What if deku was a members of Gears of War

 

The ash falling over the ruined city of Ephyra looked deceptively like snow.

 

It blanketed the shattered marble columns of the Tyran architecture, gathered in the craters left by mortar strikes, and dusted the shoulders of the dead. But it wasn't snow. It was the pulverized remnants of a civilization, a mixture of concrete dust, incinerated flesh, and the endless, suffocating exhaust of a world at war. The sky above was a bruised, sickly twilight, choked with smoke that blotted out the sun on the planet Sera.

 

Down in the streets, the symphony of humanity’s extinction played at a deafening volume.

 

“Suppressing fire! Keep them pinned!”

 

Private first class Carmichael screamed until his throat tore, his heavy Coalition of Ordered Governments (COG) armor coated in a slurry of mud and blood. He slammed his back against a crumbling concrete barricade, his hands trembling violently as he fumbled for a fresh magazine. Next to him, what was left of his squad fired their Mark 2 Lancer Assault Rifles blindly over the edge. The staccato crack-crack-crack of the assault rifles echoed through the plaza, immediately answered by the deep, guttural barks of Hammerburst fire from the Locust Horde.

 

“They’re flanking left! Oh god, they’re flanking left!” another Gear shrieked, the panic in his voice thick enough to cut.

 

Carmichael hazarded a glance around the barricade. Across the plaza, tearing through the pristine courtyard of what used to be a central bank, was a nightmare made flesh. The Locust Drones—massive, reptilian-skinned humanoids clad in jagged iron and leather—were advancing. Their pale, scaly flesh seemed immune to the fear that plagued the humans. They moved with a terrifying, synchronized brutality, barking orders in their harsh, clicking language.

 

And then, the ground began to tremble.

 

It started as a low vibration in the soles of Carmichael’s heavy boots, then escalated into a violent tremor that rattled his teeth. The pavement twenty yards ahead bulged upward, the asphalt webbing with glowing orange cracks.

 

“E-HOLE! FALL BACK! E-HOLE!”

 

The street exploded outward in a geyser of debris and dirt. From the subterranean depths of the Hollow, an Emergence Hole tore open the surface of Sera. A fresh wave of Locust poured out of the dark pit like a swarm of angry hornets. Wretches—small, agile, monkey-like monstrosities with razor-sharp claws—scrambled out first, screeching a sound that felt like ice picks driven into the ears of the COG soldiers.

 

Carmichael jammed his magazine into his Lancer, racking the bolt. "We hold the line!" he screamed, trying to channel the legendary bravado of the Gears he had idolized as a kid. But his voice cracked. He was nineteen years old. He didn't want to die here in the dirt.

 

A Wretch leaped over the barricade, its jaw unhinging to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. Carmichael raised his weapon, squeezing the trigger, but his gun clicked empty. A jam.

 

He closed his eyes, bracing for the teeth to tear into his throat.

 

VRRRRRR-RMMMMMM!

 

The deafening, mechanical roar of a Lancer’s chainsaw bayonet revving to life eclipsed the screech of the Wretch. A spray of hot, dark red blood splashed across Carmichael’s visor.

 

He opened his eyes. The Wretch was gone, cut cleanly in half mid-air. Standing in front of him was a Gear, but unlike any Gear Carmichael had ever seen.

 

The armor was standard COG issue, bulky and plated, designed to withstand the brutal impacts of modern warfare. But instead of the standard issue slate-gray or the hardened black of the Onyx Guard, this armor was painted in varying shades of forest and olive green. Scuffed and battle-worn, the chest plate bore the standard COG emblem, but painted subtly over the right shoulder pauldron was a crude, white emblem resembling a smiling face.

 

More shocking than the color was the size. The Gear was short. Too short. Most soldiers in the Coalition were massive walls of muscle, fed on military rations and bred for physical supremacy. This soldier looked barely eighteen, lean, with a helmet that had been modified to include a heavy, steel faceplate shaped vaguely like a rebreather.

 

Beneath the helmet, a pair of wide, emerald-green eyes locked onto Carmichael.

 

"Private! Are you injured?" the Green Gear asked. His voice was young, frantic, but laced with an undeniable, iron-clad determination.

 

"I—I'm jammed!" Carmichael stammered.

 

"Clear the jam, check your port, stay low!" The kid didn't wait for a response. He spun on his heel, his heavy boots grinding into the broken pavement.

 

What happened next defied the laws of physics, let alone standard COG tactical training.

 

The Locust Drones pushed forward, firing a volley of Hammerburst rounds that chipped away at the barricade. A normal Gear would hunker down, use cover, and trade fire. The Green Gear did not.

 

He bolted into the open.

 

"Hey! Are you crazy?!" Carmichael yelled.

 

The Green Gear moved with a speed that made Carmichael’s eyes ache to track. He didn't just run; he bounded. His legs compressed like coiled springs, and with a resounding CRACK that shattered the concrete beneath his boots, he launched himself forward in a jagged zigzag pattern. Hammerburst rounds chewed up the air where he had been a fraction of a second prior.

 

“Subject’s weight is approximately two hundred and fifty pounds including armor,” the green Gear muttered rapidly, a bizarre stream of conscious tactical analysis spilling from his lips as he sprinted. “Locust Drone reaction time is point-eight seconds. Trajectory angle thirty degrees. If I close the distance using the rubble as a fulcrum—”

 

He hit the side of a rusted-out civilian vehicle, using the slanted hood as a ramp. He launched himself ten feet into the air, soaring over the front line of the Locust Drones.

 

In mid-air, he aimed his Lancer downward and fired, his accuracy terrifyingly precise, putting three rounds directly into the skull of the lead Drone. Before he even hit the ground, he slammed his hand against the rev-button of his chainsaw.

 

He landed heavily behind enemy lines. The chainsaw roared. He swept the screeching blade in a wide arc, tearing through the heavy armor and thick flesh of a second Drone. Blood and viscera sprayed into the air like a gruesome fountain. The Green Gear didn't flinch. He kicked the corpse off his blade and immediately ducked under a wild swing from a third Locust’s bayonet.

 

He dropped his Lancer entirely.

 

He dropped his weapon. Carmichael watched in utter disbelief. A Gear without his gun was a dead man.

 

The Locust Drone grinned, exposing awful, jagged teeth, and swung its heavy rifle like a club. The green Gear stepped into the swing instead of away from it. He grabbed the barrel of the Locust’s weapon with both hands. He planted his boots, twisted his hips, and with a raw, guttural shout, threw the four-hundred-pound monster over his shoulder.

 

The Drone hit the pavement so hard its neck snapped on impact.

 

"He... he just flipped a grub," one of Carmichael’s squadmates whispered, staring wide-eyed. "Barehanded."

 

The Green Gear scooped his Lancer back off the ground in a fluid motion, turning back to the pinned COG soldiers. "The flank is clear! Move to the extraction point at Sector Four! I will hold the perimeter!"

 

Carmichael didn't need to be told twice. "Move! Move! Let's go!" he yelled, hauling his squad up and sprinting down the cleared alleyway. He looked back one last time.

 

The kid in the green armor stood alone in the center of the plaza, surrounded by Locust corpses, revving his blood-soaked Lancer as the next wave poured from the E-Hole. He looked terrified. His shoulders were heaving, and his hands were shaking. But he stood his ground, an immovable green wall between the monsters and the retreating soldiers.

 

 

 

Seven Years Ago.

Stranded Settlement 'Aldera', Outskirts of Tyrus.

 

Before the green armor, before the blood, before the unending roar of the chainsaw bayonet, Izuku Midoriya was just a boy who looked up at the sky and wished he could be something more.

 

He lived in the dirt. Everyone in Aldera lived in the dirt. They were "Stranded"—the term the Coalition of Ordered Governments had generously given to the millions of civilians they had abandoned to die.

 

When the Locust Horde first erupted from the underground on Emergence Day, humanity was massacred. In a desperate, ruthless bid for survival, the COG activated the Hammer of Dawn network—a satellite-based laser system—and glassed their own cities to scorch the Locust off the map. Anyone who couldn't make it to the fortified Jacinto Plateau in time was locked out. Left to burn.

 

Those who survived the orbital fire and the endless subterranean monsters built shanty towns out of corrugated iron, rusted car chassis, and the bones of the old world. Aldera was one such settlement. It smelled constantly of rust, boiling cabbage, and raw sewage.

 

Eleven-year-old Izuku sat on the roof of his mother’s shack, his knees pulled to his chest. In his lap was a battered, dirt-stained notebook bound in fading tyran-leather. The cover read: Hero Analysis for the Future: Vol. 13.

 

He was currently sketching a COG Lancer, carefully detailing the teeth of the chainsaw bayonet with a stubby pencil. He paused, looking up at a massive, faded propaganda billboard half-collapsed over the settlement’s eastern wall.

 

The poster depicted a man in gleaming, stylized COG armor. The armor was painted a patriotic blue, red, and white. The man was a titan, standing atop a pile of defeated Locust, his blond hair catching the sunlight, and most importantly—he was smiling. A massive, reassuring, fearless smile.

 

The text beneath him read: FEAR NOT, CITIZENS. THE SYMBOL OF PEACE IS HERE.

 

"All Might," Izuku whispered, tracing the outline of the smiling hero in the air.

 

Sergeant Toshinori Yagi, callsign "All Might." He wasn't just a Gear; he was a god among men. In a war defined by cynical brutality, All Might was an anomaly. He saved civilians. He rescued Stranded. He fought with a legendary strength that defied human limits. Rumors in the camps whispered that he wasn't a normal man, that he was the result of classified COG genetic augmentations. A "Quirk" of science.

 

To Izuku, it didn't matter where All Might came from. All that mattered was that he was a hero.

 

"Izuku! Come down! The soup is getting cold!"

 

Izuku flinched, snapping out of his daydream. He scrambled down the rusted ladder on the side of the shack. His mother, Inko, stood in the doorway. She was a frail woman, worn down by years of rationing and fear, her green hair tied back in a messy bun. She wiped her hands on a stained apron and offered him a tired, warm smile.

 

"Sorry, Mom," Izuku said, tucking his notebook under his arm.

 

"Dreaming about the Gears again?" she asked softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were sad. She knew her son's obsession. She also knew the reality of their world.

 

"I'm going to be one, Mom," Izuku said, his voice quiet but intense. "I'm going to join the COG. I'm going to fight the grubs and protect people. Like him."

