miss Purple Jack, still panting, then looked towards the young man aiming the gun towards her.
She looked him directly in his pair of silver, glowing eyes.
She looked him directly in the eyes, as he squeezed the trigger of a revolver that looked like it could blow her head off her neck.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Shooting up from her bed with a gasp, Kyoka Jirou grabbed her head to check if it was still there.
After ensuring she still had a head, she promptly flopped backwards on to the bed. Chest still heaving for air as her heart beat like a drum in a speed metal track.
The early morning was creeping into the room, slowly filling it with ugly, sickly, silver gray light. The type of early morning light that made you nauseous to look at, the type that made you feel like you were the only person still alive in the entire world.
“Ffffffuuuuuuuuuck…” the young woman hissed, adrenaline shooting through her body as the echoes of that…
That…
Dammit.
Why the hell can’t she call that thing what it was?
It was a…
Damn.
Damn.
Damn.
“Fuck me. I know what it was. Why the hell does it matter if I can’t name the fuckin thing.” Jirou hissed to herself, tossing her covers away and rolling out of bed.
Yet… even as she did… she could still feel them boring through her.
She could still feel those damned silver eyes.
Mister Silver, even after the nightmare was over, was still looking at her.
Oh, there it was.
She had finally managed to name it.
“Hell. Bout’ damn time that word spat itself out.” Jirou muttered to herself as her bare feet slapped against the floor of her room, carrying her away from her bed and to the restroom.
She needed a shower. Needed to shake this thing off.
Tossing her threadbare, two sizes too big Deep Dope shirt behind her and stripping out of her shorts and boxers, Jirou kicked the door to the restroom closed behind her and shivered as the ice cold tile kissed her skin.
She couldn’t quite say if the tile alone was the only reason though.
Especially when she looked in the mirror and saw that her body was covered in scratches and scrapes.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Shakily walking down the stairs after putting on a fresh set of clothes, Jirou’s still reeling mind attempted to rationalize the wounds on her body as… something. Something completely unrelated to her nightmare.
Then, as if the world was taunting her, her half present mind caught the sound of her parents listening to the morning news.
“-In other news: a body was found this morning in Mustafu Conservatory Park. The victim, Ryo Takemura, was a retired postal worker and his death is believed to have been a suicide. He is survived by his wife and two children. Now, on to the weather.” The newscaster blankly recited with a dull, monotone voice. As if she was simply reading a passage out of a book.
As the words registered, Jirou caught the quickly fading sound of her mother saying “Damn… that’s fucked.” Followed by her dad muttering “Those poor kids…”
Jirou wasn’t able to catch the rest, last night’s Nightmare screaming back to the forefront of her mind.
Except… she was starting to realize something.
It wasn’t a nightmare.
It was… real.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
She took the long way home. Needed to cool off after a rough school day filled with tests, social self-immolation, and knocking bullies, punks, and jackasses down a few pegs.
She wasn’t too concerned about taking the scenic route. After all, her parents were gonna be working late in the studio and it gave her some much needed time to rough some things out in her head.
She had already decided what she was going to do. Problem is, you can’t exactly go into hero work without a defined style. Something that she had the outline of, but none of the details to color it in with.
PUNK, ROCK, SOUND, and… something else. Something found deeper down in her. Something she didn’t have a name for. Something in… the core of her being.
The young woman sat down on a bench, jacks absentmindedly whirling and dancing through the air as her mind tried to dig into the root of her soul.
Unfortunately, her mind was cut off by the sound of twigs snapping and a sharp blow landing on the side of her head.
After that… it’s all a blur until that guy, Mister Silver, showed up.
But that doesn’t make sense.
That gun fired, it was pointed at her.
Or… was it.
Was that bullet actually meant for her?
Or… was its target that dead guy. The retired postman.
Wait, if that’s what happened, then why did they say his death was a suicide?
Something wasn’t adding up.
What happened last night? What went down in that park? And what in the world did she do to get caught up in the middle of it.
There were only two people who could answer those questions.
The first one was the man who’s dead: The Postman.
The second was…
“Mister Silver, perhaps?”
Jirou jumped, the unfamiliar voice crawling into her ears and slithering down her spine.
She wasn’t in her home anymore.
She didn’t know where she was.
All she knew was that she was in a ornate metal chair, an empty table in front of her, all of which was placed on a beach.
Where was she? Who was talking? What the-
Before her mind could catch up to the world around her, the voice spoke again. Stepping into her field of view.
“Good morning, Miss Violet Jack. Might I interest you in some tea?” the young man with green hair asked, a platter holding a tea pot, cups, and sugar, all of which were below a pair of closed eyes.
But…
She knew who he was. Or at least she knew she called him.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Would you like sugar?” the young man with closed eyes asked, placing the platter on the table.
“Answer me dammit!”
“I suspected as much. You don’t seem like the type to enjoy sugar.” The young man continued, ignoring her questions or simply not caring enough to answer them.
Jirou, understandably, was pissed by this. As such, she lashed out by swinging her arm to the side, sending the platter, pot, cups, and sugar flying through the air and crashing to the ground.
The young man did not seem to be fazed by this. Not outwardly at least.
“Not one for pleasantries I see.” The young man observed, his voice now strained and carrying an edge of homicidal rage despite his smile.
It was at this time that Jirou remembered that Mister Silver here had a revolver and, as far as she knew, no qualms about killing a stranger and passing it off as a suicide.
“Sorry… just… ugh… can you please tell me who you are?” Jirou asked, attempting to bring things down a few pegs.
Thankfully, it seemed to have worked.
“Of course. My name, although it no longer belongs to me alone, is Izuku Midoriya.” The young man answered while sitting down in the chair across from her, his eyes still closed.
Jirou raised an eyebrow at this.
“How the fuck can your name not be yours? Ain’t that the point of having a name?” the purple haired young woman muttered.
Midoriya chuckled before responding.
“Let me put it in a way that makes more sense. If a guitar is made for mass production that passes all the pre-requisite tests, fits all the criteria for mass production, and then goes onto the production line to be sold across the world, how many of that guitar exist?” the young man asked, attempting to explain his situation in a way that made sense.
This only served to make Jirou more confused.
“So… you’re like, some sort of clone? Or are there clones of you?” the punk wondered, getting the vibe but not the point.
“Not… quite. I’m only one existence, but that existence can manifest infinitely in different ways and in different places separate from their origin.” Izuku attempted to explain once more.
Once again, he didn’t quite stick the landing.
“Are… are you fucking with me right now?” Jirou asked with a glare.
“No? Just… listen, I don’t think either of us has the patience to go through a lecture in quantum physics and mechanics, so I’ll just give you an example.” Izuku responded with a groan before turning his attention to the scattered tea set and opening his eyes.
Instantly, a cold sensation flooded over Jirou as the world seemed to slow to a crawl, slowed even further, and then stopped.
Then, just like in the woods before, his eyes began to glow.
The waves began to recede, the wind reversed, and everything aside from the two of them was outlined in silver, including the tea set.
Then color fell from the world, followed by texture, sound, smell, and taste, leaving only those outlines and…
Oh god.
She saw it.
Him.
Them.
Like Magritte’s Golconda, there were countless reflections of the man who sat before her, all of them looking the exact same.
Black suit, red tie, green hair, and silver eyes.
All of them were looking directly at her.
Then as quickly as it started, it ended.
And before her on the table?
The tea set she had scattered across the ground, looking as if it hadn’t touched it at all.
“Now then, would you like some tea, Miss Violet Jack?”
“Do you have anything stronger?”