[ᴄᴀsᴛʟᴇs ᴏғ ɪᴄᴀʀᴜs]

chapter 3

Izuku could feel.

He could feel every excruciating moment of his body being jostled around, hurried into an ambulance, and the bumpy ride of the vehicle.

He should be dead 

He told himself he would die anyway, but the pain he felt while waiting for the inevitable was awful.

His right side hurt.

That was probably what he landed on.

He could've sworn that his skull would shatter and brain be turned into mush the moment he hit the ground. He never expected to wake up a few moments later.

He could barely hear the muffled noises of people trying to "save" his life.

He felt like an agonizing puzzle, being torn apart and put back together for someone's amusement or boredom.

The world around him slowly became clear.

People gasped around him.

"Impossible." He heard a disbelieving voice say from his left.

The white haired boy was not dead.

This was not the same child they picked up just minutes ago, shattered skull and an arm practically hanging off a string.

"Get him fluids and a HRM now!" A doctor shouted out.

"Hey kid, I need you to stay awake please. Can you do that?" There was a gentle woman's voice that spoke muffled in his ears. Blearily he nodded.

It was hard to see out of his right eye.

"Okay good good. Now you don't have to answer if you can't, but can you try to tell me your name?" The voice was so soothing, so beautiful and calming. He couldn't help but try to answer.

Something poked his arm.

As he tried to speak, a gurgled noise came out, mixed oddly with letters and sounds.

"I...ku...ido...ya." He could feel his face morph into a painful disappointed face. He wanted to answer the kind woman's question. He tried again, some letter more clear this time.

"Hey hey, that's okay, don't try talk now if you can't."

The nurse stared in horrid fascination as the boys right side began slowly pulling itself back together. His arm reconnecting and face reconstructing.

There was a scar, almost like a firework blew up only on his right side, his eye squinted and a pale color. (mans out here with tubbo scars now)

"Don't worry, it's going to be okay, you're going to be okay." They said.

But he doesn't want to be okay.

He wants to be dead.

Nothing more than a splatter of blood and flesh on the pavement.

For the first time in years he felt hot, fat tears stream down his face.

It hurt so bad.

---

Eraserhead watched the boy be pulled into an ambulance.

'To hell with patrol.' He thought to himself. It was a calm night, and he was going to know if that boy survived, whether the doctors liked him along or not.

Hurriedly he rushed himself down from the roof.

There was just so much blood.

He felt sick knowing that all of it belonged to a child no older than what his hero course student will be.