 

Inko pulled him into a sudden, tight hug. Izuku felt her trembling. "Oh, Izuku... you're so small. So fragile. The COG doesn't take boys like you. They take the strong. The ruthless. My sweet boy... you have a heart of gold. And gold melts in the fire."

 

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, his fists clenching at his sides. He knew she was right. He was undersized, chronically asthmatic from the ash in the air, and completely unremarkable. In a world where only the violent survived, Izuku was hopelessly, entirely weak. A "Quirkless" baseline human, destined to die in the mud.

 

Boom.

 

The sound was distant, but heavy enough to rattle the tin roof of their shack.

 

Izuku pulled away from his mother. The settlement grew deathly quiet. Even the stray dogs stopped barking.

 

BOOM.

 

Closer this time. The rhythmic, earth-shaking thud of heavy footsteps.

 

"Mom..." Izuku breathed.

 

"Under the floorboards," Inko commanded, her voice suddenly devoid of maternal warmth, replaced by the cold, mechanical instinct of a survivor. "Now, Izuku."

 

She dragged him into the shack, pulling up a heavy piece of scrap metal acting as a rug to reveal a dug-out hole in the dirt floor. She shoved him inside.

 

"Stay quiet. Do not breathe. Do not look." She slammed the floorboard shut above him.

 

Darkness consumed him. Dust fell into his eyes and nose, but he clamped both hands over his mouth, biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making a sound. Above him, the settlement erupted into chaos.

 

Screams. The tearing of metal. The roar of Locust weapons.

 

"GRIND THEM!" a monstrous, guttural voice roared in the guttural Tyran dialect the Locust sometimes mocked humans with.

 

Izuku lay in the dark, trembling so violently his joints ached. He heard his mother moving above, heard the front door shatter inward with the force of a bomb. He heard heavy, clawed footsteps. He heard his mother scream—a short, abrupt sound that was instantly silenced.

 

Tears streamed down Izuku's face, mixing with the dirt. He wanted to scream. He wanted to burst out of the floorboards and fight. But he was frozen. Absolute, paralyzing terror held him in a vice grip. He was powerless.

 

An hour passed. Or maybe a day. The screams faded, replaced by the crackle of burning structures and the laughter of monsters. Eventually, the heavy footsteps moved away, marching out of the camp.

 

Izuku pushed the floorboard up. It was heavy, covered in debris. He shoved with all his meager strength until he rolled out onto the floor.

 

The shack was destroyed. The roof was gone, revealing the smoke-choked sky. And there, lying in the center of the room, was Inko Midoriya. Izuku dragged himself to her side. He didn't cry out. He just stared at the blood pooling on the dirt, feeling a hollow, bottomless void open in his chest.

 

He stepped out of the shack. Aldera was a graveyard. Fires burned everywhere. The Locust had taken what supplies they wanted and slaughtered the rest for sport.

 

As Izuku wandered through the wreckage, a sound caught his ear. A faint, desperate sobbing.

 

He turned toward the sound. Trapped beneath the heavy, steel chassis of an overturned transport truck was a little boy, no older than five, screaming for his parents. And standing over the truck, sniffing the air, was a lingering Locust Drone. It had stayed behind to scavenge.

 

The Drone spotted the trapped child. It chuckled, a wet, clicking sound, and drew a wicked, serrated combat knife from its thigh sheath. It took a slow step toward the boy.

 

Izuku’s brain stopped working.

 

He didn't think about his lack of weapons. He didn't think about his asthma, or his frail arms, or the fact that his mother was dead. He didn't think at all.

 

Before he realized what he was doing, Izuku’s legs were moving. He sprinted across the ruined courtyard, picking up a rusted length of rebar from the dirt without breaking stride.

 

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Izuku screamed, his voice cracking violently.

 

The Locust Drone turned, its yellow, reptilian eyes widening slightly in surprise. It barely had time to react as the scrawny eleven-year-old launched himself through the air. Izuku brought the rebar down with all his might, aiming for the monster's unarmored face.

 

The iron bar struck the Drone across the jaw with a loud CLANG.

 

The metal vibrated violently, tearing the skin off Izuku's palms. The Drone stumbled back half a step, dropping its knife in surprise.

 

For a single, breathless second, Izuku felt a surge of triumph. He had hurt it.

 

Then, the Drone slowly turned its head back to him. There was no blood. The rebar hadn't even broken the skin; it was just a red welt. The monster looked down at the boy, its surprise melting into pure, unadulterated rage.

 

It backhanded Izuku.

 

The force of the blow was like being hit by a speeding train. Izuku flew ten feet through the air, crashing through the rotting wooden wall of a nearby shack. Pain exploded in his ribs. He tasted copper. The world spun dizzily, his vision tunneling into blackness.

 

He lay in the debris, unable to move his arms or legs. The Drone stalked toward him, stepping over the threshold, its heavy boots crushing the floorboards. It reached down, grabbing Izuku by the throat, lifting him into the air.

 

Izuku kicked his legs weakly, gasping for air. The Drone’s grip was like a steel vise. It raised its massive, armored fist, preparing to crush the boy's skull like a rotten melon.

 

I'm sorry, Mom, Izuku thought, his vision fading. I tried.

 

"TEXAS SMASH!"

 

The air pressure in the room suddenly inverted. A sound like a thunderclap shattered the remaining windows.

 

A blur of blue and gold slammed into the side of the Locust Drone with the force of an artillery shell. The monster didn't just fall; it was pulverized. The impact shattered its armor, caved in its ribcage, and sent it flying out the back of the shack, where it crashed into a concrete wall and stopped moving. Completely dead.

 

Izuku dropped to the ground, coughing violently, sucking in greedy lungfuls of ash-filled air.

 

He looked up through tear-blurred eyes. Standing over him, panting heavily, was a towering figure. The armor was battered, the blue paint chipped, the crimson COG emblem scorched black. But the silhouette was unmistakable.

 

"All... Might?" Izuku wheezed.

 

The legendary Gear turned around. He wasn't smiling.

 

Izuku stared in horror. The man in the posters was a flawless titan of muscle. The man standing before him was a broken shell. Toshinori Yagi was emaciated. His armor hung loosely on his gaunt, skeletal frame. His face was sunken, his eyes shadowed, and blood was leaking continuously from his mouth. He looked like a ghost haunting his own armor.

 

Toshinori coughed, a wet, hacking sound, and slumped against the wall, clutching his left side. "S-Sorry I'm late, kid," he gasped, wiping the blood from his chin. "Recon unit... got delayed."

 

Izuku pushed himself up on his elbows. "You're... you're All Might. But... what happened to you? The posters..."

 

"Propaganda, kid," Toshinori smiled weakly, a shadow of the legendary grin. "Five years ago. Took a direct hit from a Boomer's mortar. Shattered my respiratory system. The COG doesn't want the people to know their 'Symbol of Peace' is a dying man. So they sent me out here. Black ops. Out of sight."

 

Toshinori looked past Izuku, toward the overturned truck where the trapped child was still crying. Then, he looked back at Izuku. His hollow blue eyes pierced right through the boy.

 

"I saw what you did," Toshinori said quietly. "From the ridge. I couldn't get here in time to save the camp... but I saw you."

 

Izuku looked down at his scraped, bleeding hands. "I didn't do anything. I was weak. I couldn't save anyone. I couldn't even save my mom." Tears fell freely now, cutting clean lines through the dirt on his cheeks. "I'm Quirkless. I'm nothing."

 

Toshinori pushed himself off the wall. He walked over, his heavy boots slow and dragging, and dropped to one knee in front of Izuku. He placed a massive, gauntlet-clad hand on the boy's head.

 

"There are millions of men in the Coalition," Toshinori said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in Izuku's chest. "Men with guns, men with muscles, men with power. And when the grubs came today, they ran. But you... a boy with nothing but a rusty pipe..."

 

Toshinori squeezed Izuku’s shoulder.

 

"Your legs moved before you even thought about it. Isn't that right?"

 

Izuku gasped, his breath hitching. He looked up into Toshinori's eyes. "How did you know?"

 

"Because that is the defining trait of every great hero in history," Toshinori said. He coughed again, more blood staining his lips. He looked at Izuku with a sudden, burning intensity. "Boy... what is your name?"

 

"I-Izuku. Izuku Midoriya."

 

"Izuku Midoriya. You can become a hero."

 

Those were the words Izuku had waited his entire life to hear. The dam broke. He collapsed into the dirt, sobbing uncontrollably, mourning his mother, his home, and the sudden, overwhelming weight of being seen.

 

Toshinori waited for him to calm down, keeping his hand on the boy's shoulder. When Izuku finally wiped his eyes, Toshinori spoke again, his tone shifting from comforting to dead serious.

 

"I don't have much time left, Izuku. The Coalition... they made me into what I am. Decades ago, before E-Day, they developed a serum. A genetic enhancer designed to push the human body past its absolute limits. They called it Project O.F.A. 'One For All'."

 

Toshinori unlatched a sealed, armored compartment on his waist belt. He pulled out a thick, metallic syringe. Inside the glass vial, a bright, bio-luminescent golden fluid swirled lazily.

 

"It was synthesized using traces of highly refined Imulsion and... other things," Toshinori explained grimly. "It bonds with the host's DNA, stockpiling kinetic energy and multiplying physical strength to terrifying degrees. I was the only successful test subject. The others... their bodies couldn't handle the strain. They tore themselves apart."

 

Izuku stared at the glowing vial, mesmerized.

 

"My body is failing. I need to pass this on before I die, or the power dies with me. I've been looking for a successor among the Gears, but they are all tainted by the brass. They fight for orders. They fight out of hate. I need someone who fights to save."

 

Toshinori held the syringe out.

 

"I am offering you my power, Izuku Midoriya. I can get you into the COG. I can get you into the training program. But you must understand... this serum will break you. It will tear your muscles, it will shatter your bones, and it will put you on the front lines of the bloodiest war in human history. It is a curse disguised as a blessing."

 

Izuku didn't hesitate. He looked back at the ruined shack where his mother lay. He looked at the crying child by the truck. He looked at the bloody rebar on the floor.

 

He had felt the crushing weight of powerlessness. He would never, ever feel it again.

 

Izuku reached out and grasped the metal cylinder. "I accept."

 

Toshinori smiled—a real, genuine smile. "Then bare your arm, kid. And clench your teeth. This is going to hurt."

 

The needle pierced Izuku’s skin. The plunger depressed.

