Mr. and Mrs. Rokuda clearly didn't expect that raising a child would be this difficult.

Oh yes, they knew it was difficult. It was hard not to, especially when the would-be grandparents were constantly reminding them that raising children would make them wish for death (preferably not the child's). The couple brushed them off, telling them not to worry. They made sure everything was perfect for a growing child, after all. Whatever obstacle the couple would face, they were confident that they would jump over them, make other parents feel ashamed for their parenting skills, and bring home the bacon—all this with their adorable, little baby in their arms. Surely they were just scaring off new parents, as per tradition.

But, of course, knowing is different from understanding. Knowing is impersonal. Detached. Your friend's baby that you briefly looked after and gushed on how cute she was. Understanding is being on a constant state of stress. Worrying that your 5-month-old (!) baby will accidentally kill herself by crawling over her secure crib. The baby that the more she grows, the more she exposes herself to inexplicable dangers and makes you wish for your death to escape from this abject misery.

"Kaida, put that knife down!"

A 1-year-old toddler turned around and looked at her horrified mother, her black hair lazily fluttering as she did so. Showing an unabashed expression on her face, she swung the knife downwards, like how her mother did when using a meat cleaver.

"Cook!"

Mrs. Rokuda quickly disarmed Kaida, careful not to injure both of them. Kaida, upon realizing the sheer difference of strength between an adult and a literal toddler, screamed in rage and stomped away, aghast at the unfairness of it all.

Mr. Rokuda came out of the bathroom and saw his wife sitting on the floor, hugging herself.

"I-I'm reaching my limit. I haven't slept for four nights. Four nights!"

"Honey—"

A crashing sound came from the other room, followed by a blood-curdling cry. Mr. Rokuda placed a blanket over his weeping wife and then rushed to little Kaida. He found Kaida lying next to an overturned bookshelf and sporting a giant red bump on her forehead.

Nonetheless, it wasn't like raising Kaida was completely terrible. For one, she was capital 'I' Independent™. It wasn't an exaggeration. She absolutely refused to let her parents feed her, bathe her, clothe her, or even bring her a glass of water, lest she throws a tantrum. Also, for someone who couldn't seem to sit still for a few seconds, Kaida was surprisingly capable of doing that—provided that she had something on her hand. Her parents abused this and bought her a lot of puzzle toys, until they realized that Kaida wouldn't touch the solved puzzles ever again. The fact that she could solve puzzles faster than they could supply her with toys didn't help, especially when their pockets were draining at an alarming rate.

Outsiders often praised her independence and expressed their envy to the couple for their easy parenting life (Mrs. Rokuda almost snapped). The couple would be inclined to agree if they ignored Kaida's suicidal tendencies, domineering attitude, and her predilection to disobey and defy authority figures.

Mrs. Rokuda would definitely apologize to her mother later.

Kaida didn't expect that dealing with people would be this difficult.

She knew her parents were difficult, of course. It was hard not to, especially when they constantly set limitations upon limitations in an attempt to reign in her unbridled energy and curiosity. 'No' was a common word used every single day in the Rokuda household. To a child like Kaida, it was an act of injustice. Tyrants imposing their will on a child who just wanted to see, touch, feel, hear, and taste everything. Living with them meant giving up her control on her own body, her free will desecrated.

So she lashed back. She would not bend her will to evil tyrants! She refused to back down, actively disobeying her parents whenever they told her to do something unreasonable (no, she would not nap at 3 PM because she already slept last night!). Every transgression from her parents only fueled her desire to rebel. A never-ending cycle of scolding and rebelling. The power struggle within in the Rokuda household was truly a sight to behold.

Kaida stopped seeing her parents as sources of comfort. Of course, it made sense. When she cries, she cries LOUDLY, but instead of receiving comfort, she received scoldings for being too loud and disturbing their neighbors. This only served to reinforce her world view that the world is a cold, harsh place, so she must not show any weakness.

The days passed, and then it was finally her first day in preschool. She was waiting for this day all her life, considering that she asked—no—demanded that her parents enroll her ever since the day she discovered what schools were despite being too young for it. It was a monumental step towards adulthood. One day, she would graduate, move out from her parent's house, and finally get the freedom to do whatever she wanted like iron her clothes while skydiving. Or cook for herself. TV shows were truly fascinating.

She stepped into her classroom, projecting a sense of superiority and power. She looked at her classmates and observed them. It was their first day, too, and boy do they look pathetic. Some were snivelling, distressed that they were separated from their parents. "Weak," Kaida thought as she wrote them off from her "to-befriend" list. She needed strong friends to face this cruel, cruel world, after all.

