A/N: Well, this'll be interesting.

I've had this idea floating around in my head for quite a while now; much like my fic Where Monsters Hide, it's a significant AU with a plot that's not connected to canon in any way. There's a lot of worldbuilding going on here, especially under the surface, but that'll get explained over the course of the story. For now, the important stuff is basically that Quirks are rarer than in canon, and that's had an effect on social structures and conventions; in essence, this is kinda winding back the clock to an earlier era of MHA's world, if you want to look at it that way.

These early chapters will essentially be laying the groundwork for these characters' backstories, as I want to find a balance between infodumping the basics of their pasts and setting up slow reveals for the future. Hopefully I've managed to find a decent one.

This is a very experimental work, even for me, and this first chapter is basically a teaser/prologue-I'm planning to update this slowly at first, with this serving as a sort of test to see what people think of the idea. I'd love to hear feedback and suggestions on it!

In Lee's experience, there weren't many places in San Francisco more dangerous than the Mercy Bar.

Of course, the name was a lie-or perhaps just a bit of a play on words. What the place really was was the Mercenary Bar; every one of the meanest, deadliest soldiers of fortune on the West Coast found their way there, eventually. Whenever they weren't out fighting in the thousand little skirmishes between paramilitaries, gangs, governments, and regular old psychopaths that were a fact of life in the rotting corpse of what had once been the United States of America, they were here, spending their paychecks on booze-and, more likely than not, side-eyeing last week's mortal enemy doing the same across the room. Not that they fought here; Mercy's was neutral ground, and any mercenary who violated that was liable to be banned from the premises-or, more likely, be found six weeks later at the bottom of San Francisco Bay, body eaten down to the bone by scavengers.

That was what Lee found most disturbing about mercenaries, compared to the gangsters and Quirked psychos he'd grown up with; they could trade jokes with a man they'd been trying to butcher the day before, could toast the memory of a fallen colleague who they themselves had killed without a moment's hesitation. Something happened to a man when he fought for money; he sold his soul, too.

Not that Lee voiced those thoughts as he pushed open the door. That didn't matter, though; at least one of the mercenaries could probably read minds.

Quirks may not have been the only source of power in the world-or hoarded so jealously here like those backwards noble fuckers back home in Japan-but scary things happened when the right man had the right quirk.

Scary things, and legends, too. Legends like the one Lee was meeting here, tonight.

Lee didn't look around too much as he entered the bar; best to avoid making too much of a production out of this. Instead, he headed straight towards the counter, and the stoic, powerfully-built woman behind it.

"Welcome to Mercy's Bar," the woman said tonelessly as Lee approached, not even looking up. "What can I do for ya?"

Lee swallowed heavily. "Is Titan around?" he asked, forcing his voice to stay even.

Mercy paused. Setting down the glass she'd been cleaning, she looked Lee over, taking his measure. Lee held firm-he may have been a glorified runner for the post office, but he'd grown up in San Francisco-he knew the rules in places like this. He knew how to communicate how utterly, deadly serious you were. He wouldn't have accepted the job if he didn't.

With a mild hint of disdain in her voice, Mercy said, "If you're lookin' to hire, I wouldn't suggest Titan. Outta your price range, I'd say."

Lee snorted. "Please, I ain't hiring," he said. Titan had achieved a rare-and lucrative-feat for a mercenary: name recognition. Everyone in San Francisco knew about Titan. And everyone who was in the market for mercenaries wanted him; more than one brewing war had been stopped because one side had found out the other had contracted his services.

When regular folks on the street started telling stories about how you'd flattened seven hundred men in tanks and APCs at the request of a billionaire who'd taken offense to a government remnant trying to take over a refinery, or how you killed Stonesinger, the Quirked tyrant of Portland, in single combat, you'd made it. And, of course, you'd never be safe again; any idiot hungry for glory would have your name circled in red on their list of targets.

Mercy's eyes narrowed. "Then why you wanna meet him?" she asked. "Titan isn't the type to take social calls."

Now that , Lee believed. He knew better than to trust the rumors, of course, but everyone did say that Titan was an intensely private man, not prone to the sort of raucous partying or idle drunkennness that characterized many mercenaries. Him and his team had a reputation for three things: discretion, efficiency, and absolute, utter ruthlessness. Nobody even knew where he'd come from-though there were plenty of guesses, most of them bullshit.