 

Fire. Absolute, unadulterated fire flooded Izuku’s veins. He screamed, his back arching off the dirt floor. It felt as though liquid glass was being pumped into his heart, radiating outward, burning away his weakness, rewriting his very genetic code in a crucible of agony. The golden fluid mixed with his blood, taking on a strange, luminescent emerald hue beneath his skin.

 

He screamed until his vision went white.

 

 

 

Present Day.

Ephyra Plaza, Sector Four.

 

The white flash of memory faded, replaced by the chaotic reality of the battlefield.

 

Izuku stood his ground. The glowing emerald veins beneath his skin pulsed faintly under his armor, a constant reminder of the agonizing gift Toshinori had given him. He was a Gear now. Nineteen years old, officially drafted into the COG, and deployed into the meat grinder.

 

The Locust Drones were hesitating. The sight of the Green Gear slaughtering their vanguard with a chainsaw and bare hands had given them pause. But the pause was brief.

 

A new sound echoed from the depths of the Emergence Hole. A sound that made the blood of every Gear freeze in their veins.

 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

 

Footsteps so heavy they cracked the pavement with every step. The Drones parted like the red sea. Rising from the darkness of the pit was a Boomer.

 

It was an atrocity of genetics. Nearly nine feet tall and four hundred pounds of pure, slab-like muscle wrapped in thick, riveted iron armor. Its face was a mass of scar tissue and malice. In its massive, tree-trunk arms, it carried a Boomshot—a colossal, rudimentary rocket launcher that fired explosive shells the size of a man’s head.

 

The Boomer locked its tiny, hateful eyes on Izuku.

 

"BOOM!" the monster bellowed, a verbal warning of the destruction to come.

 

It raised the heavy weapon.

 

Izuku’s mind raced into overdrive. His tactical muttering started instantly, an unstoppable flow of data processing. "Boomer class. High armor, low mobility. Boomshot projectile velocity is approximately forty meters per second. Blast radius is ten meters. The medics—"

 

Izuku whipped his head around. Behind him, fifty yards back, Private Carmichael and his squad were bottlenecked at a ruined archway, trying to drag a wounded soldier with missing legs through the rubble. They were packed tight. If that rocket hit the archway, the blast would vaporize all six of them.

 

"I can't shoot it down in time. Lancer spread is too wide at this range," Izuku calculated, his breathing accelerating. "If I dodge, the rocket hits the medics. I have to intercept."

 

The Boomer pulled the trigger.

 

The Boomshot roared, belching a massive cloud of black smoke and fire. The explosive shell streaked through the air, leaving a trail of orange sparks in its wake, arcing perfectly toward the retreating medics.

 

Izuku dropped his Lancer.

 

He planted his right foot back. The bio-luminescent green energy beneath his skin flared violently. The serum—One For All—responded to his demand. The power stockpiled within his DNA surged upward, pooling into his right leg and his right arm.

 

"Five percent won't be fast enough. Ten percent won't be strong enough," Izuku thought, gritting his teeth behind his faceplate. "I have to go to one hundred percent in the arm. My body still can't handle the strain without backlash. It's going to break. It's going to break. IT'S GOING TO BREAK!"

 

He embraced the pain.

 

"SMASH!" Izuku screamed.

 

He pushed off his back foot. The concrete beneath him didn't just crack; it vaporized into a crater of dust. Izuku launched himself into the air at a trajectory designed to intersect with the rocket mid-flight.

 

To the medics watching, he looked like a green blur, a comet streaking across the gray battlefield.

 

He caught up to the rocket twenty feet in the air. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Izuku could see the rivets on the explosive shell, the glowing orange fuse burning down to detonation.

 

He drew back his right fist. The armor on his arm groaned in protest as his muscles swelled to grotesque, unnatural proportions, glowing with an intense, blinding green light.

 

He threw the punch.

 

Not at the rocket, but at the air directly beside it.

 

"DELAWARE SMASH!"

 

Izuku’s fist slammed into empty space. But the sheer, localized kinetic energy released by his enhanced muscles created an immediate, devastating shockwave. The air pressure ruptured. A localized hurricane of wind erupted from his knuckles.

 

The concussive force slammed into the side of the Boomshot rocket. It didn't detonate the shell; instead, the massive wall of wind completely derailed the projectile's trajectory. The rocket veered violently ninety degrees to the right, flying harmlessly over the rooftops of Ephyra and detonating in an empty sector with a dull roar.

 

But physics demands an equal and opposite reaction.

 

The moment Izuku threw the hundred-percent punch, the recoil tore through his limb. Beneath his heavy armor, the sound of his arm shattering echoed like a bundle of dry branches snapping in half. The radius and ulna fractured in a dozen places. The muscle fibers tore.

 

Agony, white-hot and blinding, spiked into his brain.

 

Izuku plummeted from the air, crashing hard into the dirt and rolling aggressively across the pavement. His armor sparked, scraping violently against the concrete.

 

He came to a stop ten feet away from the Emergence Hole.

 

Izuku lay on his back, gasping for air. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, the armor dented outward from the swelling of the broken limb. His vision swam with black spots. He tried to push himself up with his left arm, but his body was screaming in protest.

 

"BOOM!"

 

The heavy footsteps approached. Izuku rolled his head to the side. The Boomer was standing right above him, blotting out the smoky sky. It was reloading its Boomshot, taking its sweet time, savoring the kill.

 

Izuku reached toward his hip with his good hand, fumbling for his Snub pistol. He couldn't feel his fingers.

 

"Is this it?" Izuku thought, blood pooling in his mouth. "I saved them. The medics are safe. But I... I can't move."

 

The Boomer aimed the weapon down at Izuku’s chest. The monster grunted, a cruel laugh rumbling in its chest.

 

Suddenly, a high-pitched whine pierced the air, followed by a brilliant, blinding blue light.

 

A pinpoint laser from the sky illuminated the Boomer’s back.

 

KZZZZZ-ZZAAAP!

 

A column of concentrated, orbital fire—the Hammer of Dawn—punched through the clouds and struck the Boomer directly. The monster didn't even have time to scream. The intense heat instantly vaporized its armor, its flesh, and its bones, turning the four-hundred-pound giant into a pile of glowing ash in less than two seconds.

 

The orbital beam swept forward, tracking directly over the Emergence Hole. The beam cooked the hole shut, glassing the pavement and incinerating the remaining Drones in a blinding flash of divine retribution.

 

The light faded. The battlefield fell eerily silent, save for the crackle of cooling glass and burning ash.

 

Izuku blinked, the afterimage of the Hammer strike burning in his retinas.

 

Heavy, methodical footsteps approached his position. Unlike the Locust, these steps were disciplined. Calm.

 

Izuku tilted his head back. Standing over him was a Gear. He wore no helmet, revealing a scarred, grizzled face covered in grime. He had a thick soul patch and wore a blue bandanna wrapped tightly around his head. A massive, jagged scar ran vertically down his right eye. In his massive hands, he casually held a customized Lancer.

 

The man stared down at Izuku. His expression was utterly unreadable, a mask of hardened cynicism forged in decades of bloodshed.

 

"You the idiot who just tried to punch a Boomshot?" the man asked. His voice was like grinding gravel, deep and utterly devoid of amusement.

 

Izuku coughed, spitting out a wad of blood. "I... I diverted the trajectory, sir. The wind pressure—"

 

"Shut up," the man interrupted, raising a hand. He knelt down, inspecting Izuku’s mangled arm. The green armor was warped. He pressed two fingers against the plating, and Izuku let out an involuntary hiss of pain.

 

"Broken," the man diagnosed flatly. "Probably shattered. You dropped your primary weapon, broke formation, abandoned cover, and sacrificed your dominant firing arm for a stunt that should have gotten you turned into a red smear on the pavement."

 

"I saved the medics," Izuku whispered fiercely, clutching his broken arm to his chest. "I saved them."

 

The grizzled Gear stared at Izuku’s defiant, emerald eyes for a long moment. He looked past Izuku, toward the retreating medics, and then at the pile of Locust corpses the kid had carved up barehanded.

 

The man sighed, a heavy, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire war. He reached into his belt, pulled out a COG-issued comm-link, and pressed it to his ear.

 

"Control, this is Delta One. E-Hole is plugged. Sector Four is secure."

 

"Copy that, Delta One," a crisp female voice crackled over the radio. "Status on the stranded squad?"

 

"They're extracting now. Casualties are light." The man paused, looking down at Izuku. "Control, I found the new blood Command transferred to my unit."

 

"The experimental asset? What is your assessment, Sergeant Fenix?"

 

Marcus Fenix looked at the kid in the green armor. He saw the shaking, broken arm. He saw the idiotic, heroic smile painted on the shoulder pauldron. He saw a kid who still believed in saving people in a world where saving people was a mathematical impossibility.

 

Marcus grunted, spitting a wad of phlegm into the dirt.

 

"My assessment?" Marcus growled into the radio. "Kid's gonna get himself killed."

 

Marcus reached down, grabbing Izuku by the collar of his chest plate with one hand, and hauled him effortlessly to his feet.

 

"Come on, greenhorn," Marcus said, shoving Izuku’s dropped Lancer into his good hand. "Walk it off. We got a war to win."

 

Izuku winced, leaning his weight on his Lancer like a crutch. He looked up at the legendary Marcus Fenix, the hero of Aspho Fields. Despite the excruciating pain radiating from his shattered arm, despite the ash choking his lungs, Izuku’s lips curved upward beneath his steel faceplate.

 

"Yes, sir," Izuku said.

 

He was broken. He was bleeding. He was terrified.

 

But he was a Gear. And he was going to save them all.

 

The sharp, antiseptic sting of rubbing alcohol couldn’t completely mask the underlying scent of Jacinto Medical Facility: old blood, ozone, and desperation.

 

Izuku Midoriya sat on the edge of a cold, stainless-steel examination table, staring blankly at his right arm. Just seventy-two hours ago, the radius and ulna had been fractured in over a dozen places, the result of channeling the terrifying, unbridled kinetic energy of One For All to punch the shockwave of a Boomshot rocket. According to standard Coalition of Ordered Governments medical texts, an injury of that magnitude should have required extensive reconstructive surgery, metal pins, and a minimum of six months of rehabilitation.

 

Instead, the COG medical officer, a weary-looking woman with dark circles under her eyes, was currently cutting away his temporary cast with a motorized saw.

