章節 364: Deconstruct, Reconstruct by ColdLuigi (My Hero Academia)
Latest Update: March 28, 2023
Summary: When Rumi wakes up after the battle with the High-Ends, it's to missing limbs, a career cut short, and no way out. She knows there's no going back, that she can never be who she was. At least, until she meets a (hot) quirkless doctor named Izuku Midoriya. He helps her realize that there might be more hope than she thought. The Pro Hero Miruko is coming back, one way or another.
Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13638597/1/Deconstruct-Reconstruct
Word count:61k
Chapters:15
Chapter 1: Missing Something
Rumi floated in an endless void, soft like feathers, stretching on in every direction. She couldn't feel anything, but somehow, she knew that something was wrong, very, very wrong.
She couldn't hear or see or smell, couldn't even move. She had nothing, was nothing. Fucking hell, was she even alive?
If this was the afterlife, Rumi thought it was stupid as fuck. If it wasn't…
Suddenly, Rumi felt something shining across her face, and she scrunched her eyelids tight (Wait, she could feel it?)
Then, Rumi woke up, a jarring gasp escaping her chest as her eyes flew wide open, pupils blown wide with battle instinct still ruling her mind.
Instantly, she was on alert, as fuzzy details of the fight she'd been in came back. She had to move, had to keep going, those Nomu fuckers were still on her tail, she had to-
Rumi bolted upright, or tried to, anyway; she was struck by a wave of dizziness as soon as her head left the...pillow? Where was she? What was going on?
Through a haze that she recognized as the fog of heavy-duty painkillers, Rumi heard someone say, "Alright, she's waking up!"
Rumi still couldn't feel her body; instead, a dull thrum of pins and needles seemed to tear at her flesh from the inside, like the feeling when her leg fell asleep only a hundred times worse. That wasn't happening everywhere, though; a few parts of her body, mostly her extremities, seemed to be barely tingling at all.
Somewhere in her mind, in a tiny corner not overrun by the mixture of the painkillers and her jarring awakening and her panicked certainty that she was about to get killed by those fucking abominations in that basement, Rumi realized that it was probably the parts that weren't hurting that she should be most worried about. But she was too busy trying to thrash, hoping that she could at least get some sort of leverage to get out of whatever fucking grip these monsters had her in-
There was someone saying something, their face hovering like a moon in her blurry vision. She couldn't make out their features, really, but at least their skin wasn't deep black and their face wasn't some sort of terrifying mix of an abstract painting and a bear-attack victim. Rumi relaxed a tiny bit, her limbs settling as the words came into clearer focus.
"Miruko, you're okay, you're safe. The fight is over," the masked figure in front of her said in a calm, smooth voice, clearly practiced for exactly this sort of situation.
Rumi blinked a few times, recognizing her hero name, and her lips finally obeyed her. In a voice that cracked and broke like too-thin ice, she croaked, "W-where...am I?"
That same gentle voice answered, "Tokyo Imperial Hospital."
Rumi knew that name; it was one of the most prestigious hospitals in Japan, one that had a whole wing reserved for heroes injured in the line of duty, renowned for its quality of treatment and care.
It was also famous for being the site that all the worst-injured heroes in Japan, the ones left on death's door by the villains they fought to protect the innocent, were brought to. Rumi remembered how much she hated this place, then, how she swore she would never end up here.
And now, here she was, lying in a hospital bed, too fucking weak to even get up.
That damn voice returned, saying something else to calm her that only grated on Rumi's barely-together nerves.
"Miruko? Can you hear me?" the doctor asked softly, soft eyes shining worriedly. Next to him, there was another doctor, doing something that Rumi couldn't really see from here.
"Y-yeah, loud and clear," Rumi muttered, her head lolling to the side, her chest rising and falling as she gulped in air like it was going out of style.
Even as she answered, though, Rumi's mind was racing, her honed hero eye taking in a million details at once, even through the scattered, fragmentary moments of coherence she could scrape together.
Rumi could see at least two doctors, and a few more medical personnel, nurses and the like, scattered around the perimeter of the room. None of them seemed able to meet her eyes.
What had happened to her?
The head doctor, still by her bedside, asked, "How much do you remember?"
Rumi wracked her mind, desperately searching for more than just fragments of terrifying monsters and shattering concrete and the adrenaline of a good fight...and the pain. The blinding, overpowering, mind-shattering pain that had come from...from…
Haltingly, Rumi answered, "I...I remember the mission, and the giant fucking monsters, and...not much else, honestly."
