Long before there was an Edric, an Emira, or an Amity… Before the perfect family portrait that everyone in Bonesborough knew… There was me. I was Alador Blight’s firstborn. Not with Odalia. With someone he loved long before she entered his life. I inherited almost everything from him. The messy brown hair, the golden eyes, the way my mind constantly wandered into strange inventions and impossible ideas. I preferred silence over conversation, spent hours taking apart Abomatons just to see how they worked, and had the same awkward, reserved demeanor that made people think I was odd before I ever opened my mouth. Alador always understood me. He never expected me to be loud or social. He simply sat beside me while we worked, filling the room with comfortable silence broken only by the clinking of tools. Then Odalia Blight became part of our lives. She tolerated me at first. Barely. To her, I wasn’t family. I was evidence that Alador had loved someone before her. A stain on the flawless image she intended to build. The day she married him, everything changed. She convinced everyone that I didn’t belong. When I was only six years old, she made sure I was gone. Whether she called it “sending me away,” “giving me a better opportunity,” or simply throwing me out didn’t matter. The result was the same. I was left completely alone. Alador fought her. He argued harder than anyone knew. But by then Odalia was already carrying their children. She made him choose. Me… Or the family they were about to have. If he left, he’d lose everything. If he stayed… He lost me. I still remember the look on his face as I walked away. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. He just looked… Broken. For years I wondered if he’d forgotten me. If maybe he’d decided life was easier pretending I had never existed. Eventually wondering stopped hurting. Eventually I stopped expecting him to come. I survived. Somehow. Years
Before anyone in the precinct knew my name, before I ever pinned on a detective’s badge, I had already lived an entirely different life. For fifteen years, I served in the Air Force. I enlisted at twenty years old, fresh out of college, stubborn enough to think I could carry the weight of the world if someone simply pointed me in the right direction. Somehow, I kept proving them right. Mission after mission, deployment after deployment, I climbed through the ranks until I eventually became one of the youngest generals in my branch. My pilots trusted me. My squadron respected me. The people under my command would have followed me anywhere because they knew I would never ask them to do something I wasn’t willing to do myself. Flying was never just a job. It was home. My aircraft of choice was the F-22 Raptor. There wasn’t another cockpit in the world that felt more natural than that one. Until everything went wrong. Two years ago, during what should have been a routine operation, mechanical failure and impossible weather combined into a nightmare. I fought the aircraft every second I could, trying to keep it airborne long enough to steer it away from civilians. The jet clipped the tops of dense pine trees before plummeting into the forest below. I survived. Barely. The impact shattered bones throughout my body, tore muscles beyond repair, and left burns and deep scars stretching across my arms, shoulders, neck, chest, back, and parts of my face. Recovery wasn’t measured in weeks. It was measured in months. Months spent in hospitals. Months of surgeries. Months learning how to walk without collapsing. Months wondering if I’d ever even be able to lift my own arm again. The Air Force wanted me back. I wanted to go back. But doctors made the decision for me. The crash had taken too much from my body. I was medically retired at thirty-five. The day I handed over my wings felt worse than the crash itself. People think veterans enjoy talking about their service. Most of us d
You walk into U.A. High School on what should feel like a normal transfer day… except nothing about you is normal. You’re now part of Class 1-A after the Sports Festival, stepping into a classroom that already feels like a battlefield of expectations and quirks clashing like thunder in a bottle. To everyone else, you are y/n Hamaso. Black-dyed hair, green eyes that catch the light too sharply to ignore, pale skin, and the kind of calm presence that makes people subconsciously wonder what you’re hiding. You look sixteen. You act sixteen. That is the mask. What no one knows is the truth buried beneath centuries: You are y:n Shigaraki. Daughter of Yoichi Shigaraki, the first user of One For All, and niece of Zen Shigaraki, the future All For One. A living contradiction born from the earliest war between light and consumption. You are technically over 170 years old. You should not exist. But during an ancient argument long ago, Zen unknowingly used a quirk on you that halted your aging entirely. Immortality didn’t feel like power at first. It felt like waiting. Watching eras collapse and rebuild. Watching heroes rise and fall like sparks in an endless storm. And through it all, you hid. You knew the One For All lineage before anyone else. You could reach your father in dreams, slipping into sleep like stepping through a door between worlds. A fragment of One For All lives in you through birth, faint but persistent, like an echo refusing to fade. You watched every successor carry the torch. You stayed in the shadows until the ninth user inherited it. That was when everything shifted. Because now, a century after you should have disappeared from history, you’ve returned. Not as a myth. Not as a ghost. But as a transfer student in Class 1-A. You changed your name to y/n Hamaso so All For One would never trace the thread back to you. So the world would never realize the “impossible survivor” still walks among heroes-in-training. And no one in this classroom knows that behin
I was Pro Hero Rogue, currently ranked #5 on the Hero Billboard Chart. To the public, I was a rising star: powerful, charismatic, upbeat, and always ready with a sarcastic comment. Fans adored me. Reporters loved me. Other heroes respected me.
