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If someone had told Izuku that his life would go to shit the day his parents died, he never would have killed them.

Truth be told, the young male would not have done a great deal of things that fateful day—however, killing his parents was at the top of this list. He would have enabled them to kill him instead, to feel the pointed tips of their animosity just as easily as he would have felt their blades penetrate his skin. To him, that seemed like the best way to go, at the hands of the two people he loved—even if they did not know they loved him back—rather than the other way around. 

Now—running through the pine trees; wild berries; and wildlife inhabited forest he had yet to visit until now—with the oozing paint of his mother's and father's blood clashing with the pale white of his skin, Izuku had not a cogent thought in sight. The walls, the barriers, harbors that held his mind intact were commencing to crack and diminish; threatening his sanity with each passing second. However, in some twisted sense . . . he did not feel as though he were on the verge of a psychotic break.

He did not even feel the hollow twinge of agony at the fact that he had just murdered two people . . . his parents. 

Izuku read about murder in an old book his mother had picked up on one of her scavenging rounds. The protagonist had accidentally killed a young boy by touching him, thus feeling a great amount of remorse and guilt years after. However, the book was old . . . centuries-old . . . in order to survive now, you had to kill, lie, steal. It was the way of whatever remaining life was out there. He knew if the roles were reversed with his parents if he was the one to have gotten scratched by an Excor they would have gladly killed him.

Relieving him of his pain.

It was dark, twisted, and to the outside looking in—to anyone normal looking in—this would be viewed as the wrong way to live. But here? Having to be alive in a world which had been in ruins for the past two centuries, you did what you had to in order to survive. Surviving and living were two different things.

A twig snapped in the vast distance ahead, drawing the young man's attention as he put a halt to his movements. Honed, viridescent eyes trained all around him, darting from tree to tree, leaf to leaf, branch to branch—only to find nothing but forest and wildlife. 

Something's not right.

His hand twitched to the pocket knife tucked securely in the leather handle strapped to his leg, it too painted in a nearly dried dark scarlet. A reminder of what he did just hours ago.

Brushing whatever hint of discomfort he had shrouded himself with aside, Izuku carefully wraps his fingers around the handle of the knife, eyes still trained all around him. However, before he could have time to react—to run, to continue searching, hell, to breathe—he was on the ground, a heavy weight pressing against him. A body.

"Who sent you?" a low, thick, and raspy voice touched the base of his eardrums whilst reverberating through his body.

Damn it.

This was bad, hell, this was more than bad. Izuku was not sure of a plethora of things at the moment, however, there was one thing he was most certain of—when it came to the outside world he knew jack-shit. After a world-wide virus spread rapidly like unruly vines across the human race hundreds of years ago, his family had fortunately been the small percentage of humanity to have survived underground in a bunker.

In short, this was the first time Izuku had ever been outside.

Stifling a groan, the freckled male wiggles one of his arms free from his captor's iron grip—elbowing him firmly in the face—as he tried to make a run for it. However, it would seem luck was not on his side today; for as soon as he got within a few feat away, he had fallen right in a trap. Thick ropes had shrouded his body, hoisting him rather high in the air while dangling from a sturdy tree branch. The rope had precluded his movement quite a bit, making it nearly impossible to try and reach for his knife.

Luckily for Izuku, it was then and only then that he was able to get a good look at the man's features.

"Should've just answered my question when you had the chance, sweetheart." the blond chuckled lowly, finding Izuku's current predicament rather humorous.

The man's spiked, blond, locks were displayed messily around his head—some tufts curling around his cheeks and chin. They were quite long, reaching well past his face and touching his collarbone; particles of dust—and what looked like dirt—had etched itself into the man's hair. He was clearly native to the area, unlike Izuku, thin scars and fresh wounds adorned the open areas of his body like freshly bloomed flowers. 

Izuku cocked his head to the side once he noticed his eyes, scarlet red.

