The hatch closed behind them, as they went back to the surface.
The humid, grimy air of the city was a slap in the face, a brutal transition from the sterile confinement of the underground prison to the claustrophobic, neon-drenched reality of the night.
The freed prisoners huddled in the shadow of a rusted fire escape, a ragged collection of shadows shivering not from cold, but from the overwhelming sensory shock.
The distant wail of a siren and the bass thrum of traffic replaced the mountain's silence, each sound a sharp reminder that they were now exposed in the heart of the beast they were meant to destroy.
Their eyes stung from the bright city lights after years of dull prison glow. It was hard to focus in the messy clash of shadows and neon signs.
The dropship sat hidden in the narrow alley, a dark, silent shape squeezed between old brick buildings. Its engine gave off a low rumble that they could feel through the dirty ground under their feet.
Izuku turned to them, his back against a wall covered in old posters. The jagged shapes of tall buildings loomed behind him.
A dirty wind, smelling of smoke and garbage, blew past, but he didn't move. He stood perfectly still. The first shock of being free was fading, replaced by a nervous uncertainty. They were out of their cells, but now they were bound to this green-eyed boy who spoke with the calm certainty of a leader.
The one with the burns on his arms, who had spoken before, voiced the question hanging in the air. "So what now? We're out. Do we just... run?"
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the group. The idea of vanishing into the world was a siren's call.
Izuku's voice cut through the wind, quiet but absolute, leaving no room for debate. "Running is what they expect. Running means you're accepting the fact that you are guilty. Running means they win." He swept his gaze across them, and in that moment, he wasn't a boy; he was a force of nature.
"You were buried because you were inconvenient. Because you saw something, knew something, or were simply in the way. The people who did that to you are in comfortable beds tonight, believing you are forgotten. We are going to make them remember."
A large man with a thick neck and knuckles scarred from countless brawls scoffed. He was one of the ones Izuku had deemed too volatile to release initially, but his crime—destroying a corrupt hero agency's headquarters—had fit the criteria of "inconvenient."
"Listen, kid. I ain't taking orders from some teenager who thinks he's a savior. I spent three years in that hole. I'm not trading one warden for another." He took a step forward, his bulk casting a shadow over Izuku. "I'm leaving. Anyone with a brain will come with me."
The others shifted nervously. This was the test. The silver-haired man from the cells, the one with the scar, watched with sharp, analytical eyes, saying nothing.
Izuku didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe. His expression was one of mild disappointment, like a teacher watching a student repeat a foolish mistake. "I told you the rules," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You were given a chance. You chose to waste it."
The large man grinned, a cruel, confident thing. "Yeah? And what are you gonna do abou—"
He never finished the sentence.
There was no blur of movement, no dramatic wind-up. It was a flicker, a discontinuity in reality. One moment Izuku was standing five feet away. The next, his hand was inside the man's back, having phased through flesh and bone as if it were mist.
The man's eyes bulged, his confident grin frozen into a mask of incomprehensible shock. He made a wet, gurgling sound.
Then, with a sound that was not a crack but a sickening, wet separation, Izuku pulled. He didn't just remove his hand; he phased a specific section of the man's anatomy out of his body.
In Izuku's grip was the man's entire spinal column, gleaming white and red, the skull still attached, the face locked in that final moment of arrogant disbelief.
The head lolled grotesquely, connected only by the spine, which Izuku now held like the handle of a macabre trophy.
The body, its central support violently excised, collapsed into a boneless heap on the rocky ground, a puppet with its strings cut.
Silence. Absolute, terrified silence. The wind itself seemed to hold its breath.
Izuku looked down at the corpse with utter contempt. He spat, a glob of saliva landing on the dead man's cheek. Then, with a practiced, almost casual motion, he gripped the tailbone at the base of the spine, using it as a handle.
He hoisted the spinal column and skull, swinging it to get rid of the useless blood off the spinal cord, and then swung it up to rest behind his head and across his shoulders like a gruesome baseball bat. The skull bounced gently against his back.
He turned his calm, terrifying gaze back to the remaining freed prisoners. Their faces were sheets of white, their breaths coming in ragged pants.
The burn-scarred man looked like he was going to be sick. The silver-haired man's smirk was gone, replaced by a look of stark, respectful fear.
"Any other questions?" Izuku asked, his voice still even, as if he'd just swatted a fly.
There were none. Only the frantic shaking of heads.
"Good." He pointed a finger down the mountain, towards the distant, glittering lights of the city nestled in the valley. "Your targets are down there. The headquarters of the Hero Public Safety Commission New York Branch. The financial districts owned by their backers.
The media outlets that parrot their lies. You will not harm a single innocent civilian. Your job is not murder. It is demolition.
It is fear. You will break their buildings, their infrastructure, their sense of security. You will make the people realize that when they scream for heroes, no one is coming.
Because the heroes are either complicit or incompetent. The system that locked you away is a rotten tree. We are not here to prune the branches. We are here to burn the roots."
He looked at each of them in turn, his eyes burning with a cold green fire. "Go. Cause chaos. Make them understand the cost of their silence, but make sure not a single innocent person is killed.
You need to get them to feel fear and abandoned by heroes but not kill anyone, if you do, you will be accompanying this blob of flesh." Izuku said pointing towards the man's corpse that lay down.
It was all the motivation they needed. Driven by years of pent-up rage and a fresh, primal fear of the boy who commanded them, they moved. They streamed down the mountain paths, not as individuals, but as a wave of long-awaited retribution.
Izuku stood and watched as the first explosions lit up the night sky. He saw the distant flare of orange and red as a skyscraper in the financial district was gutted by plasma.
He heard the faint, panicked sirens begin to wail, a sound that was quickly drowned out by more collapses and detonations. The cityscape, once a serene picture of order, became a canvas of beautiful, terrifying destruction.
