#where the joke is that she keeps misgendering them cause shes old or whatever. which is just weird like what does it serve

[vaugarde]

ugh i knew i was right to be worried about V :/

[songbirds-of-halcyon]

We got our more detailed medical records and guess what we have. You won’t fucking believe this.

First of all, we have several instances of being described as “not having a personality”, “hearing voices”, “identity confusion”, etc.

We have one letter stating various things we’ll pick out. We’re replacing our legal name with Halcyon and fixing the misgendering btw.

“Halcyon’s main areas of concern were that people do not accept that he has experienced trauma in the past.” They said this because I told them they were ignoring and not helping at all with the trauma.

“Following an extended assessment, it became clear that Halcyon’s difficulties are complex, not least because they are inflicted by Autism, which leads to very concrete thinking.” This was said because I wouldn’t take “we’ll treat you before we even consider diagnosing you/learning about your symptoms/treating you like a person” for an answer.

(HERE’S THE BEST ONE) “Halcyon’s sense of himself is very unintegrated, which leads to splitting off feelings and emotional states and giving them names and personalities, which Halcyon experiences as independent of himself.” Uh-oh! Someone’s describing a system! -_- Unintegrated identity, huh? Wonder what that could be. Nothing comes to mind /sar

They also openly call others in the system “personalities” in the letter btw. MPD? Never heard of it lol. /sar

Psychosis and “serious mental illness” was ruled out. I guess I’m demon possessed then.

They tried to say I (🌸) created them to help me “gain an understanding of how/why we developed this view of myself”, which was funny because I’m not the original host.

The second letter: S is my other, non-NHS therapist, btw. I don’t want to share her name here

“S fed back that she had started some solution-focused work with Halcyon around accepting Halcyon’s view that he has multiple identities and using and developing his strengths within these to help him move forward and achieve his goals.” This is just sceptical-talk for S has been talking to us like people and actually addressing the issue instead of pretending it’s “autism hallucinations” or whatever the fuck CAHMS are doing. You’d think this would be a good thing, no? A therapist is helping a trauma victim heal from their trauma and achieve goals in their life without fear or pain! Well, CAHMS has other opinions. CAHMS says…

“Halcyon seems to be more engaged in this way of working with S, rather the work being more about trying to challenge the existence of different personalities.” That’s right; because S isn’t encouraging me to drive the system to panic and possibly death again, it’s “not working”. Because S is doing her job and actually helping in a way that didn’t cause us to split 60+ times (I’m not even fucking joking), she’s wrong. CAHMS “method” literally almost caused me to go dormant, several near-deaths, months worth of doubt to the point where I was fucking banned from fronting because multiple of us including myself were so dangerously close to fucking up our own life permanently, and accusing us of being created/imaginary/hallucinations/lies/etc. And guess what, NONE OF IT WORKED!! I don’t understand why they keep trying to disprove it when everything they’ve done has failed, and they’ve by definition alone almost diagnosed me with DID already!! We’ve been so much happier dealing with this shit alone tbh.

S has been our main therapist for over 5+ years. We’ve been seeing her since we were 12. Our old host told her about the system before I even existed. Of course we fucking trust her, she’s known us for longer than any of the doctors at CAHMS, and she’s also just better at her job honestly (in more ways that just related to this).

Also CAHMS had a few comments about our C-PTSD. Apparently we:

Don’t have PTSD, but we do have…

Traumagenic synesthesia (which isn’t a thing)

Traumagenic gender dysphoria (trauma started at age 6 and we came out as trans at 3 so either we’re a time traveller or someone’s crap at their job)

And Traumagenic homosexuality! No, I am not fucking joking, this is in my actual literal medical records!!

Oh, and also developmental trauma, which is the CAHMS way of saying “yeah you have C-PTSD but we don’t wanna call it that bc we don’t wanna treat you”.

They also claimed that autism causes auditory hallucinations (hearing voices) and identity confusion (alters). Gotta love 60+ year old doctors who haven’t done any catch-up courses, am I right?

So yeah, CAHMS is a joke.