I am y/m Tamaki, the younger sister of Keigo Takami. When Keigo was recruited by the Hero Commission, he escaped the nightmare we called home. He became Hawks, a rising hero known across Japan for his speed, intelligence, and crimson wings. I was left behind. Our parents were villains long before the world knew Hawks’ name, but after Keigo left, they became even worse. Without him there to shield me from their anger, I became their target. Every mention of Hawks sent them into a rage. To them, he was a traitor who abandoned the family. I inherited a quirk similar to my brother’s. Instead of red feathers, I have brilliant blue wings capable of flight and feather manipulation. I also possess fire control, allowing me to create and command flames. My parents viewed my quirk as a threat. They were terrified I would follow Keigo’s path and escape. So they made sure I couldn’t. Over the years, they repeatedly chipped and damaged my wings, breaking feathers and leaving permanent scars to prevent me from flying far enough to leave. Every failed escape attempt earned harsher punishment. My wings, once beautiful, are now uneven and battered. Meanwhile, Keigo has no idea I’m still trapped. To the public, Hawks is a celebrated hero. To me, he’s the older brother who promised he’d come back someday. It’s been years. Now I’m older, stronger, and running out of patience. Rumors of Hawks are everywhere. His face is on television screens, billboards, and newspapers. The world knows his name. But nobody knows about the girl hidden away in the shadows with blue wings and a growing fire in her chest. And one day, whether by chance, fate, or sheer determination, our paths are about to cross again.
:when aizawa shouta was 17 he was going on a patrol for his school, when he was chasing a villain, that villain had the ability to create a baby off of someones DNA, and they used it on him so he ran trying to chase her, when he found the baby, so he was sitting in the UA recovery room with the baby, as the person came in and apologized, and explained their quirk, since their was no other parent i was a copy of shota. he asked when the quirk would wear off and the girl said never and said he could put me up for adoption which shota said no to. the girl asked what he was going to name me. he answered. eventually after the girl left he had the thought 'i just told yamada and shirakuma i would never have kids and now im a father at 17'
The room fell into a suffocating silence. No crying. No frantic little gasps. Just the steady, rhythmic beep of enchanted monitors as the newborn lay impossibly still in Alador Blight’s trembling arms. Every instinct screamed that something was wrong. Your tiny chest rose and fell so faintly it was almost impossible to see. Your skin was warm, your heartbeat present, your eyes open… yet you made no sound. Golden irises, nearly identical to Alador’s, watched the world with an unsettling calm that no newborn should possess. The doctor hesitated before quietly speaking. “Mr. Blight… she isn’t responding normally.” Alador’s entire body locked up. His finger gently brushed against your tiny hand, expecting the instinctive grasp every infant had. Nothing. You simply blinked at him. For a split second it felt less like he was looking at a newborn… and more like something impossibly ancient had quietly opened its eyes. Across the room, Odalia let out an irritated sigh. “Wonderful,” she muttered. “She inherited your strange disposition too.” Alador barely heard her. His heart pounded so violently it hurt. “…Can you fix it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. It cracked as panic seeped through every word. “Please… do something.” The doctor swallowed. “We’re trying, but… her body isn’t reacting the way it should. Her muscles are almost completely unresponsive, and her breathing is dangerously weak. If she doesn’t begin responding soon…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The implication hung in the air like a guillotine. She might not survive her first day. Alador’s hands shook as he carefully cradled his daughter against his chest, terrified that even breathing too hard might break her. Every invention he’d ever built, every abomination he’d ever perfected, every equation he’d ever solved… none of it mattered if he couldn’t save the tiny life resting in his arms. Outside the delivery room, the Blight Manor staff waited in uneasy silence. Inside
I was known only as Qip, a vigilante who operated in the shadows of the city after sunset. The truth was almost laughable. The Hero Public Safety Commission had entire teams of pro heroes searching for me, convinced I was some experienced underground operative. News reports speculated I was a retired hero, an ex-commission agent, or even a dangerous criminal mastermind. In reality, I was a 16-year-old quirkless orphan. I should have been in high school. I should have been worrying about exams, friends, and what I wanted to do with my life. Instead, I was worrying about where my next meal would come from. I wasn’t registered in the system. No birth records. No foster records. No family. As far as the government was concerned, I didn’t exist. Surviving meant relying on myself, and over the years I became very, very good at it. Being quirkless destroyed any chance I had of attending a hero school. No one would accept me. No one would even consider it. So I became something else. At night, I patrolled the city using homemade gear, careful planning, and skills earned through years of surviving on the streets. Somehow, despite having no quirk, I consistently solved cases faster than licensed heroes, stopped crimes before they escalated, and gathered information even the Commission couldn’t find. That made me a problem. The Commission wanted me captured. Most heroes wanted me arrested. But one hero was different. Shota Aizawa. Eraser Head and I crossed paths constantly. Sometimes we accidentally ended up working the same case. Other times we deliberately exchanged information before going our separate ways. Neither of us would admit it, but we worked surprisingly well together. Aizawa respected my results. I respected his ability to mind his own business. What he didn’t know was who I really was. Nobody did. Whenever I appeared, I wore an oversized black hood and a mask equipped with a voice changer. The distorted voice made me sound like a grown adult,