 

"I’ve been a trauma surgeon for twenty years, kid," Dr. Aris muttered, her breath misting behind her surgical mask as she carefully peeled the hardened fiberglass away from Izuku’s skin. "I’ve seen men put back together after stepping on frag grenades. I’ve seen Imulsion sickness eat a man's nervous system from the inside out. But I have never, in my entire career, seen bone knit itself back together in three days."

 

The cast fell away, clattering onto the linoleum floor.

 

Izuku lifted his arm. The skin was heavily bruised, a mottled canvas of deep purples, sickly yellows, and angry reds. But it wasn't swollen. He flexed his fingers. They responded instantly. There was a dull ache deep within the marrow, a phantom echo of the sheer violence his body had endured, but it was functional.

 

"The serum..." Izuku murmured softly, his voice raspy. "Sergeant Yagi said it alters the host's cellular regeneration. The stockpiled energy tries to repair the vessel so it doesn't break again."

 

"Well, whatever black-site juice Command pumped into your veins, it’s a medical miracle," Dr. Aris said, though her tone was devoid of wonder. In this world, miracles were just weapons by another name. She shined a penlight into his eyes, checking for dilation. "But listen to me, Midoriya. Fast healing doesn't mean indestructible. Your ligaments are still stressed. If you pull another stunt like you did in Ephyra, your muscles might snap off the bone entirely. You need to pace yourself."

 

"I understand, ma'am. Thank you," Izuku said politely, bowing his head.

 

Dr. Aris sighed, tossing her penlight onto a metal tray. "You're too polite for the COG, kid. Good luck out there. You're cleared for active duty."

 

As she walked out of the sterile bay, heavy boots echoed in the corridor. The heavy steel door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Marcus Fenix stepped into the room.

 

The legendary Gear looked exactly as imposing as he had on the battlefield. He wore his standard issue armor, the heavy chest plate scuffed and scarred by years of subterranean warfare. His iconic blue bandanna was tied tightly over his head, and his cold, piercing eyes locked onto Izuku’s bruised arm.

 

"Doc says you're cleared," Marcus rumbled, his voice like rocks grinding in a cement mixer.

 

"Yes, sir," Izuku said, immediately jumping to his feet and snapping a crisp, textbook salute. "Private First Class Izuku Midoriya, reporting for duty, Sergeant Fenix!"

 

Marcus stared at the rigid, over-enthusiastic salute for a long, uncomfortable moment. He didn't return it. Instead, he reached into his chest rig, pulled out a crushed pack of Tyran tobacco, and placed a cigarillo between his teeth. He didn't light it.

 

"Drop the salute, kid. You're not in a parade, and I'm not an officer who gives a damn about the manual," Marcus said, turning on his heel. "Grab your kit. Hoffman officially transferred you to my unit. You're Delta Squad now."

 

Izuku’s eyes widened, a jolt of sheer adrenaline washing away the lingering aches in his body. Delta Squad. It was the most decorated, combat-effective unit in the COG. They were the tip of the spear. "Yes, sir! Right away, sir!"

 

Izuku scrambled to his locker, throwing open the metal door. He quickly stripped off his hospital scrubs and began strapping himself into his custom armor. The under-suit was a heavy, interwoven mesh of Kevlar and thermal-regulation fabric. Over that went the heavy steel plating.

 

His armor was distinctly his own—painted in shades of forest and olive green. It was a conscious choice. Standard COG armor was designed to blend into the ash and urban decay, but Izuku wanted his allies, and the civilians, to be able to see him. He wanted them to know help was there. He carefully strapped his modified knee-high combat boots, designed with extra shock absorption to handle the impact of his enhanced leaps. Finally, he secured his chest plate, the crude, white smiling face painted on the right shoulder pauldron catching the harsh fluorescent light of the med-bay.

 

He slung his Lancer over his back, secured his Snub pistol to his thigh holster, and grabbed his green-tinted helmet. Under his left arm, tucked safely against his ribcage, he carried a thick, leather-bound notebook.

 

He jogged down the corridor, catching up to Marcus’s long, sweeping strides.

 

"We're heading to the armory to meet the rest of the squad," Marcus grunted, not looking back. "Command wants us on a routine patrol in the Tollen commercial district. Seismic sensors picked up localized tremors. Might be nothing. Might be a scout tunnel. We go in, we check it out, we come back."

 

"Understood, Sergeant. What is the current composition of Delta Squad?" Izuku asked, pulling out a stubby pencil and opening his notebook as he walked.

 

Marcus glanced sideways at the book. "Put that away. You're gonna trip over your own boots."

 

"I just like to keep notes, sir! Tactical analysis of my squadmates' strengths and preferred engagement ranges will allow me to better position myself to offer support fire and—"

 

"Kid." Marcus stopped walking. Izuku almost crashed into his back. Marcus turned, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the green Gear. "I don't need you running equations. I need you to shoot grubs and not die. That's the only math that matters."

 

Izuku swallowed hard, snapping the notebook shut. "Right. Sorry, sir."

 

Marcus sighed. "Just... try not to annoy Baird."

 

"Baird, sir?"

 

They reached the end of the hall. Marcus slammed his hand against a large security panel. The heavy blast doors of the Jacinto Armory parted.

 

The armory was a cavernous, poorly lit warehouse filled with the deafening symphony of military preparation. Sparks showered from grinding wheels as mechanics sharpened Lancer bayonets. The air was thick with the smell of gun oil and cordite. Rows upon rows of weapon racks stretched into the gloom.

 

At the center of the room, gathered around a holographic tactical table displaying a topological map of the Tollen district, stood three Gears.

 

One of them, a massive man with skin the color of polished mahogany, threw his head back and let out a booming laugh that echoed over the din of the machinery. "I'm telling you, man! If that Boomer hadn't tripped over its own stupid feet, you'd be wearing your ass for a hat right now!"

 

"I had it completely under control, Cole," replied a leaner Gear with bleach-blond hair and a pair of customized welding goggles pushed up on his forehead. He was currently field-stripping a Gnasher shotgun with alarming speed. "It's called tactical baiting. I was luring him into a localized kill zone."

 

"You were running for your life, Baird! You were squealing like a stuck pig!"

 

"It was a tactical squeal."

 

The third Gear, a broad-shouldered man with a thick, dark beard and kind, deeply sorrowful brown eyes, chuckled quietly as he loaded armor-piercing rounds into a magazine. He looked up as Marcus and Izuku approached.

 

"Hey, Marcus," the bearded Gear said, his voice warm and familiar. "This the new blood?"

 

The blond Gear—Baird—paused his weapon assembly and looked Izuku up and down. His lips curled into a sneer of profound disappointment. "You've got to be kidding me. This is the 'experimental asset' Hoffman was raving about? He looks like a rejected mascot for a cereal box. What's with the green armor? You trying to camouflage yourself in a garden that hasn't existed for ten years?"

 

Izuku flushed beneath his dirt-smudged cheeks, gripping his notebook tightly. "I... I painted it green because..." He couldn't exactly tell them it was an homage to the colorful heroes of a bygone era. "Because I wanted to stand out to friendlies, sir."

 

Baird snorted, slapping the barrel of his shotgun back into place. "Oh, brilliant. So you stand out to friendlies, which means you also stand out to the Locust snipers. Congratulations, you're a walking bullseye. We're gonna be wiping you off the pavement by lunchtime."

 

"Lay off, Baird," the bearded Gear said gently, stepping forward. He extended a heavily calloused hand toward Izuku. "Ignore him. He's just cranky because a Wretch chewed on his favorite boots yesterday. I'm Corporal Dominic Santiago. Most people call me Dom."

 

Izuku took the hand. Dom's grip was incredibly strong, but not aggressive. There was a grounding warmth to him. "Private Izuku Midoriya. It's an honor to meet you, Corporal."

 

"Midoriya, huh? That's a mouthful," the massive, laughing Gear said, stepping up beside Dom. He clapped a hand on Izuku’s shoulder with enough force to make his knees buckle slightly. "I'm Augustus Cole! The Cole Train! Number eighty-three, baby!"

 

Izuku’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping. The notebook instantly flew open, his pencil a blur. "Augustus Cole? The defensive lineman for the Hanover Cougars?! You hold the Tyran record for the most tackles behind the line of scrimmage in a single season! Your kinetic energy output during a standard tackle was calculated at over three thousand pounds of force! I have a whole section in my notes on how your center of gravity during a charge is the perfect biological battering ram!"

 

The armory went dead silent.

 

Cole stared at Izuku, his eyes wide. Dom blinked, looking between the notebook and Izuku. Even Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

 

Baird was the first to break the silence. "Oh god. It's a fanboy. Marcus, please tell me we can leave him behind. He's going to talk us to death before the grubs even get a shot off."

 

A massive, brilliant grin split Cole’s face. He threw his arms up in the air. "WOOOOO! The kid knows his history! See, Baird? This is what culture looks like! The green machine here respects the Train!"

 

"He's a stalker, Cole," Baird muttered, grabbing his Gnasher.

 

"He's an enthusiast!" Cole corrected, turning back to Izuku. "I like you, kid. You got energy. But out here, the only record that matters is how many grubs you send back to the dirt. You ready to play in the big leagues?"

 

"Yes, sir!" Izuku said, puffing out his chest.

 

Dom chuckled, picking up his Lancer. "Alright, settle down. Midoriya, right? Since you're the new guy, you stick close to me and Marcus. Watch our corners, check your ammo, and if you hear a clicking sound in the dark, you shoot first and ask questions never."

 

"I have been studying the Locust physiology, actually," Izuku said eagerly, stepping closer to the tactical table. He flipped his notebook open, revealing incredibly detailed, hand-drawn anatomical diagrams of Locust Drones, Boomers, and Wretches. "If you look here, the Locust Drone's cranial plating is thickest at the forehead and the crown. But the temporal bone, right behind the ear canal, is significantly thinner. If we adjust our firing angles slightly off-center, we can bypass their helmets more efficiently."

 

Baird stopped walking, peering over Izuku’s shoulder at the notebook. He narrowed his eyes. The drawings were unnervingly accurate, complete with mathematical equations calculating bullet trajectory versus bone density.

 

"You drew these?" Baird asked, his tone losing a fraction of its sneer.

 

"Yes, sir," Izuku said proudly. "I've been analyzing their combat patterns too. The Drones tend to reload after firing exactly twenty-four rounds of Hammerburst fire, even though the magazine holds thirty. They have an ingrained psychological tick for suppressing fire bursts. If we time our cover-to-cover movements exactly on their twenty-fifth shot..."

 

Baird snatched the notebook out of Izuku’s hands.

