Returning on July 31st with updates every Saturday, contains under-age and smut later on.
Droves of giggles ring out within the vicinity of the park, seemingly lifting up growing buds planted near a swing set, the tiny pitter-patter of feet clap into a sort of chaotically harmonic jingle. Childhood is something anyone who has ever been alive in the history of the universe would recognize, even if it was remarked in a more solemn tone, or closed-off, distant gesture. Even if it's something that you can only remember in tiny flutters that fly by, with no regard to your own person.
An absolutely enthusiastic person would report of the start of a fantastical world, inhabited with powers that used to be only seen in fictional comics, about the so-called glowing baby in Qing'Qing! Let's just say you couldn't give a rat's ass about how many different types of light the small babe could flow out, even if it did birth not only a new life, but an entirely revolutionized and evolved society.
In the midst of evolved masses of human kind, anti-quirk riots died down as the oppressors became the oppressed, a chain of sorts. It's like most of the world's view decided to follow a beacon and erase any remnants of the past with it: it's not like you could ever forget anyways, it wasn't your own choice, not when your father changed from a funny, strong-willed man into a laughingstock of a parental figure, bringing up any and all irritation at any mistake, since it's all he would think about, anyways. You'd think once nearly everyone in the local neighborhood quit talking to the quirkist bastard, he'd realize that the only one who cared about how much of an asshole he was was only the person looking back right at him in the mirror.
Your birth mother was not exactly the most angelic, stereotypical mom you could have asked for, but the comfort that came after the coldness exuded from her was something you had to look forward to. Past-tense, of course, as life goes on whether or not someone likes or asks for it. Soon enough the frosty exterior was all that was left, what she grasped onto with a grimace and clenched teeth, holding what was left of herself in an attempt to keep it all together.
Harmony, something that every person has once looked towards a semblance of balance, a sense of whole. Actually, let's assume that in this perfect world, you were raised into a family getting by with every march drummed into the hearts of any who had powers. Reputation was coin, and the currency of the time was emboldened by the "freak" mutations popping up within our oh-so normal and wonderful world! It's also what kept you breathing past the burnt bridges, tethered by naught but dust in the air that freely pulls the strings of the flaming pathways, one thing you wouldn't view as your world, even if it's essential to the new trends.
Either way, you tend to be an outcast, the outsider, the person who doesn't really believe that you should think that way just 'cause you were raised into it. You're your own person and so are ideas, they're not mutually exclusive, at least to you.
That's what you repeated to yourself as the temperature dropped further, and with it your will to keep trudging slightly further from the next rooftop to the next. Heroism is not only a staple of today, but a cushy and respectable job that will earn you stacks of green and keep you up higher than any other hard-working citizen, yet barred from the creme de la creme if you're not in the Top 100.
Any person, starting from a particularly juvenile age would be wondrously compelled to reach for the stars, climb the ranks to the top, all with your looks and quirk! We come full circle, bonded yet again by some core values that really just tend to stick, yeah?
'Like that'll fucking help me actually help people see that it's not all about the brand new, huh,' you think bitterly, creases beginning to appear as you furrow your brow in annoyance.
Even if you still were living with your parental figures near the end of Year 1 of Junior High, it didn't stop you from picking up some handy-dandy tricks or two from some... inspiring brass knuckles. Practically rushing over to slam your bedroom door and pounce onto your poorly working family computer, you'd boot up some good ol' grainy footage of a supposed quirkless vigilante that went by the name "Knuckleduster," giddily training your eyes on his technique that was hidden by his obvious brute force. You can't really remember what compelled you to slam ¥10,750 onto the counter of your nearest generic equipment store, startling the poor young employee with your hardened stare that held nothing but excitement. With that, you started brandishing your ghetto, yet quality brass knuckles attached to some durable motorcycle gloves, adorned with spikes not just for show.
That held the very start of your substantial career as a vigilante, breaking your thumb multiple times and nearly dislocating a shoulder with the first few trips to teach a mugger a lesson, only to become the one with the rugged and mugged face. Stares were pointedly pronounced at the comedic amount of medical wrapping surrounding your thumbs at least once a month during Year 1 of Junior High, only showering yourself with some unwanted attention from gossipers and know-it-all's trying to just shit in your metaphorical cereal.
On the bright side, had you not suffered some jeers from some dank alleys and equally unlikable peers at school, you wouldn't have learned how to properly throw a punch and keep your posture correct in certain situations! If you had just thought a little while longer about how to fight instead of trying to jump into some definitely illegal training, maybe? Nah, it was worth the money from some nasty individuals who always made you break their noses, absolute scum of the earth.
Getting back on track, wheezing from the effort to continuously skirt past chipped corners and loose footholds that would most certainly lead to your demise, not like you would mind, the scent of smoke begins to waft into your nose. Bloodcurdling screams soon follow with layers of pleas falling deaf to the cause's ears, burnt rubber-like smell emanating danger and horrors that someone shouldn't casually stroll into the middle of. But of course, you're you and you do you so; A) you calmly venture through a gallery of shady streets, letting your brain just halt for the time being, B) even though the pungent aroma continues to smother every single one of your senses, you stop just short of entering one foot into the space surrounding the arsonist, and C) immediately say a quip that is totally only chuckle-worthy.
"Ah, I get it now, getting a late night snack, yeah? Nothing like some meat on the barbie," is what's rolled off the tip of your tongue and it simultaneously makes you wish you had time to relieve yourself in a bathroom and makes a man with a definite punk-goth aesthetic with his two blue eyes pierce into your face.