The silver-haired man remained behind for a moment, looking at Izuku with a new understanding. "You're not just breaking them out," he said. "You're weaponizing their pain."
Izuku finally let the spinal column drop from his shoulder, the gruesome thing clattering onto the rock. "Pain is the only language that system understands." He turned towards the dropship. "This was the first batch. There are more cells to empty. More weapons to sharpen."
As the first batch of chaos was sent, Izuku looked down at the burning city for a while. Following which he went back to the underground hatch where others were still locked in.
The heavy hatch sealed shut behind Izuku, cutting off the chaotic symphony of the burning city above. He was back in the sterile, silent bowels of the prison.
The air was cold and still, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and despair. The only sounds were the hum of the facility and the quiet, desperate breathing of those still locked away.
He walked back through the corridor of reinforced glass cells. The remaining inmates—the ones he had initially judged as too purely destructive, too unpredictable—pressed against the transparent walls.
Their eyes were wide, reflecting the distant orange glow from the monitor showing the city's chaos. They had seen the first wave leave. Now, they saw him return.
The silver-haired man with the scar watched him approach, a new, grim understanding in his eyes. He had stayed behind, a silent observer. "Who are you? What are you planning?" he asked.
Izuku didn't break his stride. "The one that will revolutionize this world for you.."
He stopped in the center of the block, his voice echoing flatly in the confined space. "And now it's your turn."
A woman with sharp, avian features and fingers that ended in points like blades sneered. "So we're the B-team? The ones too nasty for your first pick?" Her voice was a rasp, like metal scraping concrete.
"You are the scalpel," Izuku corrected, his gaze sweeping over them. "The first wave is a sledgehammer, breaking everything in sight.
Your purpose is more precise. The heroes will be scrambling, trying to contain the chaos, to look like they're in control. Your job is to prove they are not."
He let the words hang in the air. "You will find the heroes. You will engage them. You will not aim for quick kills. You will suppress them. Harass them. Drain them.
Make every second a struggle. Keep them away from the real targets. Show the cameras that the symbols of peace are tired, overwhelmed, and ineffective."
A hulking figure, a man whose skin seemed to be made of rough, volcanic rock, let out a low rumble. He was massive, a good head taller than the man Izuku had killed earlier. "You want us to be bait? To tangle with heroes so your precious 'inconvenient' ones can break buildings?"
He slammed a fist against the glass, which shuddered but held. "I didn't get locked in here for following orders, kid. I crush things. Including little boys who think they're in charge."
Izuku's expression didn't change. It was the same mild disappointment. The same terrifying patience. "The rules haven't changed. You fight for me, or you become an example. The choice is yours."
The rock-skinned man laughed, a sound like grinding gravel. "My choice is to walk out of here and crush my way to freedom. I'm not your weapon."
He took a step back from the cell door as Izuku approached, not in fear, but in preparation, like a bull ready to charge. "You think your little trick scares me? Try it."
The lock on the cell door disengaged with a soft hiss. The door slid open.
The rock-man roared and charged, his body swelling, becoming more jagged. He was a living avalanche, meant to pulverize everything in his path.
Izuku didn't charge back. He simply stood his ground. As the giant fist, the size of a cinder block, swung toward his head, Izuku didn't block or dodge.
He phased.
His entire body became intangible for a split second. The fist passed through empty air, the momentum throwing the rock-man off balance. In that same instant, Izuku solidified.
His hand, now shimmering with a deadly tangible energy, shot forward—not at the rock-like skin, but at the seams where the plates met at the small of his back.
It was the same motion. Precise. Clinical. A flicker of movement that defied physics.
His hand phased into the man's torso.
The roar choked off into a wet, gurgling gasp. The rock-man stopped dead, his eyes wide with a shock so profound it overrode all other sensation. He looked down, but could see nothing. Izuku's arm was buried deep within his core.
Then, the wet, tearing separation.
Izuku pulled back, and with him came the entire spinal column, ripped cleanly from the surrounding stone and flesh. It was a grotesque contradiction—the delicate, organic structure of bone and nerve gleaming against the rough, inorganic skin of the villain. The skull, its jaw slack with surprise, dangled from the top.
The body, devoid of its architectural core, didn't just collapse; it crumbled, the rock-like skin losing its cohesion and crashing to the floor in a heap of inert stone and dust.
Silence. Deeper than before. These were the worst of the worst, and even they felt a primal terror seize their throats. The avian woman took an involuntary step back, her bladed fingers trembling.
Izuku performed the same ritual. A look of contempt. A spat onto the crumbled meat that was once a man. A grip on the tailbone. A swing to flick the gore from the spine, splattering the nearby glass cells with red. Then, he rested the spinal cord bat across his shoulders. The skull tapped against his back.
He turned his green-eyed gaze to the others. "Any confusion about the chain of command?"
There was none. Only silent, frantic shakes of the head. The silver-haired man simply nodded, once, his respect now tinged with a healthy dose of fear.
"Good," Izuku said, his voice flat. "The heroes are waiting. Make them hurt. Make them tired. Make the world see them fail."
The cell doors slid open simultaneously. This group did not hesitate. They streamed out, not with the wary confusion of the first wave, but with a focused, fearful intensity. They were weapons, and they had just been shown the consequence of malfunctioning.
As they disappeared up the service tunnel towards the city's chaos, Izuku stood alone in the empty cell block. He looked at the two piles on the floor—one of flesh, one of stone. He dropped the second spinal column atop the first with a dismissive clatter.
He turned towards the hatch that led deeper into the facility, to the maximum-security levels he hadn't yet touched.
"The arsenal is far from empty," he whispered to the silence, and descended further into the dark.
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