-🌸

[andyinmiddleearth]

Not to be cisphobic but like... you know what screw it, I hate cis people. And by that I don’t mean that I hate every single individual cis person that exists, I actually have several cis friends and family members that I am close to and love. I mean that I hate cis people as my oppressors, that I hate cis people as a class that oppresses gender-non-conforming, intersex, trans, and non-binary people. Here’s some examples of the systems of oppression cis people as a class have placed that still hurt us to this day:

I hate gender-reveals parties. I hate the fact that a baby’s interests, decorations, hell even their entire personality, is determined just by simply looking at the fetus’ outward genitalia. Not to mention how inaccurate it can be cause sex is a spectrum (meaning it’s much more than just genitalia, it includes hormones, chromosomes, etc, and these can be super diverse and I myself, an AFAB person, don’t naturally produce estrogen) which is why some intersex people don’t even know they’re intersex until they get checked out by a specialist in their late teens or twenties.

I hate cis people assuming pronouns, ESPECIALLY when it comes to people like me that are visibly queer. I hate going to a doctor’s office and having to listen to nurses and even doctors call me sis, girl, ma’am, lady, she, her, when over here I’m standing with a ‘men’s’ haircut and wearing entirely ‘men’s’ clothes. But as a whole, I just hate assuming people’s pronouns in general because gender is so much more than gender expression. Men can be feminine, women can be masculine, non-binary people can be as femme or masc as they want. Our bodies and our clothes don’t determine our gender. We do.

I also hate cis people not respecting pronouns on purpose, like that time at Einstein Bagels where I was wearing my he/him pin and the cashier kept repeatedly calling me ‘ma’am’ despite me wearing this 2.25 inch long button WITH MY PRONOUNS ON IT. I hate how I have family members that purposefully misgender me every single fucking day despite me being out as trans to them for YEARS because they just think ‘being transgender is a choice, like being vegan.’ I hate how one of these said family members does everything they fucking can to trigger my dysphoria and constant remind me that they see me as a woman.

I hate cissexism. I hate words like ‘lady parts’ and ‘boy parts’ and ‘girl parts.’ Boys and girls (and all genders) can have whatever private parts they have and still be their gender AND IT’S NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS, and frankly very creepy to want to know what’s in someone’s pants. I hate how instead of using terms like afab or amab it’s just ‘male parts’ and ‘female parts,’ ‘male body,’ ‘female body,’ which also blatantly erases intersex people that may have both, or something else entirely different.

I hate how cis people have made this concept about the ‘the perfect trans person’ that people in the trans community (yes, I’m talking about transmeds) will shit on our non-binary and non-dysphoric trans siblings because ‘they make us look like a joke.’ Spoiler alert, cis people as a class hate trans people because they’re transphobic, period, not because some random non-binary sixteen year old uses ze/hir pronouns and is non-dysphoric. I hate how I was harassed on this platform FOR YEARS and sent hate on and off anon by transmeds simply because I, a dysphoric trans guy, think you don’t need dysphoria to be trans. Because I think being trans is so much more about being uncomfortable in your body, because I think you can have gender euphoria and not gender dysphoria. And I hate how the transmeds that bullied me also called me all kinds of slurs (both referring to my ethnicity as a Latino and also just homophobic ones like the f-slur) and perpetuated exactly the behavior they see white cishet men perform because they think that way maybe they will accept them. Spoiler alert; they won’t.

I hate how intersex babies are mutilated every day around the world simply because of how they are born while trans children and young adults are still being denied access to LIFE-SAVING resources like hormone blockers, HRT, surgery, etc. I hate how long the waitlists are for trans people in places like the UK and Canada are to transition, and I hate how monetarily expensive it can be even with insurance in the USA, since this is the main reason why I can’t start T right now (that and the fact that I live with family members that wouldn’t support me transitioning).

