Chapter Text
Izumi’s lived long enough to know what is about to happen.
“Do you have to go?” The words slip out of her mouth, punctuated by rippling petals fluttering onto the water’s surface.
Izumi doesn’t expect a response. It’s been long. Too long.
A response isn’t coming from her mother. It’s not going to come. Something that she has to accept, a feeling that she refuses to accept, a dawning damning realization that’s been set in stone for so long that it bubbles and slinks within her whole frame. Tinges of shame and anger and regret that bloom, literally bloom into a cavalcade of flowers and fungi across her mossy shawl.
Her last words, true words.
‘Don’t forget me.’ A joke that had twisted into tragedy.
More petals for the pile. Motes and wisps that join as she watches her mother’s form stills. Her hands still grasping on, clinging to the warmth that slowly fades. Her form pulsing, no. Not pulsing. Pulsing implies a desperate fight. Implies a soul still trying harder and harder to even approach the limits and continue to breathe. To exist. This is a flicker, roaring flames and light that have all been snuffed out until only embers remained. Cool blues surrounding her, draining and seeping from the water’s edge all around. Sinking. Sinking deeper and deeper as the abyss around her reclaims its wayward daughter.
It’s too fast. Everything is moving too fast and slow and she feels upa nd dow n.
As everything around her shifts. Sakura trees wilting and waning around her and yet still the petals fall one by one into the still waters around her. The change has long since been coming. When around her a brilliant orange haze faded into cosmic purple. When even that had no more left as the moon brought with it a veneer of inky black speckled with all the suns’s stars.
She watched, as her mother stilled, even when she could no longer see clearly. Her eyes too warm, too exhausted, unfocused amidst the petals coalescence. Blanketing her mother’s body to gently comfort her back into the spirit’s abyss. Back into the water, body coated in quicksilver moonlight once last time.
Gone.
Nothing there but empty trees and silhouettes passing through the realm. Warmth that skims across offering condolences that she agrees with. Hates. Loves. Despises. Her skin crawling, tails bristled, whipping around despite her bowed state. Hands stuckstill moulded in her outline. Phantom warmth that won’t come back. That won’t whisper in her ear encouragingly to move forward.
Hugs that will never manifest again, sensation and texture only to be replayed in her head again and again to hang onto the last vestiges of her mother’s memory. A voice that she commits to burning into her brain, conflicting between the then and now of a now gone face.
It seemed like so long ago that everything was still fine. Yet even in this moment of recollection and complete distraught, there’s a parallel flickering. The burning image of both forms seeping and overlapping each other. The healthy. The ill.
The deceased.
The gone.
The entrance to the gate envelops her, blissful nonexistence that only allows her a moments respite against the echoing emptiness that sags in every bit of her. A slow walk through empty halls. Shrine doors that will no longer slam open in excitement or rage, just wood and fabric that tent and crumple as each step brings her closer and closer to somewhere where she can rest. Sleep.
Cry.
A black kimono dampened, wrinkled and smothered in tears and snot and nothing and everything.
Each step punctuated by water droplets. Crickets and cicadas in the summer heat.
The sound of bamboo clinking and rippling in the pond courtyard.
Midoriya Inko departs.
~~
Izumi’s lived long enough to know a false prophet when she sees it. For as long as she has existed, those words have been flung at her. Humans damning her for their grievances with the world for placing them in fragile, mortal shells.
She’d love to damn the world too. For putting her into a body that will constantly watch as others wither and fall.
As monsters of men rise with reckless abandon, slaughtering those who came too close. Those who come too far from them. A happy medium in between of quicksilver judgment ending in tragic loss after tragic loss.
Women and children who came to her temple to pray for some kind of solace, believe in the mystic rising as the abnormal became the standard. When mice and men truly, truly become one.
She watches as a woman tells the story of her sister being dragged kicking and screaming from her, who can do nothing but fall to her knees as memories of an abnormality dressed in human skin takes away her only source of comfort left.
What can she offer, an offer to find and burn the offender at the stake?
As her temple lays to ruin as the face of revolution rises and sows more chaos than even a trickster like herself can reasonably do?
The face of a false prophet, one leads countless into a world promised to them. A world in which they are deciders of their own fate. The advent of “Quirks”. Individualities that separate the person from the crowd. No longer fated to fall into the doldrums of life before.
Fools, following a false prophet. Staining the hands of those came before and after in pilth and filth. Penning the laws of a new society in the blood of the guilty and innocent.
What can she do but watch as a lone figure stands at the end of a collapsing building, a parallel to society to be built. Can only watch as they rear back and split the sky, the heavens of clouds. Where a century of people watch and gather and praise for a new society to be built. Yellow hair spelling out an uneasy peace that is to be brought onto society.
False prophets all of them.
She will contend and make do with trickery.
~~~
Izumi’s lived long enough to know when someone is going to be a problem.
