I'll be honest- after being reborn in the world of My Hero Academia, I'd sort of expected to do the generic isekai thing. Work hard to become a hero, apply for U.A., hang out with canon characters, gently nudge the plot into a more favorable direction, and drop cryptic hints about my otherworldly background. All that good stuff.

It was a hopeless, beautiful dream. I woke up from it on my third birthday.

My little sister burbled happily from her high chair. My father smiled at her and made cooing noises as he brought a spoon of baby food up to her mouth. She squealed in delight and leaned forward to chomp down on the food.

My father cheered her on and dipped the spoon back in the jar. I could see the creases of a smile behind my mother's cup of coffee.

She put down the cup and picked up her chopsticks, before digging into her cup of egg-fried rice with practiced elegance.

My stomach spasmed. I tried not to hunch over. I eyed the cereal box on the table from my place on the floor. I was trying to be patient, I really was.

I counted backward from ten and performed a breathing exercise I'd been taught in my last life way back when I'd played the saxophone in marching band. Five counts in, five counts out. Four counts in, four counts out…

I finished the exercise and looked back up at the table. From my position, I couldn't tell how close my parents were to being done.

I whined a little, an involuntary noise escaping from my throat. I saw my father give me a side-eye and I clenched my teeth as hard as I could. I stopped trying to resist hunching over.

"Mom, uh, may I please have-"

"Shut up, Rat. You'll eat after we do."

And despite my breathing exercises, despite the decades I'd spent developing emotional maturity in my past life, and despite the prickly pride that had kept me so stoic for so long, I began to cry.

My mother sneered. "If you're going to cry, do it in your room"

So I did.

I went through a few more... lapses in composure as I grew up. But I got better at hiding my feelings. At creating and reinforcing a facade of placid calm. I was, after all, mentally an adult. I would not, could not allow myself to lash out like a child. I was better than the bullies or the troublemakers, acting out for attention. I was better than the snot-nosed brat that cried when he scraped his knee, or the little girl who couldn't bear to go to kindergarten without her safety blanket. I learned to control myself because that was all I had to control.

But a seed had been planted within me, and from it, something thorny and poisonous grew.

/

Let's talk statistics.

Somewhere between half and two-thirds of the people on the planet were heteromorphic in the broadest sense. Estimates varied widely depending on what the surveyor and the culture in question considered to be 'heteromorphic'. Did blue hair count? What about elongated canines? What about minor enhancements to durability?

In the narrow sense, thirty-five percent of the Japanese population was at least "moderately heteromorphic," with easily visible changes to both the aesthetics and functionality of their bodies.

Meanwhile, one-tenth of the overall Japanese population was "dramatically heteromorphic" with an appearance that was obviously nonhuman.

Status quo apologists liked to deny discrimination existed. After all, the dramatically heteromorphic made up roughly a tenth of the Diet, a tenth of the top-ten heroes, a tenth of the military, and a tenth of all CEOs. All in line with the population figures.

But we also made up forty percent of the prison population, thirty-six percent of the homeless population, and had a median income at forty-three percent of the national average… after taking into account the transfer payments from the government, made to those so anatomically divergent they couldn't function in society without significant accommodations.

Why?

/

Unlike some kids, I never got told that my powers were just too weak to be a hero. Even the weak, limited version I allowed the rest of the world to see was still plenty formidable.

Instead, I got guidance counselors looking away from my eyes as they said I just didn't have the "right character" to be a hero. That I seemed like a promising young man, but not "hero material", whatever that meant.

I consoled myself with the thought that I didn't actually want to be a hero. Why would I, knowing what was coming to Japan? I spoke excellent English and passable Romanian. I had the engineering skills from my past life and the artistic skills I'd worked to pick up in this one. I had a plan.

Even if it burned to know that I was in the world of my favorite anime and yet couldn't even aspire to the notability of a background character.

/

At some point, I started a blog. I filled it up with things I drew, mostly, or snippets of fanfiction and poetry. A half-hearted attempt at replacing the warmth of a loving family with the artificial glow of online fame. Barely anyone bothered to look. I'd get a few likes or shares at most, even for the stuff I'd poured hours of emotional and physical labor into.

That is, barely anyone bothered to look… until I started to post about heteromorphic rights.

/

I felt a puff of hot breath on one of my ears. I flicked it, an involuntary twitch.

"Hey, Rat," said Toshiharu. He rumbled gently when he spoke, like an avalanche trying to whisper.

I turned to face him and he shrunk away. He glanced up at my eyes and then back down towards his hooves. I was always impressed by how he managed to avoid my gaze with all twelve of his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Someone's asking for you."

I tilted my head, waiting for him to elaborate.

He waited a few moments, clearly hoping I'd go and check things out and leave him in peace. He had no such luck. Eventually, he gave up hope and gave me what I wanted.