I hate how anything can be a ‘girl’ or ‘boy’ thing. Things as simple as drinks for fuck’s sake. Why is a beer a ‘man’s drink’ and a fruity cocktail a ‘lady’s drink?’ Same goes for everything... clothing, movies, certain games, even basic chores like cooking and cleaning. Hell, even interests can be a ‘girl or boy’ thing. One time I was reading a thick book and this cis man (he knew I’m AFAB cause my parents misgendered me to him obviously) went ‘oh yeah us guys don’t read that much.’ EXCUSE ME SIR BUT I AM A GUY, AND I DO NOT WANT TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH YOU!

I hate how when a trans person comes out as a child they are ‘too young to know,’ and when a trans person comes out as a teen they are ‘just going through a phase/copying trends,’ and when a trans person comes out as an adult then ‘they can’t really be trans because they never shoWeD thE siGns.’ There’s no age to realize you’re trans, everyone accepts their identity at different rates and that’s valid. And there’s no age to transition either.

I hate how when you come out as trans cis people magically expect you to suddenly not look trans anymore. How they expect trans men after coming out to have perfectly flat chests and no curves, how they expect trans women to suddenly grow boobs and look feminine af, and how they expect non-binary people to look as androgynous as possible. All kinds of bodies are trans, and you don’t need to medically transition to be trans. Some trans folks don’t have surgery or HRT or anything at all for whatever reason, and they’re still valid.

I hate how some cis people will misgender us trans people no matter how well we pass the minute they find out we’re trans. A trans man can have a flat chest, a full grown beard and a deep voice and the minute someone finds out he’s trans he’s suddenly ‘really a woman.’ I hate how this misgendering of trans people is one of the reasons why so many of us (41%) have attempted suicide, myself included. And I hate how badly cis people deteriorate our mental health just by refusing to use our pronouns and real name instead of our deadnames.

I hate all of these things, and there are so many more... but yeah, that’s what I mean when I say I hate cis people. I don’t hate cis people individually, I hate cis people because as a class they are complicit in my oppression and the way they keep upholding society contributes to our extremely high rates of mental illness, depression, and suicide. I’ve tried to kill myself too many times to count exactly because of all of these things. So yeah, call me a cisphobe if you want. I’m just a trans person that’s fed up with the transphobia, cisnormativity and cissexism that is shoved down my throat every day.

[werevulvi]

I hate my chest... situation. I know I fucked up my ribs real bad from my 5 years of binding (and I used sports bras additionally under the binder, literally just to have a barrier with softer fabric against my boobs, I didn't think anything of it) but it was alright, for the most part, for the next 4 years after my top surgery when I didn't bind anymore. I'd only occasionally get random chest pains and random moments of not being able to take deep breaths, but it was just a few times per year and didn't bother me much. But now since detransitioning, I've been wearing bras again. And god damn... for these past 11 months that I've been doing so, my chest situation has increasingly worsened by the day.

I know I've been mentally resisting trying to get over my top surgery regret cause I just really, really badly wish I had boobs again. What kind of cruel fate is this?! Hating my boobs from the start of puberty, then trying everything I could to be fine with them, then sexually assaulted by my fucking boyfriend so to the point I wanted to rip them off my chest and swore to never let anyone touch them again... and kept that promise. Then bound them for 5 years as I despised them, then I finally got top surgery that I had been waiting for and anticipating... only to regret it at 9 days post-op when I first saw it. Then stuffing that regret away for 4 years until I detransitioned last year, when I released those feelings.

I cried my fucking heart out for months in a grief so heavy I've never felt before. And now realising I can't wear my breast forms most of the time. I need to wear them less and less...

Especially sports bras and underwire bras are the worst. But I tried buying an extra soft mastectomy bra that's said to even be fine to sleep in but even that one is hurting really bad. Getting implants might not put too much strain on my chest in and of themselves, but I really wanna get back to karate again. And I'd have to wear a sports bra for that if I'd have boobs again, but I can't if it restricts my breathing like this. So this is where I'm at now, if I'm gonna have to choose between boobs and karate... I can't let my dysphoria kill my dreams. Not any more.

