Chapter Text
Cold isn't just a lack of heat; it's the lack of feeling. It is a numbness or emotional distance. The forcing down of compassion and freezing of the blood with apathy. It’s a weapon to be wielded against others and a shield against the world. Against heroes and anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way.
The cold is Wakimaeru’s strongest ally and worst enabler. It allows him to do terrible and sometimes necessary things in the name of survival. Helps him to be the bastard holding the gun rather than the sucker on the other end.
It also keeps him from knowing when to stop and run. Blinds his eyes and bites his ears till he can’t tell that the grave he’s digging is his own. Numbs his fingers until he can’t move them to put down the shovel. So he digs, and digs, and digs himself down further and further. Small crimes turn to big ones. Stolen wallets and jewelry become stolen children and organs.
Someday the snow and ice will melt, leaving him to drown in his crimes. In the sorrow he has created and the blood he’s shed. Wakimaeru lives on borrowed time and stolen lives and luck that’ll run out someday. He knows this and fights it everyday for one more tomorrow, and one more tomorrow, and one more tomorrow. Day after day.
Stone cold eyes scan through potential targets. They don’t linger too long on people with obvious mutations, like the boy with red wings. Organs from those with mutant quirks have high rejection rates, making them useless to him. They’re not worth the trouble, even if you know what you’re looking for.
His eyes slide next to a child with fizzing fireworks bursting from his hands. Wakimaeru quickly marks him down as a no way in hell . He can practically feel the burns and hear sirens already. The young man quickly observes his surroundings to make sure it’s just his imagination. Cause yeah" he’s paranoid. He’s a criminal with over a dozen deaths on his soul-
Quirkless , Wakimaeru’s quirk diagnoses as his gaze slides over a head of green hair. His hawk-like stare locks upon the target with the intensity of a starving vulture. Jackpot.
Guess who’s not getting his ass kicked today, he thinks. Giddy with the relief of guaranteed success. No quirk. No fight. No surprises.
Oh how wrong he is.
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“Where the hell is Deku?” Bakugou Katsuki growls, prowling through the park like a hell hound on the hunt. His crimson eyes scour anything even slightly green with ferocity, as if daring it to continue hiding his best friend. Tsubasu and the others lag behind him hesitantly. Wide eyed and worried, they watch the shadows grow and shaky hands spark. The growl of their stomachs is loud against the quiet of an almost empty park.
“Maybe we should yell we give up,” Tsubasu suggests reasonably, his wings pulled close to keep himself warm as the sun fades. “Then she’ll come out and we can go home.”
Most of the other boys nod along, eager to get home and be warm and full. Katsuki, to put it mildly, has a very different idea.
“Hell no extras! We’re not leaving until I fucking win. Got that,” Katsuki demands. Turning to glare at his ‘friends’ with blazing eyes, daring them to speak against him. The sparks in his hands burn an almost hypnotic orange and the others follow without question for half an hour more. Shadows both physical and mental closing in around them like vultures around a corpse.
“Katsuki where’s Izuku? It’s almost time to take him home.” The boy bites back a snarl as that name hits his ears like a rock to the head. For a moment, Katsuki is almost glad they have not found his soul-sister yet That she is not here to wince and wilt and be force herself to reassure Masaru nothing is wrong. Forced to pretend to be someone she isn’t because adults can be stupid.
“I don’t know,” The blonde whispers. The admission is strained and painful, comparable to being forced to swallow gunpowder. And wherever there is gunpowder, there is always a risk of explosion.
“What did you say Katsuki?”
“I said I don’t know!” Katsuki shouts, his anger burning like a fire in his throat. He isn’t quite sure what he is angry at but oh he is angry. Angry at the world for being terrible and at the adults for not changing that. Pissed at Auntie Inko and the others for not catching on and reassuring them. For them not making sure Izumi knows she will be loved no matter what. He is mad at Izumi herself for getting herself lost and for being scared. For not believing in Auntie Inko and his parents because a few little shits say she has too many soulmarks.
“What do you mean you don’t know? Katsuki please, where is Izuku?” Masaru kneels before his son, places a hand on his shoulder, and looks him dead in the eye. The plea is like water, dousing the fire of Katsuki’s rage and leaving him cold and shaking. Peeling away the boy’s mask of anger to reveal something even worse, fear.
Katsuki would later deny crying, because that is Izumi’s thing. Izumi with those damn fountain eyes she is named after. He is just sweating… near his eyes.
“We were playing hide-and-seek with Deku. I-I don’t know where they are.” Masaru’s breath catches in his throat. The older Bakugo attempts to give the kids a calm, reassuring smile. Careful trying to hide the panic those words spark inside him.
