Chapter Text
One of the first things Izuku Midoriya learns how to do is mourn. He mourns for his friendship with Kacchan, torn to shreds when it became obvious he would never manifest a quirk. He mourns for the father who disappeared after leaving for work one day and never came back. So perhaps he should be grateful for the day when he turns eleven, looks in the mirror, and is consumed by utter sorrow. After all, he can hardly devote the same energy to missing those things when he's lost so, so much else.
That day, he crawls back into bed and sobs, loud, ugly noises, that rack his entire body and get his mom's attention from the other side of the apartment. He doesn't leave the comfort of his bed for the rest of the day, even when his mom tries to tempt him with birthday cake and presents. After all, it's not even really his birthday today, is it?
Eve Moonlit wails into her pillows all of that day, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her sheets as her tears fall onto her pillow case. So does Izuku Midoriya.
Because Izuku Midoriya is, and always has been, Eve Moonlit. The demon of sloth, the clockwork doll, the witch of the forest.
And so she grieves. For the loss of Adam, handsome, brilliant, loving, perfect Adam, who never would have cared about the lack of a quirk that gets him mercilessly picked on in the hallways. For her children, her beautiful, beautiful children who she had lost and stole and abandoned and who were everything in the world to her. For her dead parents, for all of her many victims over the years she had terrorized the continent out of her deep hatred.
How many familiar faces will she never see again? What's her purpose in a world with no hope of finding her prince, no fairytale ending in sight? What is there even to live for?
Maybe she'll just stay in her bed until she rots. The grief pounds down around her, lifetimes of love and loss. She cries, and cries for Adam, her wonderful prince who had never forsaken her. Cries for Mikulia, that perfect girl who she'd once spent every hour and every day with. Cries for her twins, her perfect babies who she'd rocked to sleep and taught to read and who had grown to hate her eventually with as much fervor as she loves them. Cries for Michaela, her dear friend who had been there for her no matter what. All of them, all of her precious dead, because even if they're cursed to live again in this world the way she is, what are the odds she'll meet any of them again?
She grieves for Izuku, too, because she has lived this too many times to harbor any illusions that things will ever be the same again. Once she remembers, the apathy and hatred are always hot on her heels. She can't run from them anymore than she can run from herself. How can she ever forget how the world has failed, how everything has gone wrong for her every single time, when she did nothing but try? These people don't deserve her.
"Izuku?" Her mom calls from the doorway. Inko Midoriya, that is. The woman she had first thought of as her mom was long gone by now, taken in the blaze of blood that destroyed her first home. Eve's stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought, both from grief and guilt. It's not Inko's fault that her child has already lived so very long, lost so very much. It's not her fault that if Eve squints through her tears, she can see the ghost of her first mom standing in the doorway.
Eve has always been a very moral person. Or, at least, she tries her hardest to be. She doesn't accept the wrongs inflicted by others, she fights back. Izuku's love of heroism had to come from somewhere, after all, and she has never wanted anything more than to help. She defended Nemu as long as she possibly could from the evils Apocalypse inflicted upon it. And yet here she was, letting an innocent woman suffer because of reasons she would never understand. No, Eve wouldn't allow herself to do such a thing.
"Mom, can we open presents?" She croaks out, her voice regrettably hoarse from sobbing. She has to stifle a cough as she speaks, but it's worth it to see the look of relief spread across her mother's face as she rushes over to help her out of bed.
"Of course, sweetheart. Are you feeling better?" It's remarkably easy to slide back into the role she's lived for eleven years now, smiling softly as she pushes herself out of bed and walks with her mom to the living room, where she's sure to find boxes wrapped in brightly colored All Might wrapping paper. Eve nods, checking to make sure the bruises from school aren't visible like she has for years now, even though any bruises have long faded at this point in the year.
The grief is a knot in her chest, and she can feel the budding resentment growing in the background. The emotions that have defined Eve ever since…that day, the one she has never been able to bring herself to speak of.
But they're easy enough to ignore in favor of the giddiness that fills her at the sight of her gifts, at the feeling of holding a brand new All Might figure gently in her hands. Her mom doesn't address her hours-long fit at all that night (probably out of fear of setting off another), but that suits Eve just fine. It's a much better feeling to eat her All Might themed birthday cake with her mom and watch cartoons up until they both fall asleep on the couch.
—
Sometimes Eve isn't sure if her memories are more blessing or curse. She doesn't fear most of her bullies at school anymore, teenage children with so little sense she almost pities them. Key word almost. They're truly pathetic people, and if she weren't aware of how young they truly were, she'd have done her job and taken care of them by now (it wouldn't have been the first time Eve had seen fit to end the life of a child, but that was different. That was necessary.) But the resentment and annoyance is better than fear.
This is all true in the case of most of her bullies.
She has never wanted a child dead more than she wants Kacchan dead, however. Even though there was a time where he had been one of her dearest friends, even though she still can't stop herself from using a nickname whenever she thinks of him. No matter how awful his actions, maybe some part of her will always find a way to love him a little bit, in memorial to who she had thought he was at the ripe age of three. Back then, she had watched his quirk with amazement, ignoring the sickening way her stomach had churned at the sight of explosions going off in his hands, one after the other. At that point, she hadn't understood why the sight made her want to claw her skin off and hide.