"He's, uh, some sort of recruiter. Fancy suit, fancy watch. A mutant."

"A mutant like Mrs. Akemi-" I motioned towards our cat-eared librarian- "or a mutant like us?"

"The, uh, the second one. Like us."

"What's he want?"

"Dunno. Just to talk to you. Said he was a fan of your blog. Maybe a journalist of some type?"

I snorted. The only journalists that read my blog were reactionaries trolling for controversial statements to enrage their followers. (To be fair, I gave them plenty.) Still, this was worth checking out, if nothing else.

I locked the computer I'd been working at and pushed myself back from the table. Hopping off the chair, I gestured towards Toshiharu. "Lead the way."

He leaned away from me, subtly terrified. I sighed. I'd spent most of a decade building up a reputation as a model student and wiped it out with a single poorly considered fight.

"It's, uh, this way." Toshiharu motioned towards the library's exit. He walked towards it with the self-conscious fear of someone being stalked by a tiger.

I barely came up to his waist.

We made our way outside our high school without incident. What few students weren't in class or at lunch fled out of our way as soon as they spotted us.

Well, spotted me.

A man with long, straight black hair leaned against the school gate, carefully outside of school grounds. From a distance, he didn't look too abnormal, but a closer look revealed a protruding jaw and enormous, bloodshot eyes only partially hidden by a fringe of hair.

I approached him as Toshiharu made his escape. "Hey. You wanted to see me?"

He turned to face me and met my eyes with his own. I tried not to flinch. "Indeed I did! You're the author of 'Parahumans Online,' correct?"

"That's my blog, yes. Who're you?"

"I'm affiliated with- that is to say, I have a few contacts in the entertainment and news industries. Someone with a vested interest in righting wrongs- and, well, writing wrongs, too."

I blinked, mildly impressed that he'd made an English-language pun. If he read my blog, he'd know I was a polyglot, so he'd probably come up with it in advance to impress me. But I could still appreciate the technical effort he was making to butter me up.

"And?"

"I'm interested in helping your work reach a wider audience."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I told you, didn't I? I read your blog. I'm a fan of your work. And I think that, if more people get a chance to read it, we could forward the cause of equality. For mutants, and for those marginalized by society because of the nature of their quirks."

I almost snorted. I'd been cynical even in my past life, and this life hadn't exactly made me an optimist.

"That sounds too good to be true."

He sighed. "Mr. Kuroda- Is it OK if I call you that? Or would you prefer your pen name?"

"Call me Rat. Everyone else does."

"Then, Mr. Rat, all I'd like is a chance to prove my goodwill. I can- we can- provide funding, access to high profile interviews, and of course complete journalistic independence. I understand your suspicion. I understand that you're looking for the hooks you think we'll put in your skin. But speaking for myself, I was genuinely inspired by what you wrote and impressed at your encyclopedic knowledge of pre-quirk liberation movements. We genuinely want nothing more than to give you a platform to let your voice be heard. To quote the works of Destro-"

My eyes widened as everything clicked into place. "I'm not interested in working with the Meta Liberation Army," I blurted out.

The man's jaw hung open for a few moments. Then, he laughed. "Oh, you are very well informed indeed." He smiled. Not the smile of a predator, but a smile of surprised pride. "Very well. If you don't want to work with us, I will respect your wishes. But if you reconsider..." he pulled out a business card. "... You can contact me with this. Or if you'd prefer, send a private message to 'Sukeputikku.'

I jerked a little, recognizing the name as a regular fixture of my comments sections. I took the business card without complaint. On the front side was the "Feel Good, Inc." logo. On the backside, there was an email scrawled in pen, and below it, a quote. One I recognized, seeing as I'd included it in my last blog post.

"What use is a voice, if not to join in the chorus of equality?"

I glanced at the man's retreating figure. Some forgotten memory niggled at the corner of my mind. But whatever it was, it slipped out of my grasp as the school's bell rang.

School went as it always did. The majority of people were content to ignore and avoid me, doing their best to stay out of arm's- or rather tail's- reach.

After-school art club was a welcome reprieve, but one that ended all too quickly. I waved goodbye to the other members and left without a word. Leaving art club for my house always left me with a bittersweet feeling. I knew, on some level, that I could probably become friends with these people, rather than just friendly acquaintances. But this one part of my life was completely compartmentalized from the rest, and I liked to keep it that way.

I slipped into my house without a greeting. My sister was talking to my parents about her day, obviously excited about some group project she was working on with her friends. She shot me a megawatt smile as I came in and I reciprocated with a much weaker one. My father glared at me and my smile wavered. I slipped off to my room without another word.

I closed the door and shrugged off my backpack. My shoes came off and I slumped onto my bed.

Absently, I pulled the business card out of my pocket.