When the class started, she didn't like it one bit at all. There were too many rules! What did he mean that she wasn't allowed to go outside? She already knew the basic alphabet, and it didn't make sense to her to stay any longer. The teacher's idea of what a 'fun' game was consisted of imaginary scenarios that infuriated Kaida. They told her that she was too literal.

Her classmates were frustrating to deal with as well. She complimented her classmate's ribbon in an attempt to befriend her, saying that the color was nice despite having an ugly design. The girl cried, calling for their teacher. Kaida was shocked. But she was being nice! Did her parents lie to her about what being nice was? The nerve! Now their teacher was telling Kaida that she was being mean, and she should apologize. Naturally, she refused because she did nothing wrong. Needless to say, she was painted as the trouble child by her teachers and the bully by her classmates.

She still persisted, refusing to back down from yet another tyrannical people. Such was her resolution even when her peers laughed at her for declaring her dream to be the king of Japan during one of their teacher's idea to get to know each other. Her classmates teased her, saying that kings were for boys, and she should use the word 'queen' instead. She also heard her classmates exclaiming that being a hero was so much cooler than being a king.

Kaida glared at them for being ignorant. Didn't they know that 'king' has much more weight and power than 'queen'? Plus, kings fight each other with their quirks to reach the top and claim the crown for themselves. That was what the TV said. Legendary heroes such as All Might had the power to be the king, but he was not. Therefore, being a hero meant backing out from the fight for the crown. Otherwise, All Might, with his monstrous power, had to be crazy to not participate.

They didn't like her? Too bad, they had to deal with her presence whether they liked her or not. She would stay in this damn classroom out of spite. Who needed friends anyway? She had herself.

(Or so she told herself, while holding back her tears with pure determination.)

And so she was treated as a social pariah among her peers. Other kids avoided her because she was too scary and mean. Kaida relished in their fear, convincing herself that she wouldn't be friends with them anyway if they were cowards. When bigger, bolder kids dared to question her supremacy by pushing her, she responded with violence, sending them to cry to their mothers. After that, Kaida found that the kids didn't try anything funny on her anymore, at the cost of receiving a severe scolding from her teachers and parents. It was truly an unjust world to punish little Kaida who didn't even start the fight.

Kaida kept to herself and devoted her time into studying. She was only interested in learning languages and mathematics because they made complete sense to her (unlike those weaklings) and she could immediately use them in the real world. Sometimes she skipped class if she didn't like the way the teachers taught. Though she never lost her daredevil attitude, she was much more restrained, only releasing her energy in appropriate places (such as cliffs) and stopped destroying her house. In fact, her parents began to worry and asked her if she was fine, to which she responded with a loud 'YES'.

And then, her classmates' quirks began to manifest.

The first kid who experienced the joyous occasion had a fire quirk of some sorts. It was a straightforward, no-frills quirk that Kaida couldn't help but to admire it. She wanted nothing more but to ask him questions and figure out how his quirk worked, but her classmate ran away from her.

One by one, the quirked population in the classroom rose. Energies were all over the place and their moods collectively went up. Even the usually frowning Kaida was affected, feeling giddy in watching her classmates play with their quirks. She wondered when hers would come. Probably something like her mother's enhanced lung capacity or her father's steel bones.

The non-quirked kids were now down to three, and Kaida sensed something was wrong. Why was her quirk not here yet? Could she be quirkless? She knew quirkless people still existed, but she didn't count herself to be one. She gulped. Kaida surmised that her quirk must be covert, like her dad's. Even though she didn't feel any different, it wouldn't hurt to check if that was true.

She asked her parents—respectfully, otherwise they wouldn't give her what she wanted—to bring her to a doctor to get her quirk checked. Upon explaining why she couldn't sit back and wait for her quirk to appear, they agreed to her request.

Kaida was quirkless.

She was in her room alone, lying down on her bed. She stared listlessly at the ceiling, wondering what she had done to deserve her predicament. In a world filled with dangerous people with superpowers, having a quirk could mean the difference between life and death. Quirkless people had no means to defend against villains with powerful quirks. They were weak, needing to rely on other people for their own protection. Just like her.

She swallowed back, hard. Of course, she hated it. What kind of kid doesn't want to have their own quirk? She felt vulnerable, pathetic. She hated feeling like this, and she absolutely hated her parents even more for looking at her with concern.

Her classmates quickly caught on to her quirklessness and no longer feared her. They slowly reared their ugly side, starting from insulting jokes to full-blown fights after school. It was payback, they said. The villain Kaida was no more! Despite being physically stronger than most kids her age, Kaida was still no match against her classmates, who had months or years of experience with their quirks. Still, she never gave them easy wins, damaging her opponents even when she had to resort to dirty methods.

