Axis (old)

Chapter 5:Emotions are for children.

TW: Implied/referenced underage drinking, smoking, drug use, sex, violence, suicide, abuse, and rape/dubious consent.

Izukus POV, a look into his past once again.:

Am I not meant to be a child.

I was only 13.

And everyone was gone. Maybe gone somewhere far away in golden clouds with a god I cannot fathom. But how could that be? Why would a god who could snap their finger and make suffering not so, fill our cups to the brim, feed us, we are never tired, and we all drown in the wealth of money simply being unnecessary.

But instead I watch people drown in their own debt. Or they sob on the streets at the bright yellow paper on their door. Perhaps they sink their sorrows in white powder and liquor that burns their throat and stings their tongue.

And death. My mother, bleeding crimson and poisoned by the addiction of liquid that erases memory and sorrow. Too much. Just a tad too much.

I cannot afford medical bills.

But I made it happen. I paid for the hospital.

And yet she died.

If there is a god somewhere, how could they be good?
The wonderful holy creature displayed to me, to many. Preachers out raping children with the excuse of curing them.

The cure is to erase the evil. The sick tar, pooling in the lungs of anyone and everyone. Bittersweet poison. But we are all evil, in our own right. Me, the drugstore employee who slips extra dosage under the counter, hell, even All Might.

Corruption.

Agony.

But if that cure is up, high in the so called heavens, destined to erase everything with the wave of their hand, riding a golden horse.

Why hasn't it happened? 

Will it ever?

Likely not.

So I drowned myself too. Perhaps too young. But I was raised without the understanding of being a child.

My father would ease his hand, and my cheek would welt. Baby soft skin turned red and raised.

"YOU FUCKING TRASH!" He'd call me.

"Fucking slut of a mother gave me you, even more useless than that unfaithful bitch."

But I couldn't remember that shit, not with two joints and a pack of beer. Maybe some vodka.

Not with an older boy who made me feel grown up.

He'd whisper pretty words in my ear while I pretended it didn't hurt.

Alcohol. Drugs. Sex.

Drown.

Third Person POV, present:

Izuku crouched at the edge of an old building. Cracked and crumpling, deserted squatter spots littered in the abandoned floors.

He inhaled deeply, breath slightly echoed by the metal of his mask. It changed his voice, he'd built it himself.

Most people in this business thought he was older, he was tall, good at vigilantism, no child could do what he's done.

No child sits at the bar of a club for vigilantes and anti-heroes, ordering drinks with confidence. A bartender who wouldn't even think to question his request when he slaps crisp money on the chipping stained wood. And if he were to be a child?

No one would care.

Some of his fingers have been cut up, wrapped in white athletics tape. He flips through the most recent manilla file, finding information left by his client. A woman only known by Aki has been selling laced drugs to young adults, most of which are men. She's been spotted at multiple clubs, behaving flirtatiously or seductively to help convince people to purchase the drugs.

Her quirk isn't to extravagant, simply lengthening and sharpening her nails to act more like knifes. Though if she's actually skilled with knives, well, Izuku will have some fun with a small challenge.

His client wants her gone because his daughter almost died of overdose after purchasing drugs from Aki.

Izuku sits on the edge of a building, stitching a somewhat deep slice across his stomach, biting at his  zip-up hoodie to keep it out of the way.

The joint he confiscated as evidence rests in his pocket opposite his cigarettes and lighter.

He finishes the stitches, wrapping a pristine enough bandage around it, knotting it in place.

Izuku pulls his shirt and hoodie back down satisfied with the patch job (if you can call it that) enough to concur it probably won't get infected.

Aizawa is tired. He's always tired. Though it seems he can never sleep when sleeping is appropriate, leaving him with sporadic naps and coffee.

Axis is not helping his already terrible schedule, having been recently assigned to his case.

Now, Aizawa knows the Hero Commission sees some use in the vigilante, as Endeavor hasn't been sent to burn him to a crisp and watch a team clean up the blood.

Honestly, he's not even positive Tsukauchi wants to catch Axis. He notices the annoyed fondness and poorly acted disappointment when the vigilante escapes police clutches again and again.

"Hey 'eraser." The underground hero hears behind him.

"Axis." He states, neither annoyed nor happy.

The vigilante lights a joint, making Aizawa jolt slightly, before realizing it's nothing but an inspection.

Axis' head reels back, with what Eraserhead assumes as disgust.

Confirmed by the "this shit smell nasty, how did they not know it wasn't normal weed?" Getting a glare from the pro and a probably smirk from behind the mask covering the bottom half of the self proclaimed stoner, babe magnet, I fucked ur mom, guy. A direct quote as Shota could never bring himself to sound that fucking stupid.

When problem,(child? Person? Just problem for now) When the problem stands up, Shota notices him favoring his left side ever so slightly, and how tense his shoulders are.

Sounding easy going and calm is very different than actually being so. Between scanning for every exit, placing himself in a direct escape route, and the knives hidden in his right shoe and the pouches strapped to his thighs for easy access.

Izukus POV:

What in the flying fuck was I thinking.

Third person POV:

The vigilante and hero sit at a cheap pizza place, in a tacky red booth, farthest back corner. (Away from a window, next to an emergency exit and under a vent.)

"I'll keep this brief," Aizawa's eyes flitted to the side, checking the surroundings, "Rin." A fake name, spitting Axis left and right in a public setting isn't smart after all.

Izuku's breath was hot on his face behind his mask, but he could feel prickles everywhere else, from the close proximity of the hero to his incomplete costume.

The sweet art of subtlety, a hoodie and sweatpants, with a cheap mask.

And a name like Rin, a boy who always seems to have a cold.