"Now, I could leave you here for The Excors to come and get you—or you could make my life a hell of a lot easier and tell me who sent you." the red-eyed man said with a sigh. "Your choice,"

". . . Make your life easier?" Izuku hummed, "Where's the fun in that?"

The blond narrowed his eyes, walking over towards the tree where Izuku was hanging from and stopping at the trunk. A small lever had been embedded into the bark of the tree trunk, odd carvings aligning said lever from the tip to the base. 

"What the hell is that?" Izuku questioned, watching with wide and frightened eyes at the man wrapped his hand around it. "Hey, I'm talking to you!"

"And clearly I'm choosing to ignore you," came the exhausted reply. "This'll drop your ass onto the ground, and you're pretty high up . . . I don't know about you, but I think that's going to hurt like a bitch—"

Izuku resisted the overriding urge to roll his eyes. "—Let me guess, if I tell you what you want to know we can easily avoid that altogether?" he scoffed, his fingers looping into the holes of the scathing ropes entrapping him.

While the green-haired male matched his captor's arrogance and exhaustion with his snappy remarks and wit, he could not help but feel the trembles of trepidation reverberate his body; mind; soul. His pure and undeniable fear had been woven into the cloth and seams of his skin, wrapping diaphanously around any coherent emotion or thought. 

He wished nothing more than to be back in the bunker, safe and sound in the air-tight room that had been constructed for him. However, that could never happen again—for his home had been compromised . . . leaving him the lone survivor out of three hundred. It was nearly facetious, that he Izuku Midoriya—one of the few to have never gone up to the surface of the outside world—should be the one to survive an attack against The Excors.

Against the deranged slice of remaining society that gave him no choice but to take the life of the people who had given life to him. Poetic. That's what it was, facetious and poetic.

Now, he was no expert on the savages who insisted they live among the wildlife that had taken over society centuries ago—Izuku did know one thing: How to talk himself out of sticky situations. And if all else failed? He would find a way to kill the blond male a few feat below him.

"Look," Izuku began, sifting through the possibilities set before him. "Nobody sent me, okay. You know about The Excors, right? Well, they attacked me and my people. I was just passing by, on my way to find another bunker—"

"'Bunker?'" the blond repeated, cambering his head. A flash of recognition sparked within the blood scarlet of his eyes as he gaped at Izuku. "You mean the metal homes?" he probed.

Narrowing his emerald eyes into slits, Izuku nods his head slowly. Did this mean something to the natives around here?

The red-eyed man quickly pulled the lever, sending Izuku on a ten-foot drop onto the dirt below with a loud, thud. Ignoring the younger's groans of pain, the man began untangling him from the ropes—helping him to his feet.

"If you really are who you say you are, then you can help." the affirmed, to himself more than to Izuku. "Sorry for tying you up . . . I'm Katsuki,"

Katsuki appeared to be rather nervous, worried almost. How could he have been so stupid? If Izuku lived in a bunker, he could potentially save Katsuki's people . . . Fuck, this was good—but also bad seeing as though he had just attacked him.

Dusting himself off, Izuku's eyebrow shoots up—a corner of his lip doing the same as he stares at Katsuki. "I'm Izuku . . . And I think you got the wrong guy, I can't help you—" he started, only to be promptly cut off.

"You said you lived in a metal home? The kind that still has technology . . . if that's true I know you can help," Katsuki said firmly, reaching for the knife tucked in Izuku's pocket. "That means you're coming with me."

Locking his jaw, the younger attempts to wiggle himself free—weak endeavor's to try and break free. "And what if I refuse?" he asked sassily.

". . . Then you die,"    

Hello Cricket Cultists!!

Ahhhhhh

I've put some thought into this book and can't wait to explain how this post-apocalyptic world work! In case you haven't noticed, this book has a mojor sass warning lol.

Are we excited???

Questions?

Comments?

Until we meet again!!!