~ Third Person P.O.V ~

It all occurred so quickly for him-- hell, for all of them.

One minute Izuku was sound asleep in his bed, the next he was being ripped away from his family and thrown into the back of a truck. Still barefoot, and whip mark interweaving around his wrist with a pulsing throb; the soft flesh already raised. In spite of it being early morning, the sun was out and blazing-- beating down on him like hellish flames.

None of it made sense, it all seemed so eccentric as if he would wake up any minute now and have this all be a nightmare. Yet deep down inside, Izuku knew that this was reality . . . regardless of his pleas to some unknown God he magically found himself believing in-- he wasn't going to wake up in his own bed. He probably would never see his family again, and that feeling stung like a bitch. Not being able to have screaming matches with his grandmother anymore, or poke fun of people with his grandfather . . . no more long talks with his mother.

Where were they taking him?

Why were they taking him?

Is it because he stood up to those soldiers?

. . . Because they heard him speak English?

There were a few soldiers crammed up in the Jeep, all of them armed and scrutinizing the small Japanese-American with intensity. Watching his every movement, drilling into the very depths of his soul; practically begging for him to slip up just so they could have an excuse to whip him. Kill him.

Their cold, hard, gazes prompting the blood in Izuku's veins to pump faster and faster-- trembling, blanched, hands going slick with perspiration. A heavy weight pushing with great force onto his chest, robbing him of his breath as he stared back at the men. Emerald eyes currying back and forth between all of them, the saliva in his mouth going down his throat thickly until everything went dry.

Usually, a fight-or-flight response would have kicked in for him by now; yet that clearly wasn't the case here. He was paralyzed, his mind now drawing blanks as he held eye contact with one of the men-- wanting nothing more than to look away but he couldn't. There was no concrete answer as to exactly why he couldn't it just . . . it was like staring into the eyes of a cobra. You know that any minute now it'll sink it's long, honed, fangs into you with a tight grip of its jaws-- but their eyes have you so hypnotized to listen to your natural instincts.

Luckily for Izuku, it didn't drag on longer than it would have. Pulsing, almost hissing like noises cut through the air and discharging from the black radio in the middle console.

Pushing his brows together, Izuku cranes his neck up a bit as the men began to scramble around-- listening closely despite the incoherent words coming out of the box. Regardless of how hard the freckled male strained his ears to decipher the words he came up blank.

But whatever it was saying above the static was important to the soldiers, that much was evident.

- - - - - - - - - - -

"Do you know why you're here?" Aizawa asked lowly, as he stalked back and forth in front of a sitting Izuku. "Hm?"

The curly-haired boy remained speechless, plump, almost childlike features going slack and phlegmatic. He was currently in a makeshift interrogation room, one luminous, nearly blinding, light shining overhead-- the rest of the room pitch black.

Aizawa's boots echoed and scuffed against the tiles of the building they were in, stopping right in front of the young Japanese-American and leaning down-- resting his hands against the armrests of the chair Izuku sat in. "You're going to answer me when I talk to you boy-- and don't bother pretending like you don't understand . . . I know you do."

His voice was quite low and almost gravelly, filling Izuku's ears to the brim with the underlining threat in his words. Sending frosted shivers down his spine, goosebumps pricking and blooming on his skin like wildflowers.

But he didn't crack.

"I've never met someone like you . . . someone of your race who could understand us I mean," The elder mused, "Tell me, how did you learn?"

'Shit . . .' Izuku knew if he told him he had learned from his mother she was a dead woman, so he pivoted.

"I listened to your men talk," Izuku voiced cautiously, "Eventually I picked up on keywords and phrases they used over time."

"And you just-- what? Leaned that way?" Aizawa scoffed, gazing at the boy up and down. He didn't buy what the freckled male was selling . . . it was obvious he was lying yet he just didn't have the energy nor the patience to press him. "Look, none of that matters . . . I need your help kid."

Cocking an eyebrow, and nails digging into the wood of the armrests, Izuku locks his jaw. "And what makes you think I'd help you?" He countered, angling his body closer to the elder in a challenging manner.

"Because if you don't we're liable to kill you and your family,"

Izuku's head snapped in the direction of the new voice, zeroing in on the murky shadows enclosing around him. An indistinct silhouette of a man drawing nearer and nearer.

Shoto threaded his fingers through the scarlet half of his hair, jaw tightened, and eyes sharp as he examined the small figure in the chair. Clearly unimpressed. "You wouldn't want dear old grandma and grandpa to go so soon . . . or your mother, Inko, wasn't it?"

The raven-haired man crossed a look between praise, and shock as Shoto took over the talking. Shoto knew what he was doing, they wouldn't really kill his family . . . however, Izuku didn't have any knowledge of that. He was going to break the stubborn boy-- sooner or later he'd be helping them: no questions asked.

Izuku's posture went rigid as he reluctantly listened to the heterochromatic male speak, the vein in his forearm pulsing as his nails scathed the surface of the wood. "What exactly would I be helping you with?" He asked with a heaved sigh.

"Huh," Shoto smirked, "Well you can speak and understand English and Japanese right?"

A measly nod was all he got in return.

"You're going to be our ears then, you're going to help us win the war."

Izuku was beyond confused as to what that meant, however, before he could ask any queries on the subject Shoto was hoisting him out of his seat and leading him outside. The younger was quiescent on the way to . . . well, wherever the hell Shoto was taking him. Perplexity eating away at his insides, yet he couldn't bring himself to talk to the other male-- Izuku wasn't going to take his chances on poking that particular beast.

They walked along a dirt path, leading up to rows and rows of tents and what looked like actual rooms. Resembling the tiny, houses on the internment camp the green-eyed boy lived on.

"Today's your lucky day kid," Shoto commented, "At first you were going to be staying in one of those tents with a few of my soldiers . . . but we need you alive so you'll be staying with me and another Master Sergeant."

'Lucky my ass,'