 

"Hey!" Izuku protested.

 

Baird flipped through the pages, his bright blue eyes scanning the dense, chaotic scrawl of equations, diagrams, and hero-worship notes. He stopped on a page dedicated to the explosive radius of a Ticker. He scoffed, tossing the notebook back at Izuku’s chest.

 

"Cute," Baird said flatly. "You're trying to turn a slaughterhouse into a math test. Here’s your first lesson in engineering, kid: a plan only lasts until the first bullet flies. You can memorize all the temporal bone densities you want, but when a three-hundred-pound grub is rushing you with a bayonet and you're ankle-deep in mud, your math isn't going to save you. Pull the trigger until it stops moving. That's the only equation you need."

 

Baird pushed past him, heading for the helipad doors.

 

Izuku caught the notebook, his shoulders slumping slightly. He looked at his drawings. They were the only way he knew how to process the chaos of the world. By breaking the monsters down into numbers and facts, they felt less terrifying.

 

"Don't mind him, kid," Dom said, resting a hand on Izuku’s back. "Baird’s a genius. He builds our gear, hacks the terminal, keeps us alive. But his bedside manner is garbage. You keep your notes. If it helps you keep your head straight, you do it."

 

Izuku offered a small smile. "Thank you, Corporal Santiago."

 

"Call me Dom. We're bleeding in the same dirt; titles don't mean much." Dom looked at the crudely painted smiling face on Izuku’s shoulder. His gaze softened, a flash of profound, unbearable grief passing through his dark eyes before he masked it with a gentle smile. "How old are you, Izuku?"

 

"Nineteen, Dom."

 

Dom shook his head slowly. "Nineteen. God. You're just a kid. You shouldn't be wearing this armor."

 

"I volunteered," Izuku said firmly, his voice devoid of its usual hesitation. "I want to be here. I have to protect people."

 

Dom stared at him, recognizing the burning, naive fire in the boy's green eyes. It was a fire that usually got extinguished in a matter of weeks out in the ruins. Dom patted Izuku’s back. "Just keep your head down, alright? Let's go. The Raven is waiting."

 

 

 

The King Raven transport helicopter tore through the sickly yellow clouds of the Seran sky, its twin rotors beating the air with a deafening rhythm.

 

Izuku sat in the open side door of the chopper, his legs dangling over the edge, secured to the bulkhead by a heavy safety harness. The wind whipped violently against his armor. He looked down at the world passing beneath them.

 

From this altitude, the sheer scale of the devastation was incomprehensible. Once, Sera had been a jewel of architectural beauty, a world of sprawling Tyran cities built from white marble, gleaming steel, and boundless ambition. Now, it was a graveyard. Entire city blocks were swallowed by massive sinkholes. Skyscrapers leaned against each other like drunken skeletons, their windows blown out, their steel skeletons rusting in the toxic rain. The rivers were choked with ash and the dark, oily sheen of unrefined Imulsion.

 

It looked nothing like the vibrant, colorful world of the comic books he had read as a boy. There were no bright capes. No cheering crowds. Just gray, and black, and the color of dried blood.

 

Izuku gripped the edge of his seat, feeling a sudden, overwhelming wave of vertigo. Not from the height, but from the weight of it all.

 

He leaned over to Marcus, who was sitting next to him, stoically cleaning the lens of his Lancer’s sights. Izuku had to shout over the roar of the rotors.

 

"Sergeant Fenix!"

 

Marcus didn't look up. "What?"

 

"The briefing said we're checking a commercial sector! Are there still Stranded living out there? Civilians?"

 

Marcus paused his cleaning. He looked out the open door, his eyes scanning the ruined cityscape below. "Maybe. Stranded are like rats. They find a hole, they hide. If there are any left in Tollen, they're starving, diseased, and likely hostile to the COG. We took their food and locked the doors to Jacinto. They don't like us."

 

Izuku frowned, his grip tightening on his Lancer. "But if we find them under attack by the Locust, we'll intervene, right? We'll save them."

 

The statement hung in the air. Cole, sitting across from them, stopped tapping his foot. Baird rolled his eyes behind his goggles. Dom looked down at his boots.

 

Marcus turned his head slowly, locking his terrifying, scarred gaze onto Izuku. The coldness in Marcus’s eyes wasn't born of malice; it was born of absolute, unrelenting pragmatism.

 

"Listen to me very carefully, Midoriya," Marcus said, his voice cutting through the roar of the helicopter like a razor blade. "This isn't a fairy tale. Our mission is to recon a seismic anomaly and report back. If we see grubs, we kill them. If we see Stranded, we ignore them unless they shoot at us. We do not compromise the mission to play savior."

 

Izuku’s heart hammered in his chest. "But... but we're Gears! We're supposed to be heroes! We're supposed to protect the innocent!"

 

Baird let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Oh, my god. He actually believes the recruitment posters."

 

Marcus leaned forward, his face mere inches from Izuku’s faceplate. Izuku could smell the stale tobacco and sweat on the veteran.

 

"There are no heroes here, kid," Marcus said quietly, the words dripping with absolute certainty. "Hero is a word politicians use to get teenagers to march into meat grinders. You want to be a hero? Fine. Get yourself killed. But if you try to pull some reckless, bleeding-heart stunt out there and put my squad in danger, I won't let the grubs kill you. I'll shoot you myself. Do you understand me?"

 

Izuku felt a chill run down his spine, completely separate from the freezing wind. He looked at Marcus. He saw the scars. He saw the heavy, suffocating burden of command. Marcus wasn't being cruel; he was trying to keep them alive.

 

But Izuku thought of his mother, dying on the floor of a rusted shack while the COG ignored the outer settlements. He thought of Toshinori Yagi, coughing up blood, begging him to be a different kind of soldier.

 

Izuku swallowed his fear. He didn't drop his gaze.

 

"I understand my orders, Sergeant," Izuku said, his voice steady. "But I will not let people die in front of me if I have the power to stop it."

 

Marcus stared at him. The kid was an idiot. A stubborn, idealistic idiot. And out here, idealism was just a faster way to bleed to death.

 

"We're a minute out!" the Raven pilot screamed over the intercom. "Landing zone is hot! The LZ is a mess, I can't put her all the way down! You're gonna have to drop!"

 

"Alright, Delta! Gear up!" Marcus barked, slapping the side of the chopper. The philosophical debate was over; the reality of war had returned.

 

The Raven flared its rotors, hovering roughly fifteen feet above a massive, ruined courtyard of what used to be a high-end shopping mall. The glass roof had completely caved in, leaving a jagged, gaping maw open to the sky.

 

"Go, go, go!" Marcus yelled.

 

Dom unhooked his harness and leaped out the door, hitting the ground with a heavy roll and coming up with his Lancer raised. Cole followed, dropping like an anvil and laughing as he landed. Baird vaulted out gracefully, landing in a crouch behind a shattered marble planter.

 

Izuku unhooked his harness. He looked down at the drop. Fifteen feet in heavy armor would break a normal man's ankles.

 

He didn't hesitate. He summoned a tiny fraction of One For All into his legs—just three percent, letting the bio-luminescent green energy pulse gently beneath his armor.

 

He stepped out of the chopper.

 

Instead of dropping like a stone, Izuku descended with shocking grace. He hit the marble floor of the mall, his enhanced muscles absorbing the kinetic impact perfectly. The marble didn't crack. He didn't roll. He just landed in a perfect, three-point crouch, immediately raising his Lancer and sweeping the sector.

 

Baird, who had been watching, blinked behind his goggles. "How the hell did you not break your legs?"

 

"Kinetic displacement, sir," Izuku muttered instinctively. "I engaged my quads at the exact moment of impact to shift the—"

 

"I didn't actually want an answer," Baird groaned, moving up.

 

The King Raven pulled away, banking hard into the sky, its engine noise fading into the distance.

 

As the sound of the chopper died, the true atmosphere of the Tollen commercial district settled over them. It was a tomb.

 

The mall was massive, a sprawling labyrinth of decayed luxury. Skeletons of high-end clothing mannequins lay scattered across the floor, half-buried in ash. Tattered, faded banners advertising a pre-war fashion line hung lifelessly from the upper balconies. The only light came from the hole in the roof and the flickering, eerie glow of emergency chem-lights that had somehow survived a decade of neglect.

 

The silence was heavy. Oppressive.

 

"Delta, form up. Diamond formation," Marcus ordered, his voice dropping to a low, tactical whisper. "Baird, get your sniffer out. See if you can pinpoint that seismic anomaly."

 

"Working on it," Baird muttered, pulling a bulky, handheld sonic-mapping device from his belt. The device hummed quietly, a green radar sweeping across its small screen. "Lots of interference. The foundation of this place is basically Swiss cheese. I'm reading multiple subterranean cavities beneath us."

 

"Keep your eyes open," Dom said, moving slowly past a shattered jewelry store, his boots crunching softly on broken glass.

 

Izuku walked beside Dom, his Lancer tight against his shoulder. His heart was beating furiously, but his mind was clear. The adrenaline was sharpening his senses. He scanned the shadows on the upper balconies. He looked for the tell-tale signs he had documented in his notebook: fresh claw marks on the walls, the smell of sulfur, the subtle shifting of dust.

 

"This place used to be beautiful," Dom said quietly, not looking at Izuku, his eyes scanning the darkness. "Before E-Day. I brought my wife, Maria, here once. We bought a dress for her sister's wedding in that shop right there." He pointed the barrel of his Lancer at a charred, unrecognizable storefront. "We had lunch by the fountain. It was... sunny."

 

Izuku looked at Dom. The sorrow in the corporal's voice was profound. It wasn't the sharp, panicky grief of a fresh wound; it was the dull, heavy ache of an old scar that never stopped hurting.

 

"I'm sorry, Dom," Izuku whispered.

 

"Don't be," Dom replied, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Just don't forget what we're fighting for. Marcus thinks we're just surviving. But we have to believe there's something left to build when the shooting stops. Otherwise, we're already dead."

 

Izuku nodded, feeling a deep kinship with the bearded Gear. Dom understood. Dom still had a heart.

 

Click-clack. Scurry.

 

Izuku froze.

 

His enhanced hearing, a subtle byproduct of the serum pushing his senses to the peak of human capability, picked up a sound over the ambient noise of the wind. It was faint. Rapid. The sound of sharp claws skittering across marble.

 

"Sergeant Fenix," Izuku whispered urgently.

 

"I hear it," Marcus grunted, raising his Lancer. "Hold steady."