But now she knows. Now Eve remembers screams and pain and the fire that engulfed both Nemu and her own body in the end. Nothing good has ever come from fire, nor will it. And so when Kacchan sets off his own explosions, so horribly close to a blaze, right in front of her, all she can see is red. The fire that haunts her dreams, shoved in her face. No, that couldn't be. She wouldn't stand for that.
And yet, she has to. Teachers have never cared to listen to her in this life, and even if they did, nothing could be done against brilliant, talented, bright Bakugo. After all, it would be such a shame if his future was ruined. And as much as Eve would love to, she can't kill him. Killings are so much harder to hide in this new world, and she would never be able to become a hero if she was found out, no matter how well-deserving of his punishment she knows he would be. Even if she committed to it, it's much harder to use magic when she's so very far away from the forest, especially in this world, where no one seems to use magic at all.
And so, endurance it is. Endurance, and murder fantasies that are justified only by his sheer audacity, because while murder of a child is perhaps not the best, who could blame her for retaliating and putting an end to such a vivid reminder of her pain? The answer ought to be nobody. Of course, it isn't, and that's about the only thing that stays her hand.
Well. It sort of stays her hand.
To be fair, he got up in her face, spewed a whole bunch of nasty shit, and created an explosion that quite literally sent her flying across the room. In the middle of the classroom, no less. No one in the room does anything. After all, why disturb the status quo, and risk provoking his wrath? Especially when it's so much easier to let the her take the brunt of his anger.
It's not right, not right at all. The sentiment fills Eve's head like sand pouring into one end of an hourglass as Kacchan rants. This isn't how it's meant to be. What's happening is so very wrong on its own, but why is no one stepping in for her? Of course, they never do, but still. This is the curse of remembering who she is, really. She can grow out her hair and change her name and doodle hearts with A+E in them as much as she wants to make her reality fit who she really is, but she can never change this, not the way she used to. Her whole being itches with the urge to make things right, but there is nothing she can do about it. Eve Moonlit, Demon of Sloth, Clockwork Doll who spent lifetimes masquerading as the most beloved human women in the land is no longer real.
And Eve Midoriya can't do a single thing to make her classmates care enough to even deign to look in her direction.
Her lips move, and she's sure she's saying something (probably an apology, because if her life in this world has taught her anything, it's that it's always better to just keep her head down and hope Kacchan loses interest in tormenting her for a bit), but she's not there. Class goes on, and she returns to her seat, even as her fingers claw uselessly at her chair. Still, she manages to keep it together through the rest of class, and then it happens.
Her notebook. Her fucking notebook. She doesn't know why she gets so mad. Honestly, it's probably the least of the things that flames have taken for her. Her home, her life. Really, if Kacchan was going to burn anything, the notebook should have been the best option. After all, it's really just for her. She won't fall behind on any classes because of it being gone, and her mom probably won't notice its absence given how many Eve has.
But Eve watches the fire, and how easily he does it, like it doesn't mean anything, and all she sees is her burning village, the pile of dead women, her father fucking crucified. All she can feel is the fire eating away at her skin, flailing madly against scalding hot metal until there was nothing left of her but bones and an enduring hatred for humanity. The ash in her lungs, Gretel's mad laughter, it all comes back. And it burns away the notebook with her hopes and dreams and poor renditions of loved ones lost to time etched into the margins (Adam had always been the artist, between the two of them).
And then Kacchan tells her to, quote, take a swan dive off a roof. And really, how could anyone expect her to keep her composure after that? She gets to her feet and walks out the door, and really, she just barely brushes him. No one watching would have any idea that anything besides her getting up unusually fast and walked out the door. Sure, usually she would've waited for he and his group of pathetic nobodies to leave, but it wasn't some kind of sign that she didn't. No one would notice the blood pooling in her palms from digging her nails in, and if they did, no one would care.
In that millisecond of contact, she musters all the magic she can in a concrete building away from nature. It will never be the same as the bursts of lightning that killed more members of Apocalypse than she could count if she tried, but it's enough to send the boy stumbling forward with a pained exhale. And it's enough to satisfy at least a little bit of the years long grudge that has festered inside Eve. She hurries out of school, fighting back the smile that would probably give her away, at least a little.
She can't help laughing herself silly the moment she's sure no one watching will be able to figure out the reason. How she had missed using her magic, the thrill of lightning down her spine and the tingle of sparks on her fingertips. And it wasn't like he hadn't had it coming; someone like Kacchan was lucky she hadn't struck him down years ago.
—
Of course, and you'd have thought she'd learned this by now, nothing good ever lasts for Eve. Leviabehemo sure know how to hold a grudge, don't they? If they're still in charge, that is. If not, Eve has got some serious questions about what the deal is with the horrible hand in life she's been dealt, because surely there has to be some kind of cosmic grudge at play to justify why, on one of the few days that had ended on a semi-high note, she immediately became a target for a giant sludge monster.
Eve thrashes violently in the thing's hold, cursing herself all the while. She had known something was off, but she had written it off as just nerves after doing something that would almost certainly get her in serious trouble if anyone knew about it. And now she was probably going to either have to scrounge up every remaining bit of magic she could get her hands on and hopefully shock the villain enough to either kill him or knock him out, probably putting herself into a coma in the process, or just die.
Just as she's about give in and strike the sludge down as best she can, consequences be damned, someone yells something she can barely make out and she's free. She has to blink against the now very strong wind, but it's more worth it than anything in all of her lives combined (with the exceptions of Adam, her children, and Mikulia, but those are special cases for a reason).
Because standing before her is none other than All Might.