The woman who once came to her temple in tears still pays patronage. Not as a believer in spirits and yokai of the world, but as someone who can only find solace in things like gods or at the bottom of drink.
The woman whomst hosts a great demon that floats behind her. Miasmatic and cursed, fouling the air and sea and land around them.
Izumi is a trickster, but she will still rend this one creature apart in its presence.
A flick to the forehead is enough to send the host to slumber as the demon laughs in her face. All too smug.
Another False Prophet.
Willing energy into her shawl, the moss that surrounds her grows and grows. Until the visage of a great fox’s hand overshadows her own. Maple wood sharpened into curved stakes as replacements for claws, claws that rip at the demon’s form.
As they part, she follows their fleeing forms. Letting petals coalesce into the spring breeze once more. Following. Tracking, like a fox hunts the injured rabbit, blood ribbons staining winter snow.
Cherry blossom petals and maple leaves are a catalyst for lightning magic to burn. A swarm of smolders and cinders that follow and swallow the remains of wandering ilk.
She watches as the woman wakes up.
“Go home, this is no place for you to stay.”
Empty eyes and an empty voice respond.
“Then this is the perfect place, for I have nothing left.”
All she can do is leave a broom at their feet. One that is taken hesitantly. Slowly. Using it to hold themselves up again.
Unspoken contracts. Rooms that suddenly find themselves clean after years of barren usage. A room distinct from the rest for its aura. The fragility of it.
That is how she leaves her first recent priestess.
~~~
Izumi’s lived long enough to know when someone will be a problem.
She has not lived long enough to deal with this particular problem.
The new priestess, whose presence is miniscule when they weren’t drunk, was very much felt as she stumbles into a room very much not meant for mortal eyes.
A loud piercing shriek that has Izumi instantly whisking towards her, petals bursting around her as she shifts into fox form. When she arrives at the scene, she sees the cause of the shriek.
“You took a priestess after all this time?” The petrified form of her priestess, stuck still in the door frame of the room that only hides the patrons in it.
Stone steps lead into a planar sea, crickets humming against the ripples of lilypads drifting. A constantly rotating hue of colours illuminate the sitting spirits in the center of the expanse.
It’s an easy shift into a form that will put her priestess at ease. Her tails fan behind her to cow the other spirits into deference, a move that they recognize as they bow towards her.
“À̵̛̩͍͋͐͌̀̓̅̋͆̚̚͝͠k̴̛̫̭̓̒̿͌̓̇̚̚͝͝à̷̧̦̤̾̑̎̽͛̕͝s̷̢̩̻̭̩͍̝̙̱̲̿ͅh̴̢̬̻͈͊͊̒̋̌̈́̚̚͝a̸̡͚͇̰̪̖̬͎̤͙̰͓̞͛̓͐̑̉̓̆̽͊̉̋͑̍̕ controlled her.”
The word alone is enough to unfreeze her priestess, whilst the others nod. In silence. Respect. Contemplation.
They disappear, each dropping into the sea below to their designated spots.
“Who were they?”
“A long story.”
~~
She’s making food for the both of them when her priestess asks next.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“You don’t have to know.”
~~
Sweeping leaves through the courtyard is the next time. This time Izumi knows her priestess’s name.
“It’s been a year. May I know now?”
“Matsumani, please drop it.”~~
When she wakes up, her shawl oddly hydrated and a puddle underneath her, Matsumani asks once more.
“Did they do this to you?
“I did this myself.”
~~
Izumi’s lived long enough to know when someone was following her.
It’s easy enough to guess how many were tailing her, about 5 in total, rotating on different days. Quirks…that’s what they call them now. Quirks make some of them stand out a little too much for their liking. Well not all of them.
They watch as she strolls amongst the people, meandering in the city square enjoying herself.
If she were critiquing them, three of them were passing adequately, one of them was spectacular. It was the fifth that was not up to standard. Loud, squawking like the canary that his yellow hair made him out to be. Someone must have told him to cut it out upon reflection as the next she caught wiff of him, he was much more subdued.
Still though, she was a trickster by nature, and tricksters did not let themselves be fooled like this.
On the second lunar cycle, she finally sees them truly come to her. Not just in disguise but attempts to talk with her. Visits to the temple that ripple towards her core. It’s here that she can tell just a bit better what their goal was. Or at least how much they believed in their goal. Spirits teeming with good intentions and a healthy dose of skepticism.
She appreciated that.
A version of her interacts with the man, her copy sweeping the floors of their temple of stray leaves. It’s easy enough for her to just jump into her copies mind to know what’s going on, but she’d rather stay back and check overall.
Eyes closed, her ears spring up out of the mess of curls they nested in, letting her mind expand to the realm around her. Cherry blossom petals rush outward, dancing in westward winds as the courtyard becomes desaturated.