Then, for no reason other than curiosity, or so she told herself, she added, "How long was I out?"
The doctor nodded to himself, as if he had expected that. Then, he gently began, "Well, I think you've got most of it. The rest will come back, most likely. As for how long you were out...it's been about four days since you arrived. Most of that was spent in an induced coma while we stabilized you. You took some really serious injuries in that fight, Miss Miruko."
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be here," Rumi retorted, her patience running out rapidly. She just wanted to know what was wrong, dammit! Half her body still wasn't responding to her, and all this doctor could do was try to be gentle and soft with her. She was a top pro, dammit, one of the strongest heroes in Japan! She could take some fucking scrapes, no problem!
The doctor sighed, "Indeed. Quite frankly, you're lucky to have survived as intact as you did."
"Not lucky, strong," Rumi thought. She didn't believe in luck. Either you were strong enough to handle everything the world threw at you, or you got crushed by someone who was. She didn't need luck, and she hadn't gotten to where she was by being lucky.
"Just fucking tell me already," Rumi demanded sharply.
The doctor blinked, but he was clearly experienced at dealing with hero patients, because he just said, "Miss Miruko, look down."
Rumi obliged, and her world shattered to pieces.
One of her legs was missing.
Somehow, Rumi's earlier thrashing had thrown off the thin hospital blankets, letting her see the damage in full. In front of her, her sculpted, bronze-toned legs should have curved down, but one was abruptly cut off just above the knee, leaving her looking lopsided. The stump of her right leg was wrapped in so many bandages and pads that she could barely see the skin all the way up to her thigh, but the painkillers kept her from feeling anything but a dull sense of wrongness, an empty void where flesh and bone should have been, had been the last time she was awake. And now...there was nothing.
Somewhere in her ear, Rumi could hear the doctor explaining, "It was nearly torn off when you arrived. We did our best, but infection ended up setting in, and we had to make the call to save your life."
But Rumi was barely listening. Her heart was going at a million miles a second, she was on the verge of hyperventilating as her mind came to a screeching halt.
Her leg. She...her whole fighting style was based on kicks that could shatter buildings into dust. With one gone...
Rumi tried to raise her hands, and one came into view, clenching and unclenching, the muscles along her arm flexing. The other hand didn't, because the arm it should have been attached to was also gone. Where her forearm and elbow should have been was another mass of tightly wound bandages, and the same feeling of emptiness.
Rumi remembered that, now, how it had been torn off by that black-hole fucker, how much it had hurt, how she had wrapped her own hair around it as a makeshift tourniquet and kept fighting.
Rumi's first hysterical thought was, "It's a good thing I'm right-handed."
Rumi took a deep, rattling breath, fighting for control. Her mind was spiraling, the painkillers stealing the edge from her consciousness, her chest rising and falling far too rapidly.
With calm she didn't feel, Rumi said, "I...I see."
The doctor still had that gentle, understanding look on his face. In that moment, Rumi hated that look, more deeply than she'd ever hated anything. She wanted to crush something, break something, scream, yell, fight. But she couldn't do anything, not even sit up.
Some top pro she was.
Even all this anger, though, felt like a bandage over a gaping wound. Inside, under the flitting, ever-turning whirlwind of fear and grief and rage, Rumi just felt... empty. There was a black hole in her heart, and all that she could really feel was an overpowering sense of loss.
She hadn't just lost her leg and her arm, had she? Without those, without half the body she'd honed into a perfected weapon, Rumi couldn't be a hero. But being a hero was her whole identity. She'd never wanted to do anything else, be anything else. Her whole life had been laser-focused on a single goal-becoming strong, being the kind of figure that haunted villain's nightmares, crushing anyone who tried to stop her. She'd gotten so close to the top, been in the Top Ten, just a few steps from the summit.
And now she was in free-fall; she couldn't climb with only a single arm. Her career was over, she was a crippled retiree at twenty-seven. Heroes had left active service for far less than two missing limbs, and when every bit of her strength had been tied up in her own body, there was no hope that she could return. Rumi knew it as well as these doctors clearly did; why else would they not be able to meet her eyes?
Rumi realized the doctor was still talking, and she somehow found it within herself to give a shit. She asked, "Sorry, could you repeat that?"
With a sympathetic grimace, the doctor explained, "It's not the end of the world, Miss Miruko."