Mitsuki is going to kill me. And even worse, Inko is going to cry.
He pulls his kid into a tight hug. As if he holds on with long enough the world will stop collapsing and this will all be over. Sadly though, it was only the beginning.
“It’s going to be okay Katsuki. I’m going to call the police real quick and they’ll find Izuku. Maybe he’ll even get to meet a hero, wouldn’t that be great?” Masaru’s attempts at reassurance are met with clenched, shaking fists and uncomfortable silence. The man gives his son one last squeeze before standing to address the entire group, “Let’s get the rest of you home. It will be a lot easier for them to do their job without us around.”
The children follow along hesitantly. Like baby ducks following their mother as the echo of gunshots filled the air. Katsuki peers into the forest one last time, desperate to catch a glimpse of his sister.
Where are you Deku?
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Wakimaeru is by no means a medical expert. Despite ‘transporting’ organs for almost three years, he still can’t tell a gallbladder from a pancreas or the difference between a liver and a kidney. He knows a few things though, or at least, he thought he did.
Without your kidneys you die. Without your liver you die. Without your liver, kidneys, and pancreas; you fucking die. Part of the whole mortality thing and all. Apparently the kid in front of him never got the memo.
The boy’s organs rest in a nearby cooler. Only a minute ago he was to be yet another life ended on the cold, unforgiving table. Transformed into an empty husk under the watch of greedy, dispassionate eyes. Another child, another set of crying eyes turned empty, another series of final words falling on careless ears. But apparently, things aren’t allowed to be fucking simple.
“I want to be a hero.”
The words themselves didn’t surprise Wakimaeru. Everyone dreams of heroism at some point in their lives. Of being the rich, powerful, and adored. Even he once shared that dream. Puffing his chest and posing ‘heroically’ in front of a mirror, he once proclaimed the exact same thing. Back when he was a child, young and hopeful. Before trouble buried him like an avalanche and his attempts to dig himself out only doomed him further. Before he had found the soul-mark matching his and knew his fate.
What really surprises him is what always seems to get him in the end, the consequences. The power of decisions and words and determination .
A spark of purple flame appears in the gaping incision along the boy’s body. Its glow is almost otherworldly, giving off both light and darkness. Screaming with an ancient power despite having burst into existence mere seconds ago. A terrible thought crosses through Wakimaeru’s mind.
Is this what hellfire looks like?
In the blink of an eye it expands and twists into familiar shapes. Molding itself to match the contents of the cooler. So that once again, the boy has two kidneys, liver, and pancreas.
Impossible , the organ trafficker thinks. But in this world of both flames and quirks, very little falls into that category.
“Fascinating,” the Doctor breathes; eyes burning with a dark hope. She reaches for the cheapest item on the improvised surgical table, a plastic glove, and lowers it towards a kidney. It never even touches the organ. Instead the surface returns to flame and twists away from the object. Moving around it like water displaced by a stone. The child makes a noise of pain but does not wake up. Completely drained by ... whatever this is.
The Doctor pulls the glove back and the flames resettle and fade. Leaving behind what appears to be a perfectly normal organs. The Doctor gives a low hum, her mind racing.
“Wakimaeru, you said the boy is quirkless. Is that correct?” The Doctor’s surgical mask muffles her words but fails to hide their eagerness. She wants something, some special answer. The final piece of a grand puzzle only she can see. And if he doesn’t want to end up replacing the kid on her surgical table, he’ll say what she wants to hear. Too bad he has no idea what the fuck that is.
“It’s what my quirk says,” Wakimaeru asserts defensively, his posture going rigid. The stone of his eyes seems to crack, revealing the fear and paranoia dwelling underneath. It is not an easy admission to make.
This isn’t a "things happen" kind of mistake or something he can blame on someone else. It wasn’t a civilian that couldn’t mind their own damn business or a hero straying from their regular patrol route. Something went wrong with his quirk, with him . Wakimaeru’s quirk made a liar out of him, and Doctor despises liars. (Or at least, the people who lie to her.)
His gaze falls to the surgical table. Wakimaeru has seen the Doctor cut open countless people with those tools. It is far too easy to imagine himself in their place. Parental soul-mark be damned.
She places her tools down with barely a noise. The small clinks against the table are nearly drowned out by the child’s troubled breathing. It is the most terrifying sound he’s ever heard.
He waits for her to do something. For the biting accusations, violent promises, and hateful whispers. To be frozen in place and cut open while his soul-mother commends herself for making such a noble sacrifice.
‘One sacrifice saves at least ten lives. How could it not be worth it?’’ It’s strange to think he’s heard her say one damn phrase a thousand times but has never heard her name. It’s even stranger to realize some have heard her name a thousand times but will never hear her thoughts. Never know her true nature.
