This Ain't Good

3: Come fly with me

He put his strawberry sprinkled with desiccated coconut donut back in the box and switched his phone off, lying flat against the roof of the house he was on; he observed the house across the street through its half-closed, glowing window blinds and let the phone's battery cool in his zipped pocket.

I stared intently, adjusting my goggles that were pressing against my unshaven chin. I squinted through the lines where the blinds were open, it looked like kid had placed a few too many textbooks on a table too heavily, causing a vase to wobble and fall to the ground. Nothing big, the kid accidentally broke something for carrying... Wait... That's a lot of books.... Damn, he's what, nine? Ten years old? How is he holding that much? Strength quirk or something? Why is the kid standing so straight and proper too? He got a posture problem or something? Questions rushed through my head, I guess I was bored, and my brain wanted to subconsciously work on something. My gaze tensed as I saw what appeared to be the child's father come in from another room. The child stiffened even more so in what appeared to be fear as the man approached him. What's he doing? Is he going to- he is. The father raised his hand and struck the child across his cheek. The inaudible sound made me sick to my stomach. The kid's body wobbled for a moment but quickly recovered. He was standing straight again, like nothing had happened... How? He just got smacked in the face and already he looks like nothing has happened? As I stood up, fury raging through my body, I saw the father hold the child's head. What's he doing, apologising? A hot scoff made its way from my lips to the icy air, condensation of revulsion. The father's giant hand gripped the child's green, curly locks and changed the angle he was facing. A small "Oh..." escaped my mouth, he wasn't giving any endearment to the unfortunate child, he just wasn't standing in the correct position for him to strike him again comfortably. Why isn't the kid crying though? Screaming? He's not doing anything at all... What has this boy been through to have no reaction to this? Yeah, I'm definitely intervening. I jumped off of the neighbour's roof and sprinted towards the door of the 'family'. I knocked loudly on the door; cold knuckles numb...

Click, the gears turned. Took him long enough... Oh wait a minute. What do I do now? Ugh, I should've slept more, than I might be able to think straight. Am I allowed to pass out right now? Okay Shouta, stay calm, just, uh, get the kid to come out, grab him and r- wait that sounds villainous. Oh damn, the father is staring at me.

"Excuse me Sir, are you going to speak? I'm not interested in buying anything, if that's what you're here for." He spoke blandly, leaning against his door frame, weight focused on his right leg. His arms were crossed defensively, and his brows were doing much the same. Ah, my hands are sweating... Gross. "At this unreasonable hour..." he added, sourly.

"Are you Midoriya Hisashi?" I asked, not letting on to my internal panicking. I fight murderers and shit for a living, why is this scaring me? Why is he scaring me?

"Indeed, I am. Why?"

"I, um... Do you have any children?" This is not coming out how I planned.

"Yes, one little boy, my everything." Bullshit, you don't backhand your son, this isn't tennis. I waited at the door until he caught on. "Izuku, come here." His compassionate voice sounded near believable.

"Yes Sen-uh, f-father." A small, youthful yet sad voice called out, an odd stammer. A short, green bean boy walked out. He gave me a cute smile as he reached the doorway, standing next to his father, bowing to me, a random stranger. He is incredibly tiny compared to his dad, I understand he's only nine or ten, but man, this kid is weeny. The boy -now named Midoriya Izuku- has large fern-green eyes, a mix of black and viridian curled, wild hair, much like his father's although he lacks the green. Freckles dotted on his chubby cheeks along with a reddening mark and he's wearing a, um, a suit? Three-piece suit, high quality and utterly flawless, tailored obviously, no marks or faults; very fancy for a young boy. Does he have some formal evening for something school related later or is his casual-wear suits?