Rumi took a shuddering breath as apocalyptic fury boiled up inside her. How dare he tell her that?
"Oh? How the fuck is this not the end of my world?" Rumi snapped, her voice wavering. That made her angrier, because it was a weakness, one that she would never have allowed just a few days ago. But now, she couldn't even bring herself to care.
The doctor was still patient, still unflappable even under the murderous glare of the Number Five Hero. He explained, "You're in the best hero hospital in Japan, Miss Miruko. If anyone can help you, we can."
Rumi felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in her throat, filling the room with a sound like shattering glass. Her hatred rose with it; she didn't even know what she hated. Maybe it was the doctor and his fucking eyes, that looked at her as though they could understand her. Maybe it was the world, every single goddamn thing that had brought her to this place, to this feeling of knowing that her life wasn't just forever changed, it was destroyed. Or maybe it was herself, a scorching rage at her own decisions, at her own body for failing her.
Regardless of the storm of feelings she couldn't name raging in her chest, Rumi's next words were crystal-clear even as she formed them with the only part of her body she could still trust.
With bitterness and venom in her voice, Rumi said, "Shut the fuck up with that bullshit. Nobody can help me. Nobody."
The doctor had grey in his hair, Rumi realized, and wrinkles on the part of his face not covered with a mask. His eyes weren't understanding because he had been trained to put patients at ease; they shone with the deep sort of empathy that came from a lifetime of scenes just like this. It didn't matter; Rumi still hated him with every fiber of her being, for the crime of daring to pity her. The only person allowed to do that was her, and she had plenty of that going on right now.
"Miss Miruko," the doctor replied gently, "I know that this is a difficult thing-"
At the top of her aching lungs, Rumi yelled, "You know nothing!"
She fell silent, panting with exertion, at the feeling of her emotions exploding through her skin and through her barriers, pouring out beyond her control.
Then, more quietly, she hissed, "Get out."
Rumi needed to be alone right now; she needed to think, to change something, to get away from this doctor and his gentle eyes and knowing words. It was all too close, too much, too quick. She wasn't ready, could never be ready, to accept her new reality.
The doctor didn't seem shocked, though he didn't move. He did, though, gesture to several of the orderlies and nurses to oblige; they slipped out of the room quietly, but it didn't change the way Rumi's chest seemed to be getting crushed, pressed down under an invisible weight that constricted her breathing and turned her words into choked sobs.
"I will give you some privacy, Miss Miruko," the doctor promised, "but first, it's my duty to ask if there is anyone you would like us to contact, to let them know you're okay."
Rumi hesitated, but she already knew the answer. She was proud of it, eager to be self-contained, determined to be so strong that she never needed to depend on anyone but herself.
And yet...now, when she wasn't quite as strong as she had been, when her concept of who she was seemed to be crumbling to dust, her proud solitude was ash in her mouth.
Rumi shook her head. "N-no," she croaked, "there's...there's nobody."
The doctor was still looking at her with pity, and Rumi couldn't take it anymore.
Her voice low and dangerous, she demanded, "Now get out."
The doctor stood quietly, bowed low, and left, the door swinging shut behind him with a firm sound.
Rumi stared at the plain wooden door, and the crushing sensation around her chest didn't leave. Now, it seemed to grow to fill the whole room, taking up the empty space that had been filled with life and understanding just moments before.
Rumi quashed the sudden loneliness in her heart, a rattling breath escaping into the eerie quiet. Now, there was nothing but her in this room, and she wasn't even sure if she counted as alive anymore. Her life was gone, so what did it matter if she was still breathing?
A burst of manic energy courses through her at that, and Rumi became determined to get out of this fucking bed. She was...had been...the Pro Hero Miruko, dammit! She wasn't going to be defeated this easily!
Rumi strained mightily, her good arm and leg tending and flexing as she hauled herself upright. Hope rising inside her, she moved to swing her legs sideways-
And toppled back down, unbalanced, without half her limbs to brace herself.
Rumi groaned in pain as the motion seemingly aggravated every tiny injury that she'd barely noticed in her shock. At least the IV that disappeared into her surviving arm was still working, supplying her with the painkillers that were doubtlessly keeping her from feeling agony where her limbs should have been.
Taking a few deep breaths, Rumi decided that it wasn't worth it to stay awake right now. With tears bubbling up in her tightly shut eyes, she let herself sink down into the embrace of the drugs, a warm, floating bliss that let her forget everything, at least for now.
Her last thought was, "So this is how I go out. In a fucking hospital."