She often came home looking the worse for wear. Her parents, of course, expressed their concern. Kaida told them she fell from a tree, not revealing the truth for fear of being seen as fragile. Her parents didn't believe her and went to her school to complain despite her protests. She had never felt so humiliated before.

Kaida learned how to treat her wounds and hide them since then.

The fights still continued. As if a few threatening words could stop a bunch of rowdy kids. Kaida began to provoke her classmates, causing the fights herself. She would often lose, but day by day she was learning. She embraced her title as a 'villain', mocking the self-proclaimed 'heroes' when she began to win a few fights. To her, they were a bunch of tyrants abusing their power, just like everyone else. Heroes and villains be damned.

Some kids even reported Kaida to their parents, saying that she was bullying them. Their parents rushed to her in fury and demanded that something should be done to a feral kid who hurt their children. The principal punished her by making her eat her lunch in the principal's office for three months, publicly humiliating her and branding her as a delinquent. Kaida remembered that one of the kids she'd beaten up was the principal's grandson.

Even so, she felt satisfied. After all, she reduced the so-called 'powerful' kids into snivelling mess who couldn't even win against a supposedly weak kid and had to rely on others to win their fights for them. She faced her punishment head-on. Unyielding, unbending, like a damn mountain. No matter how much she seethed in rage inside, she never showed weakness. She made jokes with the principal and laughed boorishly at his scandalized expressions.

Her parents were disappointed in her, of course. Even so, they felt for their daughter. She was quirkless, after all. She was considerably disadvantaged and obviously being bullied by her class. So when Kaida asked them to enroll her in fighting classes, they didn't instantly turn her down. They had a lengthy discussion about not abusing her skills and only using them as a last resort. They made her promise to never throw the first punch and always tell the authorities what happened. After convincing Mrs. Rokuda a little more, they finally agreed to enroll her.

Kaida was true to her word. She never punched first, pretending to resist and run away before retaliating. She always told her teachers that they started the fight, complete with witnesses (they didn't dare to lie). Kaida was still punished, but less severely and more tolerable.

In just a few months, she reclaimed her position as the top dog in her class. The quirkless girl who overpowered the quirked kids. The Villainess. The King. She was so drunk in power that she began smiling more. Kaida even listened to her parents and kept her disobedience at minimum.

She felt disappointed that her bullies stopped approaching her once again. Being the adrenaline junkie she was, she redirected her boundless energy to her fighting classes, completely addicted to it. She no longer felt vulnerable. As long as she was not weak, she was in control.

So what if she had no quirk? She would defy fate. She would prove everyone wrong and come out on top. To hell with everyone else! She would win every fight, break through every opposition, and dominate everyone. Kaida was so elated that it actually helped her focus in her studies, even paying attention to subjects that she deemed boring and nonsensical, to further cement her top position in class.

Her parents were so unnerved by her sudden change of behavior that they decided to keep an eye on her. After observing her for a while and discovering that yes, Kaida was slightly stabler, happier, and more agreeable with them, they concluded that their parenting skills finally paid off. Gone were the days of stress and misery!

In fact, things in the Rokuda household began to feel too stable that they decided to have another kid. Why the hell not. They had learned a lot from raising little Kaida, so they felt even more prepared. Besides, it would do Kaida some good to grow up with a sibling.

They kept it a secret from Kaida at first, but the girl was so observant that she bluntly made a remark about Mrs. Rokuda's swelling belly. When they told her that she was going to have a baby sibling, they swore they heard Kaida jumping up and down on her bed.

Rokuda Kaida was seven years old, a quirkless kid, a troublemaker, and an adrenaline junkie. But most importantly, she was Rokuda Shiko's big sister. Right now, she was changing Shiko's diapers. She believed that she was more competent than her parents when taking care of her cute little sister, often taking over and never letting her sister out of her sight.

The parents were elated, of course. Kaida never showed this side of her before. Plus, Shiko was ten times easier to deal with than Kaida when she was young. Life was pretty nice and easy in the Rokuda household, since Kaida was practically doing everything.

"Mom! Shiko's hungry!"

Except feeding her, of course.

The two sisters were joined by the hip. As thick as thieves. In each other's pocket. And whatever idiom to describe their closeness with each other. Kaida was fiercely protective of Shiko as well, resembling a mother bear. Kaida's aggressiveness mellowed out a bit in favor of her effusive displays of affection that she hid from everyone (or so she believed). Shiko was spoiled rotten by her sister and she was loving it.

When Kaida first saw her, all she could think about was how small she was. Shiko looked like she would die if as much as a breeze blew past her. Fragile and vulnerable. Kaida wanted nothing more than to shield her sister away from the dangers of this world. Away from unreasonable authority figures and schoolyard politics.