Now this sure is a tight fucking spot to be in with no damn wiggle room in either direction. I have to try to overcome my chest dysphoria and top surgery regret, cause there's just no way around it. I can't ignore my physical health for the sake of my mental health anymore. Cause if I do, it'll just backfire on me eventually. I can exercise just fine without anything constricting my chest, like just wearing regular loose clothing, but that means I can't have boobs then. Why... why should I have to choose between boobs and my dreams? Don't even get me started on how "unfair" it is, I don't care. It's cruel, that's what it is. It's simply cruel. I begged to all the damn gods and godesses any which where to please not make me choose between those two. I guess they didn't care. I wish I hadn't dug up that regret last summer. I wish I hadn't let myself grieve. Cause at least it was bearable when I could pretend that I was fine with my chest being flat, during those 4 years between 2014 and 2018. Oh, what a waste. All of it.

This will be hard to get through, as if it wasn't already. Cause I never once liked it being flat, I'll surely struggle to find ways to live with it. But I do think it's possible. Oh come on, I've gotten this far, I believe pretty much anything is possible at this point. But I also believe I'll need to go through a living hell to get through it. And knowing I'll actually willingly open that door to yet another hell and force my way through it... you don't fuck with that kind of willpower. So I know I can do it, it's not that. I just... really hate this situation. I've already been wearing my boobs less often, and even been outside without them twice this past week. I know I can do it again. And again. Although I don't wanna face my mom pressuring me about my "gender identity crisis" if/when she sees me dressed up but without boobs (likely for driving me somewhere). None of of her damn business! Out of all the people picking at my looks, strangers included, her comments are the worst. So what if she doesn't think it's socially acceptable or whatever for women to be hairy, have deep voices or flat chests, so fucking what?! She gave birth to me and changed my diapers as a baby, she if anyone knows I'm female. I wanna tell her to just fuck off about my looks, body and style, but instead I just keep resorting to trying to explain and only failing better each time. How can a gnc woman keep ragging on her gnc daughter for not being gnc in the "right" or exact same way? I don't understand!

If she had grown up in my generation she probably would have transitioned too and then ended up asking herself what was the point of it all, like I did. Or at least that's not at all unlikely. So how the hell can she rag on me for not wanting to mutilate my own body even further, but in a feminising direction instead? That's the part I can't understand. Isn't coming to terms with BOTH my female biology AND the changes I made to its exterior the best possible route I could take? But I think she's in denial about how she herself stands out with her own gnc looks, cause me standing out in a crowd really seems to be the torn in her side.

I don't even understand where her views are coming from, if it's closer to radfem or old school conservative views of gender but with a liberal "do as you wish" leaning. Not knowing her perspective on what she even thinks makes me a woman or a man or whatever she even sees me as, makes it kinda hard to explain my perspective on it. But it's possible that her reluctance to accept my way of being gnc could be her thinking I in some sense "became" a man through my transition, and that I won't "qualify" as a woman again in her eyes unless I'll start looking like one again. If so, she can take that stick and just jam it in a little farther. Cause that's bullshit, and I would not be afraid to straight up tell her that. But I do not know if that's what her stick is about.

I know I'll look at those cute feminine tops and dresses in my wardrobes that require boobs to look good cause of how they're sewn, with a sinking feeling in my chest of how can I ever wear this again? I'm a femme by heart, fuck knows no damn clothes fit my broken body anymore! Nothing is designed to fit a flat chest and wide hips. Literally nothing. And I look dumb. My chest doesn't match my curvy ass, and I hate that. It looks so bad. Like I've got a male upper body and a female lower body. But I don't wanna cut up my ass to match my chest, that would be even dumber, and I like my ass. I feel like a table with unevenly long legs whobbling around, but I've come to a point where I've realised I can't just keep cutting its legs so now it just has to be uneven like that. And now I can't even put a book underneath the shortest leg to keep it steady anymore, cause that's the metaphor for my fake boobs. Anyone else feel like a whobbly table which's legs has been cut too many times to irrevokable unevenness, or is that just me? Well, tight tank tops with some cute lace details or pattern fit my upper body quite nicely even with just the flatness underneath, and I can always wear any skirts cause they're really "one shape fits all" and I love that about how easy it is to wear skirts. Tied blouses are neat too (unless I tie too hard), and open tunics. Most cardigans and feminine jackets work as well. Stretchy bolero's will fem up any outfit. Jewellery and makeup will too, of course.