Then she was asleep.
When Rumi woke up the next day, everything was exactly the same, and it enraged her. She lashed out at doctors, swearing, threatening, and then sobbing when they finally left her alone.
She didn't care if they told her that being "difficult" would only extend the time she had to stay in the hospital; it wasn't like there was anything in the outside world for her, anymore.
So instead, Rumi spent hours staring down at her missing limbs, watching her toes wiggle on one foot and wishing that the other was there to match it. Her good hand stroked over the bandages cradling her arm stump again and again, almost obsessively, as though she could feel the fingers of her lost hand meeting the ones in the hand she still had.
She barely ate, and slept in spurts; her dreams were haunted by pain and fear and memories, when the drugs didn't take those from her, too. The days seemed to pass too quickly and too slowly all at once, time flowing past her without touching her.
The only entertainment she could get these days, other than whatever was on the TV (coverage of the raid that had crippled her, mostly, which had apparently ended really fucking badly- they'd still won in the end, though, which was all that mattered,) was watching the endless parade of "specialists" that came to see her, examining her like a particularly interesting bug or a lucrative animal. They smiled down at her, asked her if she was "doing okay" (spoiler alert: she was the exact fucking opposite of okay), told her that they were here to help. Rumi didn't want their help, didn't need their help, didn't see the point. Couldn't they just leave her alone to grieve?
Most of the "specialists" or concerned nurses tended to give up after a day or so of the cold shoulder. For the more persistent ones, Rumi found that cursing, threats, or just kicking whatever instruments they'd brought with her good leg tended to get them out of her hair.
She took a vicious sort of pleasure from watching the smug fuckers who thought she was some helpless hero they could rebuild from the ground up or help come to terms with her "early retirement" run off in terror.
At least, Rumi was pretty sure she was retired. She hadn't had any visitors from the Hero Commission yet, but her agent had come by once the doctors said that she was officially out of the woods and on the "road to recovery." The man, one of the few people Rumi respected for his ability to put up with her shit, had taken one look at her and asked when she was coming back. Her heart had soared a bit at that, but she hadn't been able to tell him that she wasn't planning to. It didn't matter that much, anyway, since the doctors expected her to be in the hospital for months.
How could she come back? Sure, a few active heroes had fancy, high-tech prosthetics, but they were mostly underground heroes or long-range fighters, who could still use their quirks even with a missing limb. Rumi, though, was the one of the most powerful hand-to-hand combatants out there, so only having one hand was...a bigger problem. And considering the sheer force and power behind her biggest attacks, she doubted that any prosthetic could possibly hold up; her legs were mutated by her quirk to be incredibly powerful and resilient to shock damage, because they had to be. There was no way she could get a prosthetic that wouldn't completely invalidate her fighting style.
So Rumi chose to ignore idle dreams of the future she didn't expect to be bright, in favor of living day-to-day becoming the terror of the hero wing of Tokyo Imperial Hospital. By the end of her third week of being pitiful and bed-bound, fully two dozen doctors and "specialists" had been run off or taken off her case by Rumi's acid tongue, absolute stubbornness and refusal to obey even the simplest of instructions. Taking care of her injuries, not picking at her bandages, eating properly-for reasons even she couldn't fully describe, she just...refused to do them all. She didn't see the point, and all the doctors smiling so fucking nicely at her and telling her that she would make it out "someday" enraged her. None of them knew her, understood what it was like to lose your entire future, everything your whole life had been dedicated to, in a single day.
Rumi became the mortal enemy of the hospital staff, and she took savage pleasure in antagonizing them. Whether she was breaking equipment, cursing and yelling at those who approached her when she was in a shitty mood (which was pretty much always, these days), or just being uncooperative when they tried to help her with basic tasks she should have been able to do herself, Rumi was sure that she would go down in history as the worst patient in the history of the hospital. Was it petty as fuck? Yeah, and Rumi knew that the hospital staff didn't deserve the shit she put them through, but her emotional range was still hollowed out, broken into fragments and constant pain.
Rumi's moods shifted moment-by-moment, as grief and despair and anger warred inside her heart. One second, she was staring uselessly down at her hand, her brain unable to comprehend why there weren't two brown-colored palms there, wishing she'd never joined that damn mission. The next moment, she might be fighting back sobs as she pondered a future trapped in this soulless hospital, or floating through life without purpose. After that, she might assault her pillow with a flurry of weak punches or try to break something within her reach; after a week or two of replacing equipment, the hospital staff ended up creating a dead zone around Rumi's bed, inside which nothing could exist without getting kicked hard enough to dent and scar metal. Rumi swore that when she finally had enough strength to get out of this fucking bed, she'd break the rest of their shit out of spite.