 

Squeak. Chitter.

 

"Baird?" Marcus asked.

 

Baird tapped his tracker. "I got movement. Fast movement. Coming from... everywhere."

 

Suddenly, a high-pitched, manic squealing echoed from the darkened storefronts. It sounded like a choir of deranged, mechanical pigs.

 

"Tickers!" Cole yelled.

 

Bursting out of the shadows, scrambling over the ruined escalators, came a swarm of Tickers. They were small, repulsive creatures, roughly the size of large dogs, with pale, hairless skin and scuttling, insectoid legs. But the terrifying part wasn't their teeth. Strapped to the back of every single Ticker was a volatile, glowing orange Imulsion tank.

 

They were living, breathing suicide bombers. And there were dozens of them.

 

"Light 'em up!" Marcus roared.

 

The silence of the mall shattered. Four Lancer assault rifles erupted simultaneously. The deafening roar of automatic gunfire filled the cavernous space. Muzzle flashes strobed wildly in the gloom.

 

Dom tracked a Ticker scrambling across the floor and fired a short, controlled burst. The bullets struck the Imulsion tank on its back. The creature exploded in a massive, fiery concussive blast, taking out two other Tickers running next to it.

 

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

 

Explosions rocked the mall, sending chunks of marble and glass raining down on Delta Squad.

 

"Keep your distance! Don't let them get close!" Baird yelled, backing up and firing his Gnasher from the hip. He blew a leaping Ticker out of the air, the fiery explosion washing over his energy shields.

 

Izuku didn't panic. His mind slipped seamlessly into the hyper-analytical state he relied on.

 

"Tickers. Low armor, high explosive yield. They hunt in packs and rely on swarming tactics. Their primary objective is to break our formation," Izuku muttered rapidly, his eyes darting across the battlefield. He tracked the movement of the horde. They weren't just charging blindly; they were funneling Delta Squad toward the center of the courtyard, right next to a massive, dried-up decorative fountain.

 

"They're corralling us. Why? Suicide bombers don't need a kill box unless they're setting up for something bigger."

 

Izuku looked up.

 

Clinging to the ceiling above the courtyard, hidden in the shadows of the exposed steel rafters, were Wretches. They were waiting for Delta to be pushed into the center before dropping down to tear them apart in the confusion.

 

"Above us!" Izuku screamed. "They're on the ceiling! Break formation! Move to cover!"

 

Marcus looked up, spotting the glint of yellow eyes in the rafters. "Kid's right! Scatter! Get out of the open!"

 

As Delta Squad broke their tight diamond formation, diving behind the scattered debris and concrete pillars, the Wretches shrieked and dropped from the ceiling.

 

A dozen of the lanky, clawed monstrosities hit the floor, immediately bounding toward the COG soldiers with terrifying speed.

 

Izuku dove behind a heavy marble bench as a Ticker exploded where he had been standing a second prior. The shockwave rattled his teeth, raining ash over his helmet. He popped out from cover, raising his Lancer.

 

He didn't spray and pray. He took a deep breath, aligning his sights just as he had practiced on the firing range, adjusting for the temporal bone weakness he had noted in his notebook. He squeezed the trigger. Three-round bursts.

 

Crack-crack-crack. A Wretch's head snapped back, dropping dead.

 

Crack-crack-crack. Another Wretch vaulted over a railing, only to catch a burst mid-air and collapse in a heap.

 

"Nice shooting, greenhorn!" Cole bellowed over the gunfire, slamming a Wretch into a wall with the butt of his Lancer before revving his chainsaw and tearing the creature in half.

 

But the ambush wasn't over.

 

A deep, rumbling horn echoed through the mall. It wasn't the manic squeal of a Ticker or the shriek of a Wretch. It was a Locust war horn.

 

From the darkened corridors of the second floor, heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed. Locust Drones emerged from the gloom. They carried Hammerburst assault rifles and heavy Mulcher chainguns. They took up fortified positions on the balconies, looking down at Delta Squad.

 

The real fight had just begun.

 

"Snipers on the second floor!" Dom yelled, pinning himself behind a concrete pillar as a hail of Hammerburst fire chipped away at his cover. "We're pinned down!"

 

"Baird! Where the hell is that seismic anomaly?!" Marcus shouted, blind-firing his Lancer over his cover.

 

"You're standing on it!" Baird yelled back, his voice cracking with panic.

 

The floor beneath the dried fountain suddenly bulged upward. The marble cracked, glowing with intense, subterranean heat. With a violent, earth-shattering explosion, an Emergence Hole tore open right in the center of the courtyard.

 

A massive Geyser of dirt and rock sprayed into the air. Fresh Locust Drones poured out of the hole, screaming their battle cries.

 

Delta Squad was caught in a brutal crossfire. Drones on the balconies raining fire down, and Drones pouring from the E-Hole charging their positions.

 

Izuku crouched behind his bench. The air was thick with flying lead. A stray Hammerburst round grazed his shoulder pauldron, tearing away a chunk of the green paint. He looked to his left.

 

Dom was pinned behind a thin pillar. Two Drones from the E-Hole were advancing on him, their bayonets fixed, moving under the suppressive fire of a Mulcher on the balcony. Dom couldn't peek out to shoot them without getting cut in half by the heavy machine gun.

 

"Dom is going to die," Izuku realized, his heart skipping a beat.

 

The analytical part of his brain shut down. The instinctual, desperate need to protect took over.

 

Izuku didn't think about his still-healing arm. He didn't think about Marcus’s warning to stay in cover. He holstered his Lancer, his hands moving with blinding speed.

 

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He pulled on the power of One For All, drawing it up from his core, visualizing the energy not as a violent explosion, but as a steady, controlled current. He channeled five percent of the power evenly throughout his body.

 

Green lightning—faint, but unmistakable—arced across his armor. His veins glowed brilliantly beneath his skin.

 

He exploded from behind the bench.

 

"MIDORIYA! GET BACK IN COVER!" Marcus roared, watching in horror as the kid broke the line.

 

Izuku moved faster than a human being had any right to move. He didn't run; he glided across the battlefield, his boots barely touching the ground. He moved in a jagged, unpredictable zigzag, moving too fast for the Mulcher gunner on the balcony to track him. The heavy bullets chewed up the floor behind him.

 

He closed the distance to the two Drones advancing on Dom in a little over two seconds.

 

The Drones turned, startled by the green blur rushing them. One swung its bayonet.

 

Izuku ducked under the heavy blade, his enhanced reflexes making the monstrous Locust look like it was moving in slow motion. He stepped inside the Drone’s guard. With his left hand—his good hand—he grabbed the front of the Drone’s heavy chest plate.

 

He didn't throw a devastating punch. He remembered the doctor's warning. Instead, he used his legs.

 

Izuku dropped his center of gravity, placing his boot against the Drone’s knee, and pulled violently backward while kicking forward. A perfect, enhanced judo throw. The four-hundred-pound monster was swept off its feet, flipping wildly into the air.

 

Izuku used the momentum of the throw to hurl the Drone directly into the second Locust. The two monsters collided with a sickening crunch of armor and bone, tangling together and crashing heavily to the ground.

 

Before they could recover, Dom leaned out from behind his pillar and fired his Lancer, finishing both of them off.

 

Dom looked at Izuku, his eyes wide with shock. "How the hell did you move that fast?!"

 

"Keep moving!" Izuku yelled, the green lightning fading from his armor as he dropped the connection to the serum, gasping for breath. Using even five percent continuously burned a massive amount of stamina.

 

"We need to close that E-Hole!" Marcus bellowed, vaulting over his cover and revving his chainsaw, slicing through a charging Drone. "Someone get a frag grenade in there!"

 

"I'm out!" Cole yelled, firing his Snub pistol as his Lancer clicked empty.

 

"I've got one!" Izuku shouted. He unclipped a heavy, spiked Bolo grenade from his belt. But as he wound his arm back to throw it, a sickening, tearing pain shot up his right arm. The ligaments, still weak from the previous break, screamed in protest. He faltered, the grenade slipping slightly in his grip.

 

He couldn't throw it. The distance was too far for a weak toss, and if he missed, the hole would stay open.

 

"Think! Think!" Izuku frantically scanned his surroundings.

 

Directly above the Emergence Hole, suspended from the ceiling by heavy steel cables, was a massive, decorative chandelier made of iron and glass. It was easily the size of a transport truck.

 

Izuku looked at the Mulcher gunner on the balcony. The Locust was turning its heavy gun toward Marcus.

 

Izuku made a terrifyingly reckless calculation.

 

He didn't throw the grenade at the E-Hole. He ignited the fuse and threw the grenade straight up, aiming for the ceiling.

 

"What are you doing?!" Baird screamed. "You missed the hole!"

 

The Bolo grenade soared through the air in a perfect, high arc. It sailed right past the chandelier, embedding its spikes directly into the central steel support cable anchoring the massive fixture to the ceiling.

 

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

 

BOOM!

 

The explosive force severed the heavy steel cable instantly.

 

With a sound like a screaming train, the massive iron chandelier detached from the ceiling. It plummeted thirty feet, a localized meteor of iron and glass.

 

It crashed directly into the Emergence Hole with catastrophic force.

 

The sheer weight of the chandelier crushed the Drones currently climbing out of the pit. The iron frame wedged perfectly into the crater, completely blocking the tunnel and causing the unstable earth around the hole to cave in on itself. A massive cloud of dust and debris billowed out, choking the courtyard.

 

The E-Hole was plugged.

 

The sudden silence from the pit demoralized the remaining Drones on the balconies.

 

"The hole is closed! Push 'em back!" Marcus ordered, his voice ringing with renewed ferocity.

 

With the endless stream of reinforcements cut off, Delta Squad went on the offensive. Cole and Dom laid down brutal suppressive fire, pinning the snipers on the balcony, while Baird flanked around a broken escalator, using his Gnasher to flank and execute the remaining grubs.

 

Within ninety seconds, the firefight was over.

 

The only sounds left in the mall were the heavy breathing of the Gears and the hiss of cooling weapons.

 

Izuku leaned heavily against a wall, his chest heaving. His right arm throbbed agonizingly, but he ignored it. He slowly slid down the wall, sitting on the marble floor, completely exhausted. The adrenaline crash hit him like a physical blow.

 

Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached him.

 

Izuku looked up. Marcus Fenix stood over him, his Lancer smoking. Cole, Dom, and Baird gathered behind him.

 

They all stared down at the kid in the green armor.