And the bonus: if me not having boobs will somehow make me less likely to be perceived to be a trans woman, I'll fucking cheer halleluja. Cause sometimes I'd just rather be perceived as a regular gnc dude cause at least then people don't tend to think I'm an oversensitive TRA ready to dislodge their heads from their shoulders if they'd accidentally misgender me or say something "offensive." Male is male regardless of how you twist and turn it and how it identifies. To be seen as a fake woman is no fucking better than be seen as a straight up man in a flamboyant style. They're both just as damn incorrect when applied to me, but people do tend to have a better attitude when they think I'm just a straight up man in a dress. So if I have to choose, that's the better of those two options, seriously. But it's a damn difficult decision to put my boobs away for good. It feels like I'm living the twisted nightmare version of my childhood dream. I wanted to be a feminine man so badly. Now this detrans femme lesbian who can't pass as female anymore reality freak show, feels like some kind of twisted nightmarish version of that childhood wish. Oh I always knew that sex dysphoria sucked... but I never could have imagined back then, that it could suck quite this bad. I'll never get away from it, never entirely. Cause no matter what I'll always have to live with the consequences of my transition.

Now this is no joking matter, I know that, but I can't stop laughing at this truly miserable outcome. Cause I know I can't truly grasp it. It's bewildering.

[irlpinkiepie]

a house built on sand, chapter 6

a bnha fic

Dreams are fickle creatures.

Sometimes the most certain can fall apart at a moment’s notice, and sometimes, the most fantastic dreams have a chance of coming true.

Of course, that all depends on the dreamer.

[ao3]

Izuku was never comfortable with hospitals, not since that first day, and this time was no different. Waking up in a cold and unfeeling room with nothing but flat white surfaces was never a good way to start off a morning.

“Oh good, you’re feeling alright,” sighed the old woman at her bedside. Dusting off the lapels of her lab coat, she frowned, shook her head and began to scold her. “You really should be more careful than that, though! Playing the hero is all well and good, but that was just plain reckless.”

“Wh-where am I?” Izuku asked, blinking deliberately. Well, a hospital, presumably, but why? She didn’t remember going to one; in fact, the last thing she remembered was—

The entrance exam.

The entrance exam that she was actually in danger of doing well in before she made a stupidly impulsive decision and screwed up any chance of actually getting into the school of her dreams.

The entrance exam where she decided, at the cost of everything she had spent the last year working towards and her entire life hoping for, to save the life of a friend she had only just made.

The exam where she fell ten meters onto flat concrete and passed out.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

“Do you not remember?” the woman - or, the nurse, she supposed - asked. “You took a pretty bad fall during the practical exam earlier, so we took you to the school hospital to recover. I got you all patched up, so it’s just about when you feel ready to head back home at this point.” She smiled down at her from her bedside.

“Wait, the exam! Do you know if I got in?” It was maybe a bit foolish to be hopeful, but she had to at least know. Or try to know.

Her nurse shook her head and said simply, “They haven’t been announced yet.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Izuku tried to think about that for a moment, but her head was too clouded to articulate any kind of response, and she settled for a dumbfounded nod before gently whispering, “I think I’m ready to leave.”

The nurse stared down at her through her visor, looking skeptical, and then nodded back and reached out a hand to help her out of her bed. “You sure you’re okay? I don’t wanna have to find you on the ground outside this room and check you in again.”

She wasn’t sure if that was a joke or a threat, but regardless, she gritted her teeth and pulled herself into a sitting position. “Don’t worry, I got this,” she responded, and then took to her feet and started walking.

15:47. Every sixteen minutes, thirty-three to travel. Next one’s at 16:02.

Railcard. Backpack. Start running. Right. Left. Another left. Wait. Board.

Think. No. Bad idea.

Wait.

“Are you alright, miss?”

Blink, look around. Who?

Oh, right.

Why is the floor so close?