The man had never actually given me his name, I realized.

I set the business card aside and played some shitty mobile games on my phone to waste time. I gave up after the processor started to overheat and the screen went on the fritz.

My blog had a following of some size. I'd stopped checking the numbers because otherwise I'd obsess over them, but I was pretty confident I could monetize it, make enough money to stop relying on my parents for food, and maybe even replace this piece-of-shit smartphone I'd found while dumpster diving. But there was no way in hell my parents would help me open a savings account.

Being underage sucked.

I turned my head to look at the business card.

The exact details had faded with time, but I still remembered the broad strokes of My Hero Academia. The Meta Liberation Army had been bad guys. Not the bad guys, but serious antagonists nonetheless, responsible for death and destruction on a massive scale.

And for some reason, their recruiters kept trying to reach out to me.

I'd started to pick up on the shibboleths maybe three years back: people in my comments bolding all their 'L's whenever they wrote in romaji, or quoting Destro's more obscure works. Then came the people sending me private messages with 'book recommendations' and invitations to "chat rooms with like-minded people." A few had sent me invitations to protests, one of which I'd actually attended anonymously. (The people there had been, unfortunately, exactly the kind of people I'd imagined reading my blog. I'd promptly fucked off, but not before eating their pizza and stealing a few of their t-shirts.)

A few particularly hapless souls had tried to recruit me openly and directly, and I'd told them I sympathized with them but had better things to do. (And also, that they were idiots for talking about the MLA openly to a stranger over the internet.)

That had all stopped about a year ago, and I figured the MLA had started to take better information security precautions.

Now, this.

I picked up the business card. "Skeptic," I muttered.

My stomach rumbled.

Fuck it, I should at least hear him out. And maybe the MLA would be open to paying me in cash.

My phone had cooled down enough to work so I opened up the app for the blogging service and sent him a message.

"I agree with some of the MLA's ideals, but not its methods, and not its goals."

It took about thirty minutes for me to get my first reply. I spent most of that time waiting anxiously, and the rest berating myself for caring too much.

"What do you find objectionable?"

"The MLA claims to be in favor of equality, but too much of its rhetoric smells like Quirk Supremacy. And tearing down the current system will just be a return to the warlord days. We need reform, not revolution."

"I understand your concerns. It's unfortunately true that many of our members are what could be called 'zealots'. They've been hurt, badly, by the forces of the status quo, and feel like they have no other recourse than to lash out. That's not to excuse them, and of course, we still have to work hard to get people to understand that retribution isn't the same thing as justice. But the MLA, as an organization, is a staunch supporter of equality for all people, regardless of their quirk or lack thereof. If you find any of our members acting or speaking in a way contrary to the goals of our organization, please refer me to them. We want your help specifically because of your unwavering, unconditional support of equality."

I was almost too busy enjoying the glow of flattery to notice the subtle implication that this man had to be high up the MLA's totem pole indeed if he was in a position to discipline its members. Almost.

"If I take your money, I'm implicitly supporting you. It would be a bribe, even if we wouldn't call it one. And once I'm used to it, it gives you leverage over me, and what I say."

"I understand and respect your concern for maintaining journalistic integrity and independence."

I sniffed in disdain. "Journalistic independence." Heh. I was a blogger and a rabble rouser. The closest I got to researching sources was posting poorly translated Martin Luther King quotes. I continued reading.

"But please remember: the whole ethos of the MLA is that people should be able to express themselves. With their quirks, or with their words. We don't want you to push propaganda, we want to hear what you have to say."

I frowned. I knew this was flattery. I knew he was stroking my ego. I knew that every message I sent moved me further into the palm of his hand. My stomach growled.

"The original MLA was a villainous organization. Both in the sense that they broke laws, and in the sense that they were evil. Not robbing-banks evil. Committing-war-crimes evil."

"I won't apologize or minimize the tragedies of the past. Instead, I'd like to appeal to your sense of utilitarianism. You and I both know the statistics. Japanese society is one that is structurally hostile to nails that stick out; one that is structurally hostile to people like us. Something has to be done. Something will be done, whether we like it or not. So it's better, for you, for us, and for Japan, that that 'something' is done by people with a principled concern for equality, rather than by people lashing out at the system oppressing them. And if you decide that the arrangement I'm proposing isn't for you after all, you can simply quit. I give you my word that I'll ensure an amicable parting."

I typed up another message, but hesitated before pressing send. If I sent this, I knew there would be no going back, no matter what Skeptic was telling me. No matter what I told myself.

"I want to be paid in cash."

~oOo~

A/N: Crossposting from Spacebattles/AO3. This work has been graciously edited by FelixInkheart of SB. This story aims to be canon compliant right up until the POD- the protagonist's birth. Everything that follows will have been wildly different. Make no assumptions. You have been warned.