 

Baird pushed his goggles up, his face covered in soot. He looked at the crushed chandelier plugging the hole, then back at Izuku. "You blew the support cable. You used a localized environmental collapse to plug a subterranean breach." Baird shook his head in grudging disbelief. "That was... mathematically sound."

 

Cole let out a booming laugh, slapping Dom on the back. "Did you see the kid move?! Man, he was like a green blur! He tossed that grub like a ragdoll!"

 

Dom smiled, walking over and offering Izuku a hand. Izuku took it, and Dom hauled him to his feet. "You saved my life, Izuku. Thank you."

 

Izuku smiled weakly, his legs trembling. "Just doing my job, Dom."

 

Marcus didn't smile. He stepped closer to Izuku, his expression as hard and unreadable as ever. He stared at the kid for a long time.

 

Izuku braced himself for a reprimand. He had broken formation. He had acted recklessly.

 

"You broke protocol," Marcus grunted, his voice low.

 

"Yes, Sergeant," Izuku said, looking down.

 

"You abandoned cover and rushed a superior force."

 

"Yes, Sergeant."

 

Marcus paused. He reached out and tapped the crudely painted smiling face on Izuku’s shoulder pad.

 

"But you didn't die," Marcus said. "And you closed the hole. Your tactical assessment was accurate."

 

Marcus turned away, shouldering his Lancer.

 

"Form up, Delta. We're returning to base." Marcus looked over his shoulder, his scarred eye meeting Izuku’s green ones. "Good work today, Midoriya. Keep up."

 

Izuku’s eyes widened. A massive, genuine smile broke across his face behind his visor. The legendary Marcus Fenix had just praised him.

 

"Yes, sir!" Izuku called out, his voice filled with renewed vigor.

 

As they marched out of the ruined mall, back into the ash-choked streets of Tyrus, Izuku felt the heavy, crushing weight of the world on his shoulders. The air was still toxic. The monsters were still beneath their feet. The war was far from over.

 

But as he walked alongside Delta Squad, his notebook tucked safely under his arm, Izuku didn't feel entirely powerless anymore. He wasn't just a Quirkless kid from the dirt.

 

He was a Gear. And he was going to find a way to save this world, even if he had to break every bone in his body to do it.

 

The rain on Sera didn’t fall so much as it spat. It was a cold, acidic drizzle that carried the bitter taste of sulfur and the ever-present sting of pulverized concrete. It turned the ash-choked streets of Ephyra’s outer rim into a sludgy, knee-deep morass of gray mud that sucked at the boots of Delta Squad with every step.

 

Izuku Midoriya marched at the center of the diamond formation, his heavy combat boots sinking into the muck. The green plating of his armor was slick with rain, the smiling emblem on his pauldron half-obscured by a thick layer of grime. He kept his Lancer raised, scanning the ruined husks of the residential district.

 

It had been four days since the incident in the Tollen commercial district. Four days since he had earned a nod of approval from Marcus Fenix.

 

Izuku’s right arm still ached with a dull, throbbing intensity. The bone had knitted back together—a terrifying testament to the regenerative properties of the One For All serum flowing through his veins—but Dr. Aris’s warning echoed in his mind. Fast healing doesn't mean indestructible. He was pacing himself. He had spent the last three nights sitting in his bunk at Jacinto, meticulously charting out the kinetic stress limits of his own body in his notebook. He had calculated that he could safely channel roughly five percent of the serum’s power continuously for enhanced mobility without snapping his bones, though it drained his stamina exponentially.

 

He felt ready. He felt like he was finally figuring out how to be a Gear.

 

"I swear to god, if I step in one more puddle of mystery sludge, I’m filing a grievance with Hoffman," Baird complained over the comm-link, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm as he high-stepped over a submerged, rusted-out car chassis. "We’re Gears, not plumbers. What are we even doing out here, Marcus? The seismic sensors are blind in this rain."

 

"Command lost contact with a supply convoy moving through Sector Seven," Marcus grunted, taking point. His massive frame seemed entirely unbothered by the torrential downpour. "Our orders are to find the convoy, secure the munitions, and find out what happened to the drivers."

 

"I'll tell you what happened," Cole chimed in, his heavy boots splashing rhythmically. "Grubs happened. They always happen. It’s a grub-eat-grub world out here, baby!"

 

"Keep the chatter clear," Dom said softly, his Lancer sweeping a row of shattered tenement windows. "This area is prime ambush territory. Lots of verticality. Lots of blind corners."

 

Izuku tightened his grip on his weapon. He looked up at the skeletal remains of the apartment buildings towering over them. The sky was a bruised, violently dark purple, bleeding into the blackness of the encroaching night.

 

"Do we know if there are any civilian settlements in this sector, Corporal Santiago?" Izuku asked, his voice tight.

 

Baird groaned audibly. "Oh, here we go again. Captain Hero is looking for a parade."

 

"Stow it, Baird," Dom reprimanded gently. He looked over his shoulder at Izuku. "There used to be a Stranded camp a few klicks east of here. Called themselves the 'Free Sons.' Mostly scavengers. But they move around a lot to avoid the Locust patrols. If they're smart, they're hunkered down underground in this weather."

 

Izuku nodded, his eyes darting to every shadow. 'I have to be ready,' he thought, his thumb resting on the safety of his Lancer. 'I have the power to protect them now. I just have to be fast enough.'

 

A sharp, crackling static burst over their localized radio channel.

 

Marcus held up a massive fist. The squad froze instantly.

 

For a moment, there was only the sound of the rain hitting their armor. Then, cutting through the drumming downpour, came a sound that made Izuku’s blood run cold.

 

The frantic, staccato pop-pop-pop of small-arms fire. It wasn't the heavy, disciplined roar of COG Lancers. It was the chaotic, desperate crack of civilian shotguns and scavenged Tyran pistols.

 

And underneath the gunfire was the unmistakable, guttural roar of Locust Drones.

 

"Sounds like the Free Sons aren't so underground after all," Baird muttered, clicking the safety off his Gnasher shotgun.

 

"Direction?" Marcus barked.

 

"North-northeast. Two blocks up," Dom replied, his eyes narrowing. "Sounds like they're getting overrun."

 

"Move!" Marcus ordered.

 

Delta Squad broke into a heavy sprint. Izuku’s heart hammered against his ribs. He felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the white-hot need to intervene. He didn't wait for the others. He funneled five percent of One For All into his legs.

 

Green lightning flared faintly beneath the heavy armor, his veins glowing through the gaps in the plating. With a powerful, splashing stride, Izuku shot to the front of the formation, his boots tearing up the mud as he bounded over debris.

 

"Midoriya! Hold formation!" Marcus yelled, but the kid was already pulling away.

 

Izuku rounded the corner of a collapsed banking building and slid to a halt behind a rusted barricade of corrugated iron. He peered over the edge.

 

The Stranded camp was a pitiful sight. It was built into the sunken courtyard of an old subway station. Tents made of dirty tarps and scavenged billboards were clustered around a few dying trash-can fires. The perimeter was ringed with barbed wire and sharpened rebar, but the defenses had already failed.

 

The Locust were inside.

 

There were at least a dozen Drones. They moved with terrifying, methodical brutality. They weren't just killing; they were slaughtering. A Stranded man in a tattered coat fired a double-barreled shotgun at a Drone’s chest. The buckshot barely scratched the monster’s thick armor. The Drone backhanded the man with enough force to shatter his jaw, then impaled him on a bayonet, lifting him into the air like a grotesque trophy.

 

Women and children were screaming, scrambling over the muddy ruins, desperately trying to find an exit that didn't exist. The camp was a dead end.

 

Izuku’s breath hitched. He saw the bodies in the mud. He saw a Drone raising a Hammerburst to execute a wounded woman crawling away.

 

I am here.

 

The words of his idol echoed in his mind. Izuku didn't wait for Marcus. He didn't formulate a mathematical kill-box. He acted on pure, unfiltered instinct.

 

He vaulted over the barricade, dropping twenty feet down into the sunken courtyard.

 

Instead of raising his Lancer, Izuku slung it over his shoulder. He needed speed, and he needed both hands free to grapple. He hit the muddy ground with a heavy splash, the kinetic shock absorbers in his boots whining in protest.

 

"HEY!" Izuku screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "OVER HERE!"

 

Every Locust in the courtyard stopped. They turned their ugly, reptilian heads toward the green Gear standing in the center of the camp.

 

"Midoriya, you idiot, shoot them!" Baird’s voice cracked over the radio as Delta Squad arrived at the top of the barricade, immediately laying down suppressive fire.

 

Izuku ignored him. A Drone charged him, roaring in Tyran, its bayonet leveled at Izuku’s chest.

 

Izuku stepped inside the thrust, his green-glowing hands catching the barrel of the Hammerburst. He twisted his hips, using the Drone’s own momentum against it, and judo-threw the four-hundred-pound monster into a concrete pillar. The Drone’s skull cracked against the stone, dropping it instantly.

 

"Get to the tunnels! Go!" Izuku yelled at a group of paralyzed Stranded civilians. "I'll hold them back!"

 

He was a blur of green and silver. He darted across the camp, treating the battlefield like a superhero rescue operation. He wasn't fighting a war; he was saving lives. He believed, with every fiber of his being, that if he just moved fast enough, if he just took all the aggro, nobody else had to die.

 

A Drone took aim at a fleeing teenager. Izuku leaped across a burning tent, tackling the Locust to the ground. He drove his armored fist into the Drone’s faceplate, shattering it, before springing back to his feet.

 

"Keep moving! Don't look back!" Izuku shouted, waving the civilians toward the subway entrance.

 

Delta Squad was pouring fire into the courtyard from the high ground. Marcus’s Lancer roared, cutting down two Drones that tried to flank Izuku. Cole was whooping, tossing a frag grenade into a cluster of grubs near the western wall.

 

For three glorious, chaotic minutes, it worked.

 

Izuku was untouchable. He deflected blows, he shattered weapons with his bare hands, he threw his own body between the Hammerburst fire and the fleeing Stranded. His armor sparked and pinged as stray rounds grazed him, but the mesh held. He was the shield. He was the hero he had always dreamed of being.

 

He spotted a woman huddled behind a rusted generator near the edge of the camp. She was clutching a young girl, no older than six, to her chest. The little girl was sobbing, her face buried in her mother's dirty jacket.

 

Izuku sprinted over to them, sliding in the mud. He knelt down, keeping his back to the firefight to shield them with his armored torso.