“…Long day.” Whisper, high-pitched. Hope that’s enough.

Look again. Familiar. Too familiar.

Stand up. Get to the door. Run. Keep running.

Gate. Porch. Door. Darkness.

“Oh, you’re home! How did the exam go? Do you think you passed?”

“…Izuku? Everything alright?”

“Uh oh.”

Things were a blur for a while after that.

The first day Izuku remembered was a Tuesday. She was laying in bed, wondering why it was so bright, and then it occurred to her to actually check the time. Running downstairs in a frenzy, she nearly crashed head-on into her mother, but before either of them had the chance to react Izuku blurted out, “Why am I not at school?”

“Because you asked not to be?” her mom answered, more than a hint of confusion in her voice. “Gosh, are you still that shaken up? Do you need anything? Food?”

“U-um…” That was a lot for her to take in at once, but there was one thing she definitely processed. “Food would be nice.”

Moments later, the two of them were sitting in the kitchen, listening as popcorn sounded off in the microwave next to them. There was something oddly contemplative about the entire experience, though Izuku wasn’t entirely sure what there was to contemplate. Besides the obvious.

“So, uh, is everything okay?” Izuku asked. She felt a little silly even as the words came out of her mouth, but she wasn’t expecting her mother’s response to be a stifled giggle.

“I’m sorry, it’s not like that,” she clarified after stopping herself. “It’s just— well, I was expecting to ask you that question.” Reaching over, she pressed the button to open the microwave door and pulled out the bag inside. “To answer your question, though,” she continued, opening it and pointing it towards Izuku, “my daughter is hungry and hasn’t eaten yet, so everything isn’t okay yet.” She grinned slightly and gestured with the bag again before Izuku reached in and grabbed a handful.

As much as she was worried, snack food was definitely appealing to her right now, and one handful was quickly followed by another, and then another. “Thanks, Mom,” Izuku said between bites.

She wasn’t sure how to feel, exactly. The present situation certainly seemed plenty normal, but there was something distressing about normalcy being her primary concern. Were things really alright? Was she alright?

“Honey, you’re fine! Just fatigued, is all, and I can’t blame you for that.” Her mother put the bag down on the counter and wrapped her arms around her. “I mean, from what I’ve heard about your exam, that doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

Exam? What exam— wait, the exa—

Monday. Hearing her first alarm of the morning go off, Izuku turned off her phone and rolled over, lying face down on her bed.

What even was the point? Sure, she could head into school and suffer through lessons she had already read months past on her own, or enjoy the privilege of being misgendered and made fun of by most of the class, but for some reason that seemed less than appealing today. Especially since there was no way her eight points in the practical would ever be enough to pass; most people had to wait until they were older than fifteen to have their dreams crushed, but she guessed she was lucky.

Izuku pulled her blanket over her face, sinking down into her sheets.

Then, forcefully, said the word “No” and threw herself out of bed.

Depression is bad, but staying at home won’t help. Eight wasn’t a great score, but the written exam is still coming up. Nothing’s certain, and that’s still a chance to make a good impression, but that means keeping up with school, which means going to it. Only one month left.

Reluctantly, she pulled on her uniform and headed for the door.

Friday. Hopping off the train, the magnificent glass palace of UA High School towered above her, and she almost pulled back before finding the courage to step towards the door. Sure, nobody else seemed to be here yet, but you can never be too early for an exam.

Walking along the pathway was an oddly nostalgic experience; it hadn’t even been a week, but the events of the practical exam had still been burned into her mind. That patch of grass is where she was standing when Katsuki walked past, and that tile was where she and Ochako had met - she jumped over the crack between the tiles with a flourish before heading towards the door.

And finding it locked.

Was this the wrong day? No, the exam was definitely today. Or was it yesterday? Wait, isn’t today—

Tuesday. Lifting her head up, Izuku looked around to find the entire class staring at her. She mumbled a faint apology before picking up a pen and returning to her notes. This wasn’t like her. And yet.