Being an active young child, Kaida had lots of energy stored in her. She was restless and jittery, wishing hard for Shiko to walk and run soon. She walked around Shiko a lot to help her imitate her fast. That was how she learned to do things when she was younger, after all.

So when Shiko took her first step, and the second, and the third, and until she reached Kaida and smiled at her, she knew that she loved her sister the most.

"Mom, I'm taking Shiko to the playground."

"No. You stay here."

Kaida felt her near-irresistible anger rise up to her throat, but tried to push it back down. Deep breaths.

"Why not? She's already three! And I can take care of her! And it's Sunday!"

"It's dangerous, and you still need an adult to look after you two, especially Shiko. I'm cleaning the whole house all afternoon, and I don't want to hear any complaints. Understood?"

"But I'll never put her in danger!"

"Of course you won't, but can the same be said for yourself? Shiko's a toddler, Kaida. She'll copy you," she opened a cupboard. "Now, where is it…?"

"It's a playground. How dangerous and scaaaaary," Kaida rolled her eyes.

"Oh, don't you even start, young lady. I still remember what you did with that swing."

"That was one—"

Her mother waved dismissively at her, "No, you did that eight times. Now go back to the living room and play with Shiko. Safe games only."

Kaida let out an indignant huff and stomped away.

What the hell? Her mother was doing it again! She was restricting Shiko too much! She remembered how deprived of freedom she was when she was younger and how terrible it felt. She couldn't believe they would subject her adorable little sister to the same torture.

Her mother's reasoning didn't even make sense to her. Why would they need an adult to play? She was capable of taking care of Shiko since she practically raised her by herself. Besides, it wasn't like she was a bad influence. Kaida was strong! She looked at Shiko and pitied her.

Shiko played with her Lego bricks, seemingly content.

"Shiko, want me to tell you another story?" Kaida found that Shiko really liked listening to them.

"Yes! But not the boring soldiers. You always pick them!"

Aww, Kaida liked those.

"Okay," Kaida acquiesced, "Then how about the story of the great King Raida..."

Kaida put on a performance for her sister. She went all out, acting the scenes (mostly fighting ones) she made up on the fly. She was horrible at pretend plays as she preferred real things over imagination, but since Shiko loved them, she did them anyway.

After her terrible performance, her mother came out of the kitchen and addressed the two children.

"Kaida, Shiko, I'm going to buy something from the convenience store. You two stay put, alright? Especially you, Kaida. Don't try anything funny," her mother put on her shoes and opened the front door. "I'll be back in half an hour."

"Bye!" the two waved.

A few seconds passed. Another several. A minute.

Kaida looked at Shiko with a mischievous smile.

"Wanna go to the playground?"

"Outta the way! This is ours now!"

"It's Rokuda!"

"Run! She'll beat you up!"

The whole playground was vacated in just a few seconds, leaving only the two sisters.

"What a bunch of cowards. Don't be like them."

"Kaida, that's mean!" Shiko looked at Kaida with a shocked expression on her face.

"They've been here since morning. It's fine," she pat on the swing, making sure it was safe and clean for Shiko. "Sit. I'll push."

Shiko stood her ground, still upset at Kaida's rudeness.

"Hurry up! Mom will be back soon!"

She sat on the swing reluctantly. Shiko pouted, ignoring Kaida and shutting down any attempts of conversation. She loved her big sister, but sometimes she could be too much. She reminded her of the terrible villains she acted in one of her pretend plays. To Shiko, Kaida was her hero, so she didn't like it when she wasn't being like one.

Several moments later, she stopped pouting and began to laugh as she ascended higher and higher. Kaida didn't hold back at all, giving her all in every push. Shiko told her to push harder, until she was almost perpendicular to the ground.

Shiko's vision was filled with the clear sky. The billowing clouds! They looked fluffy! Shiko loved how blue the sky was. The black tear ripping across the sky! The passing airplane! She wanted to go even higher to reach them.

And so she was deeply disappointed when Kaida caught the swing. Her pout was back.

"Come on, we'll both be in trouble if we don't go home soon," Kaida unfastened the seatbelt and tried to peel Shiko away from the seat, although she resisted.

"We'll come back here again, 'kay? Now, come."

Shiko brightened up immediately, holding Kaida's hand as she got off. They walked a few steps and then—

A deafening roar echoed throughout the sky.

A/N:

This idea came to me while I was playing Skyrim two days ago. Don't have high expectations for this fanfiction because I haven't planned anything at all and I'm making stuff up as I go. I'm just writing this for shits and giggles.

Still, constructive criticism is HIGHLY appreciated.