 

He lifted his green-tinted visor. He forced the brightest, most reassuring smile he could muster, despite the chaos around them.

 

"It's okay," Izuku said, his voice soft but unwavering. "You're safe now. Delta Squad is here. Just stay right behind this generator, keep your heads down, and when the shooting stops, I promise I will get you out of here."

 

The mother looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. She saw the crude, white smiling face painted on his shoulder. She nodded frantically, holding her daughter tighter.

 

"Thank you," she sobbed. "Thank you, Gear."

 

Izuku’s heart swelled. This was why he endured the pain. This was what One For All was meant for.

 

"I'll be right back," Izuku promised.

 

He slammed his visor down and turned back to the fight. The Locust numbers were thinning. Marcus and Dom were moving down into the courtyard, their chainsaws revving as they cleared the remaining Drones in close-quarters combat.

 

"We're winning," Izuku thought, a surge of adrenaline pushing him forward. "We saved them."

 

SCREEEEEEECH!

 

The sound didn't come from the front. It came from above.

 

Izuku froze. His head whipped around, his eyes scanning the rusted scaffolding that hung over the edges of the subway courtyard.

 

He had forgotten the golden rule of the Horde. They never attacked from just one angle.

 

Crawling out of the drainage pipes in the walls, dropping silently onto the scaffolding, were Wretches. They were the scavengers, the flankers. They didn't care about the heavy Gears with the chainsaws; they cared about the softest targets available.

 

And Izuku had just left the softest targets completely undefended.

 

Three Wretches dropped from the scaffolding, landing in the mud just ten feet behind the rusted generator.

 

"NO!" Izuku screamed, his voice tearing his throat.

 

Time seemed to slow down into a horrific, viscous crawl.

 

Izuku pushed power into his legs—ten percent, fifteen percent. The bones in his shins groaned, hairline fractures spider-webbing through his tibia. He lunged forward, his hand outstretched.

 

But he was thirty yards away. The math was impossible.

 

The Wretches didn't go for Izuku. They ignored him entirely. They descended on the generator with terrifying speed, their jaws unhinging, their razor-sharp claws flashing in the dim light of the trash fires.

 

The mother screamed.

 

Izuku’s boots slammed into the mud. He closed the distance in a fraction of a second, the sheer force of his movement kicking up a wave of filthy water.

 

He was too late.

 

He hit the first Wretch with a desperate, sweeping kick, shattering its spine and sending it flying into a concrete wall. He grabbed the second one by the throat, crushing its windpipe in his armored grip. The third one hissed at him, but a perfectly aimed burst of Lancer fire from Dom took its head off.

 

The immediate threat was dead.

 

Izuku stood over the generator, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

 

He looked down.

 

The mother lay in the mud. Her throat had been torn out. Her lifeless eyes stared up at the dark, rainy sky. Beneath her, completely covered in her mother’s blood, was the little girl. She wasn't moving.

 

Izuku’s brain short-circuited.

 

The world around him faded. The gunfire, the shouting, the rain hitting his armor—it all dissolved into a high-pitched, ringing tinnitus.

 

I promise I will get you out of here.

 

He stared at his hands. The green gauntlets were coated in dark, slick crimson. It wasn't Locust blood. It was human.

 

"Hey! Kid! Talk to me!"

 

Someone was grabbing his shoulder. Izuku didn't feel it. He was locked in a localized vacuum of pure horror.

 

He fell to his knees. The mud splashed against his armor.

 

"I was right here," his mind screamed, the thoughts disjointed, spiraling out of control. "I was so fast. I was so strong. I told them they were safe. I told them... I smiled at them. Why did they go for them? Why didn't they attack me? I was the threat! Villains attack the hero!"

 

He couldn't breathe. The air in his helmet felt thick, toxic, as if the oxygen had been replaced by ash. His lungs spasmed. He reached up with shaking, blood-soaked hands and clawed at his helmet, desperately fumbling with the locking mechanism until he tore it off his head, tossing it into the mud.

 

The cold rain hit his bare face, but it didn't help. He was hyperventilating, his mouth open in a silent, agonizing gasp.

 

He leaned forward, planting his hands in the mud, his entire body trembling so violently his armor rattled. He retched, coughing up bile into the dirt.

 

This wasn't a comic book.

 

In the comics, the hero arrives in the nick of time. The hero takes the hit. The villain monologues, giving the civilians time to escape.

 

But this was Sera. The Locust didn't monologue. They didn't care about his green armor or his heroic smile. They were an extinction-level event, a force of nature driven by pure, unadulterated malice. They targeted the weak because the weak were easy to kill.

 

"Midoriya."

 

The voice was deep, gravelly, and cut through the ringing in his ears like a thunderclap.

 

Izuku felt a massive hand grip the back of his collar. He was hauled to his feet with effortless strength.

 

He looked up through tear-blurred eyes. Marcus Fenix stood in front of him. The veteran’s face was smeared with mud and grub blood. His iconic blue bandanna was soaked through.

 

The rest of Delta Squad was securing the perimeter. Dom was checking the other civilian bodies, his face a mask of quiet mourning. Cole and Baird were on the high ground, keeping their weapons trained on the shadows.

 

"They're... they're dead," Izuku choked out, his voice breaking into a pathetic sob. He pointed a shaking, bloody finger at the generator. "I told them to wait. I told them they were safe. It's my fault. It's my fault!"

 

Izuku expected Marcus to scream at him. He expected the sergeant to berate him for breaking formation, to call him a liability, to tell him he was unfit to wear the uniform. He wanted Marcus to yell at him. He felt he deserved it.

 

But Marcus didn't yell.

 

The hardened veteran looked past Izuku, his scarred eyes briefly resting on the bodies of the mother and child. A muscle in his jaw feathered, the only visible sign of the immense, suppressed rage he carried.

 

Then, Marcus looked back at Izuku. He didn't look at the kid with pity, nor with anger. He looked at him with the exhausted understanding of a man who had stood in the exact same spot, feeling the exact same crushing guilt, a thousand times over.

 

Marcus reached down and picked up Izuku’s Lancer from where it had fallen in the mud. He wiped the dirt off the receiver with a massive, calloused hand.

 

He slammed the rifle into Izuku’s chest.

 

Izuku flinched, instinctively wrapping his hands around the weapon.

 

"Look at me, kid," Marcus ordered, his voice low, steady, and terrifyingly calm.

 

Izuku couldn't meet his eyes. He kept staring at the blood on his gauntlets.

 

Marcus grabbed Izuku’s chin, forcing his head up. "I said, look at me."

 

Izuku looked into the cold, blue eyes of Marcus Fenix.

 

"You think you're the first Gear to make a promise he couldn't keep?" Marcus asked, the words dripping with the weight of decades of war. "You think you're the first one to watch someone die because you were a second too slow, or a step too far away?"

 

Izuku swallowed hard, his breath shuddering.

 

"Listen to me, and listen good, because I'm only going to say this once," Marcus continued, his grip on Izuku’s shoulder tightening. "You are not a superhero, Midoriya. E-Day killed every superhero on this planet. The moment you put on this armor, you became a Gear. And being a Gear means waking up every single day knowing that you are going to lose."

 

Izuku stared at him, the brutal truth of the words sinking into his chest like lead weights.

 

"We don't win out here, kid," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "We survive. We fight for the guy standing next to us. We fight for the civilians who are smart enough to run when we give them an opening. But we cannot save everyone. The math doesn't work. The grubs will always have more bodies, more bullets, and more time."

 

Izuku looked back at the bodies. "Then... then what's the point? If I have this power, and I can't even save a little girl... what is the point of being here?"

 

Marcus released Izuku’s chin. He stepped back, gesturing to the perimeter of the courtyard.

 

Izuku followed his gaze. Huddled near the subway entrance, terrified, soaked, and shivering, were roughly twenty Stranded civilians. The ones Izuku had yelled at to run. The ones he had body-blocked the Hammerburst fire for.

 

They were alive.

 

"The point," Marcus said, adjusting his Lancer strap, "is that twenty people are breathing right now because you bought them time. You didn't save the family behind the generator. That’s on you. You miscalculated the flank. You dropped your weapon to play bodyguard, and you left yourself blind. You carry that. You carry that guilt until it breaks you, or until it makes you smarter."

 

Marcus pointed a thick finger at Izuku’s chest.

 

"But you do not get to quit. You do not get to break down and cry while the grubs are still breathing. Because if you freeze up, the rest of those people die. Dom dies. Cole dies. I die."

 

Izuku wiped his eyes with the back of his arm, smearing blood across his own face.

 

"You want to save people, kid?" Marcus asked. "Stop trying to be a shield, and start being a soldier. Use your gun. Shoot the bastards before they get close enough to hurt anyone. Out here, the best defense is a dead grub. Understand?"

 

Izuku stood in the rain. He felt the cold seeping into his bones. The idealized, colorful world of heroes and villains he had clung to since childhood was finally, violently dead. It was buried in the mud of this courtyard.

 

In its place was something colder. Something infinitely heavier.

 

He couldn't be All Might. All Might was a symbol for a world that no longer existed. He had to be a Gear. He had to be someone who could carry the weight of the bodies he couldn't save, and still pull the trigger to save the next one.

 

Izuku looked at his Lancer. He checked the magazine. He racked the bolt, the heavy, mechanical clack grounding him in reality.

 

He bent down, picked up his muddy helmet, and locked it back into place over his head.

 

"I understand, Sergeant," Izuku said. His voice was no longer frantic. It was hollow, but it was steady.

 

Marcus nodded once. "Good. Dom! Get the civilians moving toward the Jacinto checkpoints. Tell the gate guards they’re Delta's problem. Cole, Baird, sweep for stragglers. We’re moving out."

 

As the squad dispersed to carry out their orders, Izuku walked over to the generator. He didn't look away from the mother and child this time. He forced himself to look at them. He burned their image into his mind. He would never forget their faces. He would never let himself forget the cost of his own arrogance.

 

He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out his leather-bound notebook.

 

His hands were still shaking, smudging the pages with blood and rain, but he found a blank page. He didn't draw a diagram of a Locust. He didn't write down the kinetic output of a weapon.

 

He wrote down two words.

 

Situational Awareness.

 

He closed the notebook, tucked it away, and raised his Lancer. He turned his back on the dead, facing the dark, ruined streets of Ephyra, and took his position at the rear of Delta Squad.

 

He was the Green Gear. And he had a lot of monsters to kill.