Rumi didn't care what happened next, didn't see the point of recovering at all. Even as the bandages were slowly removed from her stumps in stages, until they were unwound fully and she gazed at the abrupt, jarring ends where her brown skin capped places that shouldn't have ended where they did, Rumi didn't feel anything but hollow emptiness.
The media, somehow, left her alone; apparently, the Hero Commission hadn't told anyone about how badly she was injured. Rumi didn't care one way or another, honestly.
At last, as she neared the end of her first full month in the hospital, it became clear that she wasn't going anywhere fast. There was too much damage, too many things she had to completely relearn, for her to make much progress at all.
So the hospital called in the big guns.
Izuku Midoriya walked through the halls of Tokyo Imperial Hospital's administrative wing, his mind far away as he wondered why the boss himself wanted to see him.
Izuku had only been working here for a little over a year. He'd been hired right out of medical school, and his specialization in prosthetics, especially those for injured heroes, had already made him well-respected within the hospital, and within the hero community.
Of course, by "respect within the hero community," what he really meant was that any hero he'd ever treated paled in terror whenever his name was mentioned. Honestly, that suited Izuku just fine; if it meant that they avoided getting hurt because they were terrified of having to visit him, then he'd take it.
Even then, though, Izuku was still confused about why he was being called up by the director of the hero wing himself. He had work to do, dammit!
At last, Izuku reached the corner office where the director worked. Smoothing his permanently-curly green hair one last time, he knocked loudly.
A moment later, a gruff voice called, "Come in!"
Izuku did so. "Hey, Boss, you wanted to see me?" he asked, closing the door behind him.
Doctor Sora Danryoku, the head of the hero wing of Tokyo Imperial Hospital, grinned at him from behind a heavy oak desk. He certainly looked the part of a seasoned doctor, heavyset with thick glasses, thinning gray hair, and an equally gray beard just short and controlled enough to not get in the way.
"Midoriya, good to see you," Danryoku said affectionately as Izuku folded his lanky, six-foot frame into an armchair, "how have you been?"
Izuku couldn't help but smile at the twinkle in Danryoku's eye. The old doctor had been the one who had hired him, taking a major risk on an unproven medical student with a couple of crazy ideas and some...less than ideal qualities.
"I'd be better if the damn heroes could stop getting themselves injured for twelve hours," Izuku grumbled.
Danryoku chuckled, "Yeah, well, that's how it goes. Welcome to the life of a doctor, kid. The patients are always doing exactly what they shouldn't be."
Izuku nodded in agreement, recalling the multiple heroes he'd had to force back into bed to keep them from reopening wounds.
Getting back to business, Izuku asked, "So, boss, what did you need?"
Danryoku's face settled into business mode again, his eyes deep and, just like every doctor, hinting at the empathy he shared with the people who came to him in pain. It was a look Izuku hadn't quite mastered yet; he was too emotional, felt too strongly to be able to conceal that empathy behind a calm, reassuring mask. It may have hurt his bedside manner, but then, Izuku wasn't exactly the kind of doctor you called when someone needed a reassuring hand.
Danryoku began, "You've heard about the recent major hero operation against the Paranormal Liberation Front, no doubt."
Izuku nodded and snorted, "Kinda hard not to, when there's sixty heroes in this hospital alone, and multiple top pros out of action...or dead."
Danryoku's lips tightened and his eyes became distant, until he finally refocused on Izuku.
Danryoku said, "One of the "top pros" you just mentioned is Miruko. She's currently in the private rooms on the north end of the wing."
Izuku's eyes went wide. With an undercurrent of urgency and worry in his voice, he asked, "Wait, the long-term rooms? How bad was she hurt?"
"Bad," Danryoku said grimly, "double amputation, one leg and one arm."
"Fuck," Izuku swore, making Danryoku smile despite it all.
Lightly, the older man said, "You're still as much of a fanboy as ever, aren't you?"
"Always," Izuku admitted, "and Miruko's one of my favorites. That sort of injury, though…"
When Izuku trailed off, finally realizing just how seriously the Number Five Hero must be hurt, Danryoku finished, "Career-ending, most likely. The surgeons did everything they could, but...it's the nature of the job, sometimes. At least she's alive."