What comes out of her mouth instead is something he’s never heard before:
“You did great Wakimaeru.” A smile stretches her surgical mask. “I’m proud of you.”
It shouldn’t take him bringing the right kid to die to make her proud. Being praised for such an act shouldn’t feel almost worth it. (But it does.)
The Doctor does not move to hug or harm him. Instead her hands reach for stitching needles and surgical thread. With steady hands, she begins a task unfamiliar to her. Attempting to keep her victim alive. Wakimaeru flinches when the needle pokes through the skin. As if it is his own being pierced.
“What are you doing? Don’t you still have a heart to collect?” The Doctor gives him an unimpressed look. As if to say yes, I completely forgot about the still beating heart right in front of me. Thanks for the reminder.
“Have you heard about the quirk-awakening phenomenon?” The Doctor begins, seemingly avoiding his question. Hands still working at a steady pace. “It’s when someone develops a quirk after nearly dying, even if they already had one. You want to know the real amazing part though?”
The Doctor pushes a hand to the stitched wound, wisps of yellow flickering around her fingers. Skin grows and meshes back together, sealing up the wound in seconds. She shoots him a conspiratol grin.
Blood Match- Wakimaeru’s quirk reads- The ability to change a person’s blood type to match another's.
Once again, his quirk deceived him. Or does it?
“These powers go against everything we know about quirks. They don’t appear when you check someone’s quirk factor and can occur in people with the extra little-toe joint. And in a lot of cases, your parents quirks has absolutely no effect on what you get. Some see this as proof of the Quirk Evolution theory. Others wonder-”
“If they’re even really quirks,” Wakimaeru finishes, either catching on or falling hook-line-and-sinker for the most ambitious lie he’s ever heard. It sounds absolutely insane, so it fits the situation perfectly.
“Exactly. People have spent a whole lot of money trying to figure this out. To weaponize and replicate it. And we’ve just found them a perfect little test subject.” The Doctor turns to meet his eyes. The ambition burning in their shared gaze could burn a city, or reduce each other to ash.
“I get twenty-five percent” Wakimaeru claims. Raising a gloved hand to shake her own.
“It’s a deal kid.”
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Heroes always win. They always save the day!
The crate is dark, smelly, and cramped as a hoarder’s basement. There is no room for Izumi to bend or move her limbs at all. Instead, the girl lies stiff and still like a doll in a box or a corpse in a coffin. Trapped like princess stuck in her tower, waiting for a hero. Waiting and waiting and waiting….
Minutes pass by, a mile is traveled, and a girl waits expectantly.
Never fear-for I am here!
The ship definitely has a rat infestation. They squeak and scurry throughout the cargo hold looking for something to eat, occasionally stopping to sniff and scratch at her crate. Izumi is almost glad to be boxed in in those moments. She may not have light, but she is protected from one thing at least.
Hours and miles of journeying pile up, and a girl fears.
A hero will come eventually … Right?
Izumi wonders every time she hears someone, when the echoes of footsteps and shouts reach her tiny ears. She wonders if the shattering of bottles and yelled curses are signs of fighting above deck. The girl hopes the footsteps she hears are those of a hero coming to save her. And is disappointed when once again the hour is the only thing that changes. She is still trapped, it is still dark, and the heroes have not arrived. In those moments, she wonders if they ever will.
Everything will be okay. It has to be.
Days go by, miles traveled become more than those left, and the girl hopes.
The girl’s few moments of rest produce some of the strangest dreams she’s had in her life. With her going from being chased by rats the size of dogs to flying with All Might to being cut open by the Tooth Fairy for swallowing a tooth. This latest dream takes the cake though.
It begins with Izumi lying on a cold stone floor with children in white uniforms. The children play with her hair, soft giggles falling from their mouths. They almost look like ghosts with their various scars and injuries.
A boy with bandages around his head attempts to braid bits of her hair. With how hard he is focusing, the boy does not notice the ash-blonde child beside him undoing his previous work. When the blonde and greenette’s eyes meet, he gives her a conspiratol grin. Unable to help herself, the girl lets out a laugh.
Bandage boy jumps at the noise, taking her hair with him. Izumi yelps at the pull on her scalp and the boy quickly lets go. Izumi lifts a shaky hand to where the pain pulses like a second heartbeat near her skull. The tears gathering in her eyes finally spill over as she realizes something terrible, that this is not some weird dream. Everything that has happened is completely real.
Words spill into her ears, but they are all meaningless to her. Be it the soft whispers of the pink eyed boy beside her or the shouting match between bandage boy and blondy, she cannot understand a single word.
To quote All Might in one of his lesser known interviews: “Shit."