Thursday. It wasn’t all that uncommon to have trains delayed because of villains, but did it really have to be today? The school staff would probably be understanding if there were transport delays, especially ones happening so close to campus, but she would rather not take any chances if she could avoid it.

Checking the news on her phone, hoping that the obstruction would soon pass, she felt a drip of liquid on the back of her shirt and turned around and suddenly her breath and vision were taken away—

Saturday.

Izuku got home from school, dropped her things at the door, and collapsed on the sofa.

The past week had been a nightmare - sometimes, more literally than she could have hoped. Her written exam was… well, she didn’t remember it exactly, but considering her disaster of a practical, it would take a miracle to get in. She didn’t have a miracle, though; she had maybe two hours.

“Don’t worry, honey!” came a voice from the next room over. “Whatever happens, it’ll work out in the end, I promise.” Her mother walked in and placed a hand gently on Izuku’s forehead, which caused her daughter to promptly burst into tears.

“What if it doesn’t, though?”

Almost as soon as she had got the words out, she felt her mom’s arms wrapped tightly around her.

“Listen to me, Izuku,” she gently whispered. “I know you want to be a hero, but that’s not the only option for you. I promise, there are so many more things that would make you happy, and that’s what’s most important in the end. Even if this doesn’t work out—”

Her words of comfort were interrupted by the ringing of a doorbell and the sound of the mail slot being pushed open.

“Y-you know, we don’t have to look at that right now,” she stammered. “Maybe after dinner?”

In response, Izuku shook her head and headed solemnly for the door. “Better to know sooner than later.”

After locking the door behind her, Izuku sat down on her bed, trying to puzzle out the small cardboard box in her hands. It had to be a response from UA - the logo on the box said as much - but then why was it not the size of a sheet of paper? She couldn’t fathom what was inside, but she was still a little too afraid to open it.

No time like the present, though. Grabbing a pair of scissors from her desk, she cut the tape over the seal and tore open the box, only to end up more confused by the gray plastic circle inside, and then by the glowing blue light coming out of the top, and then—

“Never fear, I am here!”

ALL MIGHT?

“…as a projection!” The blue, holographic form of All Might, transformed and awe-inspiring, rose up from out of the box and nearly filled the room; Izuku scrambled to place the projector onto her desk and sit down, during which time the image shifted into full color. All Might was standing in front of what looked like a theater stage, wearing a yellow suit and aggressively posing.

“So, my girl, I’m sure you’ve been eagerly anticipating this day. My apologies for not reaching out to you sooner, but I wished not to have the stress of your results over your head when we spoke in person.”

“Eager” was one word for it. Why did she have to hear the bad news directly from him? This was already going to be hard enough.

All Might cleared his throat and continued, just as boldly as before. “So, I’ve been informed that I should be keeping these recordings short—” a thumbs up flashed from the side of the projection? “—and unfortunately that extends to you as well. So I’ll keep this brief: your written score was fairly impressive, but a score of eight in the practical exam is not enough to get into UA.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Don’t cry.

“Fortunately, you didn’t score nearly that low.”

…wait, what?

Suddenly, dramatic orchestral music rang out from the speakers as the camera panned back, and All Might broke out into a passion. “You see, my girl, we judge our prospective students not on their ability to destroy, but on their ability to be heroes. Sure, you were less good at defeating the training robots, but those were not the point. Rather, you strayed from the beaten path to patrol those your compatriots ignored; you defeated your enemies in a way that minimized the impact on both people and property; and most profoundly, you recognized a danger no one else noticed, acted when no one else could act, and saved the life of a classmate for no personal gain. What kind of hero school would we be if we neglected such obviously heroic actions?”

This can’t be real.

“So rather than just assigning arbitrary points for defeating obviously false opponents, your true score in this exam was determined by a panel of judges - instructors, former students, and professional heroes. Worry not, though,” he mock-whispered, placing a hand to the corner of his mouth, “there is no doubt of their neutrality; I was sadly not invited to the panel.”

No. No way. Was she really—?

“And by that metric, you, my dear Izuku, received full marks.”

Wh—

She—

“See you in April.” He bowed, and then the screen shut itself off.