Although, judging by the monogrammed stationery and ornate crest on the envelope now sitting in Lee's jacket pocket-a crest even he, a boy who hadn't seen Japan since the age of six, recognized-it seemed Titan's origins were a lot more outlandish than anyone had ever imagined.

Looking Mercy in the eye, Lee said, "I've got a message for him."

Mercy raised an eyebrow. "What kind of message?" she asked.

Lee sighed. "The kind they don't pay me enough to ask questions about," he answered.

Mercy looked skeptical for a moment, but finally nodded her head towards a booth in the far back corner of the bar. "Make it quick," she advised. "I wouldn't waste his time, if I were you."

Lee nodded, though he didn't need the advice; he had no intention of spending a second more than he had to in Titan's presence.

He made his way towards the booth Mercy had indicated as quickly as possible, fingers clutched around the envelope in his pocket.

As he approached, the occupants of the booth slowly turned their gazes to him; Lee took them in, trying to steel his nerves.

There was a short, brown-haired woman with a bottle of strong-looking alcohol clutched in one hand; she looked up at him for a moment, then snorted dismissively and turned back to her companion, a man with spiky blonde hair and a thick cigar in his mouth. His unnerving red eyes never left Lee's.

The third and final man, though, was the one who sent a chill down Lee's spine. He was built like a Greek god, massively built without seeming obscene or overmuscled-he must have been at least six and a half feet tall, and so perfectly proportioned artists would have wept to see him. Every line of his body practically strained with power, every motion was a study in masterful control, every errant twitch threatened to shatter concrete. Scars twisted their way across his hands and arms, and one or two crept onto his face-thin, white things like knife blades that turned features that would have been boyish into something darker.

Lee gulped as the man turned to him, his green eyes fixing firmly in Lee's face.

Green eyes. Curly green hair. Body like a literal Titan. This was him, alright.

Lee took a deep breath. "You Izuku Midoriya?" he asked.

Those green eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed suspiciously. "Where did you learn that name?" Titan demanded. His voice was low, yet melodic; once again, he was a contrast, a bright voice that was heavy with danger.

Rather than explain, Lee drew the envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table, pushing it towards the mercenary. Titan's eyebrows-one of them split neatly by a hairline scar-went up as he saw the ornate crest…and the return address.

His compatriots leaned over to study it as well, and their reactions were far less understated. The woman swore colorfully, wondering, "Fucking hell. The old man himself? What does he want from you?"

Titan snorted. "God only knows," he muttered. "I keep thinking he'll decide I'm a disgrace to the family name, honestly."

"Gotta have the family name first," his blonde friend replied, blowing a cloud of sickly-smelling smoke. When his comment earned him a swat on the ear from the woman, he merely shrugged and leaned back in his seat.

Titan didn't respond beyond an agreeing snort; he merely nodded to Lee, then opened the envelope. The wax seal tore cleanly, and the letter that slid out was swiftly unfolded.

Whatever it contained, Lee would never know; he was already making for the door, relieved to have made it out alive and unscathed. Behind him, Izuku Midoriya sucked in a sudden, shocked breath.

To my son:

I hope this letter finds you well. From all reports, it seems that you have made quite the name for yourself.

Unfortunately, things here can no longer continue to withstand your absence; my health continues to decline, and though I intend to live many years yet, my House finds itself in need of its heir.

I wish it hadn't come to this. You and I both know why you left, and I allowed it because I understood that it was what you needed to do, to come into your own and become the man I knew you could be. But now it is time to come home, and take your place as heir.

I know you do not relish the duties that will come along with it, or the hostile reception you will certainly face from your peers, but these are the responsibilities that come with power, and you can no longer run from them.

Come home, Young Midoriya. Your mother misses you.

Sincerely,

Lord Yagi Toshinori

Izuku stared down at the letter for what felt like an eternity, fists clenching as memories ran through his head.

It had been seven years since he'd left. It felt like more-like a lifetime. He had thought he would be ready, when the time came, to face it all again.

He wasn't. Not even close. But in his bones, he knew the letter was right-even if it felt like a jail cell swinging closed around him.

"Well, fuck," he swore, looking up at his friends. "Looks like we're going home."