Slumping down against the wall, out of view from any interlopers trying to pry into the temple’s doors, that’s where she finds herself. Like before, she sees all 5 of the regulars. The shabby canary taking point as the remaining four all scatter and spread amongst wayward trees in the small forest
Even without her elevated sense, she can hear him loud and clear “Hey there little lady!”
Inane prattle that she wishes her copy the best in dealing with. It’s a smokescreen at best to draw her out, whilst the others lie in wait.
So she will follow, just not how they expect her to.
Her eyes close around her, squashing and stretching as lets one of her tails separate into a new form. Bustling wind rushes through as her vision literally splits in two, a tenuous folding that reforms back into one uniform perspective. That self remains passive, taking her place in keeping the temple secure.
There’s only a brief moment though before she lets herself disperse once more, petals scattering onto self grown winds fluttering around fauna and flora. Swirling past tree barks and winding up towards a single tree branch where the shabby man watches with intent.
He’s alert, enough to notice that something is amidst as he reaches up to some kind of earpiece, some technology she’s long since grown tired of trying to keep up with. Her illusionist self is probably awake now, placing wards and whisps against the others to buy her precious time in sorting him.
Individual petals coalesce into a form she can move in, give warmth to. That she can speak with. Though she will refrain just to see what his intent is. All she’ll give him is a mask and a blade to speak against, to test his mettle.
The shabby man glares, piercing. Some sort of disturbance from that Quirk thing. Still not enough to impede her progress. And he knows. The tree branch that platforms them creeks under their weight as she presses closer towards him, his back quickly to the trunk. Ribbon scarf raised in defense.
A flick of the wrist brings the blade across his form. At least what was his form, the man displacing himself in a way that leaves her blade glancing against tree bark. It’s now she with her back to the tree, the man using his scarf to lift himself back down to a level playing field. Weird eyewear prevents her from truly guessing what he’s looking at.
Noise hums out of his…ear device. Muffled words that reflect what his compatriots are dealing with. It’s comical how loud their screams are. Or how unfazed the leader is. Wavering hair alongside his scarf say otherwise. She is ever tempted to heckle, but that feels wrong.
There’s a trade of blows. Scarf spreading out to grasp. Corner her. Her blade disarmed and scattering into the wind.
Her own retaliation is to use his momentum against her, get into his space.
The metaphor is not lost to her.
“Awfully overconfident to be smiling, aren’t you miss.” The voice fits the profile. There’s a presence to it, even if it’s a little unimposing. A scarf winds around her arm at that, an arm that she gives to see where this little situation goes.
“I have my reasons to smile.” He pulls, she lets herself follow to see where he goes. He’s smart at least. To keep considerable distance even whilst she’s confined. “I fail to see yours.”
It’s an over exaggeration to say they dance, but the exchange of blows simply stop. Not to his credit though. The man tries hard to land anything. Fabric manipulating to sweep and curl around her to try and further immobilize her.
On the other hand Izumi is surprisingly having fun. Toying with him. Angling and counter rotating to put the man off his game. Keep him away as much as possible. The other members of his team have been taken out. All but one.
She’s looking forward to their plan.
Mortals have become quite impressive with these Quirks. Though his tactics aren’t spurn on by progress but rather practicality. The old fashioned ways.
A ninja through and through.
Height advantage, speed, even trying to keep her entangled. But having her own skills with vines made this a stalemate.
Their finale comes at the root of a tree, closer to the temple’s back entrance. A sheen of sweat on both of their faces.
Smile vs scowl.
As they’ve weaved and fought, she’s found her own grin growing and growing just as his scowl has dipped and wavered. “I have yet to see your reason to smile Mr Intruder. Have you seen mine?”
His grip strengthens, as if it’ll somehow sway her way towards him.
“Strong silent type?” Izumi jabs once more, checking his temperament.
Hands slip from behind her, muzzling and pressing against her mouth. A sweet smelling gas that brought her down each moment further and further into slumber.
Prodding against the ground just before the inevitable descent into sleep, that’s where the roots of the tree is found. Enough to impart petals into the ground and integrate into the bark.
From the tree itself, the two assailants are watched. Enough of her physical form is present for them to be none the wiser as to this trick. The point man placing a mask to prevent himself from falling asleep like she had. The woman placing cuffs on her prone forms arms.
Again, these mortals are smart.
But smart does not matter when a trickster is at play.
She would love to hear what they’re saying, but trees do not have ears. Nor do they have eyes. She is relying on scent alone. Roots slither and squirm. Gently as to not shake the earth. Wooden arms grasp the woman, the shabby men jumping back. His scarf out again to grasp the woman, but bark impedes its way.
The wind picks up at her call and whistles the words that she has no mouth to say.
“Boo.”
5 intruders. 4 knocked out.
Going back to her body is trivial. Discussing with the shabby man what’s next hopefully will be as well.
“Anything else you have planned?”