The Combat Mage: Izuku

Even Outcasts Deserve a Place to Rest

Izuku was running, he ran as fast as he could, he heard the familiar sound of a series of multiple rapid explosions and the accursed voice of his once first and only best friend, Katsuki Bakugo scream, "DEKU!!!"

He refused to stop or heed his unspoken snarl of a demand to stop and be his quirk practice dummy, despite Katsuki's quirk and abilities, Izuku knew them like the back of his hand. He knew how he moved and how he worked.

Years of being worked over as his punching dummy made him memorize every punch, kick, stomp, and the abilities of his quirk. The pain was etched into his body, mind, and soul, he knew better than to cry, no one would help him or save him. Even those who he helped, were the ones that were jeering or spitting on him the next day.

He knew footsteps were following after him as he continued to run, twisting tightly around a spare corner and bolt as he swore to himself to hide in the first place he got near. He soon found it when he came across one of the safe havens he used to frequent when he was younger, a bookstore he knew they were coming up fast, so he hoped to God it was open and nearly sobbed when it gave way to him as he quickly shut it behind him.

He was thankful it didn't have the signature bell of the usual store and hid, the windows were tinted so they couldn't see much as Katsuki screamed in frustration with another series of rapid explosions and left the area with his cohorts, spitting out curses and how that damned nerd was going to get it when he got his hands on him.

Izuku waited silently for ten minutes, tense and curled up as he stared at the window as if Katsuki was just going to smash through the window and kick the shit out of him again. An older woman noticed the door open and watched the scene and heard a series of curses as she made her way forward and saw him.

'A young man?' She thought

He was hiding behind a bookshelf, she could smell blood and sweat wafting off of him, along with noting the bandages he hid underneath his jacket, he was curled up in such an uncomfortable position just waiting and praying that no one else came through that door.

She could tell he had been worked over, his uniform was mended more often than it wasn't, and she noted how still he was. Barely moving, barely breathing, just staring.

The old woman recalled her own time in her bitter youth, hiding from an aggressive monster that didn't even resemble a human as he hollered and roared for her to come out and that her mother was no longer there to protect her. Those wounds even though 50 years had passed still burned. When she came to his funeral to make sure the bastard was well and truly dead, those scars he gave her still burned, she stayed the longest well past the evening into the dusk just staring at the newly buried grave of the man who terrorized both her and her mother and said two words, "Fuck you."

She then spat on his grave and never returned, moving to a new country for a fresh start to find some semblance of peace and now here she was, staring at the poor boy who like he was about to sob in the middle of her own bookstore.

She knew better than to touch someone when they were like this and knocked on one of the shelves, making him jump a near five feet in the air before collapsing like a puppet without strings.

Tears ran down his face as he hastily brushed them off and stuttered before the woman raised her hand and said, "Calm yourself, young one. Deep breaths, I'm not going to hurt you."

He slowly straightened himself to look at her, she was an older woman with darker features, dark purple eyes with flicks of silver in them, she had a soft smile on her face that was barely signified her twilight years. Her silver hair was cut short and stood at 5'9", she wore a navy blouse with a skirt littered with multiple designs and comfort boot slippers. Her ears were pierced with studs, three on the top, two on the bottom.