Izuku took a deep breath, a surge of empathy threatening his control of his emotions. Finally, he said, "I see why you want me to help, then. Or at least, I'm assuming that that's why you called me here."
"Observant as always, Midoriya," Danryoku replied, "and aside from the fact that you can...empathize with what she must be going through, there is another reason."
Izuku squinted suspiciously at his boss. "It's not because I'm quirkless, right?" he challenged. Danryoku was better about that than most, but Izuku had had enough of having his quirklessness used to define him.
"Of course not," Danryoku assured him, "it has more to do with your unofficial title."
Izuku blinked in surprise, and froze for a second as he processed Danryoku's words. Then, he lowered his head into his hands and let out a long-suffering sigh.
"I swear, I am not some kind of "Hero Wrangler," Izuku groaned, thinking of the nickname that had started out as a lunchroom joke, only to slowly become an admiring and slightly terrified mark of his reputation for dealing with injured heroes, who were almost universally the worst patients imaginable.
Danryoku smiled indulgently, a teasing twinkle in his eye. He told Izuku, "You know, what you did to Best Jeanist suggests otherwise."
Izuku retorted, "All I did was tie him to the hospital bed when he kept trying to get out a week after nearly getting cut in half!"
"Don't forget the part where, every time he tried to get out, you shredded a pair of jorts in front of his helpless eyes," Danryoku pointed out.
"I threatened to do it," Izuku pointed out, "he never actually tried to escape, so I didn't shred any."
"Why do you think that was?" Danryoku asked with a grin.
Rolling his eyes, Izuku muttered, "Because he knew I wasn't bluffing."
Danryoku nodded to himself, and Izuku hung his head, knowing that he'd been beaten.
"Okay, fine, maybe I've got a knack for getting dumbass heroes to take their health seriously," Izuku admitted, "that doesn't explain why I have to deal with Miruko."
Danryoku replied, "Perhaps not, but quite frankly, you're the last resort. She's been a serious disturbance for the past few weeks, and a lot of our staff are reluctant to work with her."
"What are you talking about? What has she been doing?" Izuku asked, puzzled.
Danryoku answered, "Being generally angry and belligerent, cursing at staff, destroying things during mood swings...she's struggling to come to terms with what happened, and I don't blame her."
"Why not?" Izuku asked.
Danryoku leveled his gaze at Izuku, and Izuku remembered another time, years ago.
"She's a young woman-your age, actually-who just lost two limbs. She's facing the end of her career at twenty-seven, after being one of the best and most famous heroes in Japan. Her whole identity has suddenly crumbled. I can't even imagine the turmoil she's going through," Danryoku told him.
Izuku's heart couldn't help but resonate with Danryoku's words, with the image of Miruko that they painted. Then, he realized something.
"Maybe it doesn't have to be the end of her career," Izuku said shooting up in his seat. Designs filled his mind as they always did, ideas mingling into his stream of consciousness.
Danryoku's smile was as hopeful as Izuku's heart. "Perhaps not," he acknowledged, "if anyone can develop prosthetics capable of helping her return to the field, it's you."
Once, Izuku would have blushed at the older man's praise, but now he merely dipped his head humbly. It was true, after all; he specialized in prosthetics, especially hero prosthetics. It may have required an engineering degree on top of storming through medical school, but it had worked for him.
Izuku thought about getting the chance to help Miruko herself, to return hope to someone who had done the same for so many, and he knew he'd already made his decision.
First, though, Izuku asked, "What do you want me to do?"
The old doctor responded, "I want you to work with her. Anything you need to do to get her to heal, both physically and mentally, do it. Physical therapy, prosthetic measurements, any sort of healing necessary. Effective as soon as you accept, you're in charge of her case, and she's your focus. We can't let someone like her fall into despair without doing everything possible to help her, not when she got hurt protecting our society. We owe Miruko too much to let her sit forgotten in a hospital room."
Izuku felt determination welling up inside him then, the willpower that had carried him through a thousand challenges coming on full force.
With his green eyes seeming to glow with an inner fire, Izuku declared, "I'll do it."
Danryoku stared back at the youngest doctor in his employ, someone already known for his tenacity, dedication, and willingness to do whatever it took to save people, and smiled as he leaned back in his chair.
"I know you will," Danryoku said fondly, "you never could turn your back on someone who needs help."
Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13638597/1/Deconstruct-Reconstruct
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