The world is inhabited by superhumans, in fact over 80% of the population has some sort of innate supernatural ability. These fantastical abilities have been dubbed as quirks. Quirks have existed for a short period of time in relation to humans, but they've molded society around them. People with strong quirks and malicious intentions had the revelation that they could bully their way to the top of the social pyramid. Those people are called supervillains. Naturally humanities goodness rose up to combat the onslaught of villains arising around the world. Thus, the superhero was born.
Very soon quirks determined whether or not you could do good in society. The small percentage of the world that didn't develop one was at a severe disadvantage. But some of the unlucky majority were dealt an even worse hand. Some were born with quirks that changed their personalities beyond a point of recognition. Thus a key divide arose within people born with quirks that would someday change the world. Does a person's quirk change them or does a person change because of their quirk?
It itches, it hurts. The pale, ashy boy sat crying dry tears as people passed him by. Sometimes a good samaritan would spare him a passing glance, but that was the extent of their so-called kindness. Help me, please. His thoughts barely crawled out of his mouth. The raspy imitation of a child's voice was a repulsive sound. They know, all of them know. His eyes narrowed, shaking furiously as he scanned each condescending look he was given. Everyone knows. That fact simply wasn't true. His neighbors knew something had gone horribly wrong when they saw his house crumble into dust. But they hadn't seen poor Shimura scramble out of the wreck and through a maze of alleyways; trying desperately to escape his mistake. His quirk was the perfect murder weapon, silent and effective. Not a drop of blood fell on his delicate hands, though that certainly wasn't what it felt like.
Hours dragged on as he sobbed in his own personal pit of misery. Dry heaves and endless scratching repelled anyone that thought of helping him. A mess wouldn't begin to describe the state Shimura was trapped in. "A hero will get him" "Someone else will pick him up" Endlessly repeating phrases, passing responsibility of this very broken child onto some imaginary figure. I hate heroes. That thought began its reverberation through his mind, imbedding itself in a part of him he never knew he had. An urge to destroy the society that had given him this power and isolated him because of it. It itches. "Hey are you okay?"
He looked up, the infinite well of hatred building up in his stomach leaking out of his eye socket. A murder of crows flew away to avoid his glare. It took too long for him to figure out what he was looking at. A boy, no older than him, stared at him and reached out an oak brown hand. He wanted to reach out and take his offer, with every fiber of his being. I need help. Help. Help! "Oh you need help!" The boy reached out and grazed Shimura's palm before he retracted violently. Five year olds didn't tend to be very academically gifted, but Shimura knew that whatever he laid his whole hand on didn't stick around for very long. Don't touch me. No. Don't touch me! The boy before him understood far too well what he was thinking. He retracted his hand too, but more gently. He stared, eyes locked on Shimura. The boy was lost in thought, approaching the situation very carefully.
Eventually he made his move, turning around. Shimura screams internally, his young savior was turning tail to leave like everyone else. Please don't go. "Don't worry I won't". The itching got worse. Three more seconds of uncomfortable silence passed. Before Shimura could react the boy gripped one of his brown hands around Shimura's wrist; keeping them linked temporarily. The boy smiled brightly, clearly proud of his accomplishment. "C'mon!" The boy tugged and Shimura didn't resist. He pushed off the ground with his other hand, cracking the cement effortlessly. The boy lead him around the city, past the people that neglected him, farther from the ruins of his once home, and leaving behind some of Shimura's anxiety. During the duo's entire journey the boy never lost the pep in his step. Only a child could find a homeless child and beam wide smiles at them. Shimura could barely keep grasp of his short term memories, only concentrating on the two soft fingers holding onto him.
"Tobume! Where have you been! You had me worried sick!" A woman picked Tobume up, scooping him into her arms and into the air. "Mom, look! I found someone!" He pointed at Shimura eagerly. "He's lost and I found him!" Tobume's mother looked upon Shimura and scowled ever so slightly before her instincts took over. She squatted down to his eye level, showing the motherly love he so desperately needed right now. Her attention reverted back to her son, "And where did he say he was from Tobume?" "The broken house down the street!" "What broken-" Tomura started shaking violently, he knew, she knew, everyone knew. His vision darted around, that lady with the green sweater knew, that businessman knew, he looked up, all of planet earth knew his dirty little secret.
The mother's face grew curious, scrunching slightly at her son's response and Shimura's bodily movements. She sighed. "Tobume", she said with a tone only a mother could muster, "what did I tell you about using your quirk on other people." Tobume broke eye contact with her. "To not to", he said warily, "but mom he's hurting." Tobume's mother sighed again. She put Tobume down and stood up towering over the children. Like her son had, she held out her hand to Shimura. "I don't know what happened or how you got here, but if there's any way I can help, I would love to." Shimura's shaking had ceased, but he was still on edge from everything that had happened.
Grab it. Grab it, grab her hand. Let it out. Stop the itching. Intrusive thoughts echoed throughout his mind. His cesspool of hatred had gained a voice and the call of the void felt so tempting. Why does he deserve a loving mother any you don't? It's not fair. Take it. Take her from him. Slowly but surely he reached out his hand, ready to clasp it around hers. destroy it. Destroy It. DESTROY IT. It would be so easy, literally a touch away. If he didn't deserve happiness no one did. Don't do it, Tenko, this isn't you. The last echoes of his mother's will imprinted in his mind. But it's so itchy mom. I know Tenko, I promise it'll get better. I miss you mom. I love you Tenko. The slight warmness his mother's voice offered him dissipated.
Shimura withdrew his hand. "I c-can't. I-I'll hurt you." His voice was raspy and came out no louder than a whisper, but Tobume's mother heard it crystal clear. "Ok . .", she said thinking. "Do you know where your parents are?" Shimura held in his tears as he slowly shook his head. "You don't know?" That was when Tobume interrupted, gripping his mom's sweatpants. She looked down at her son and he shook his head, the ground wet before his feet. "Oh my." Her mouth was agape, her hand covering any other words from escaping it. Come on Seishin, think fast. What to do, what to do? "You look hurt, let me take you to the hospital. Okay?" Seishin smiled her pearl white teeth at the child before her. Shimura nodded slowly. Seishin sighed, nodding along with him.
Tenko's itching felt slightly more bearable.
Shimura woke up in a cold sweat, greeted by his mundane apartment walls. "Damn, the same dream again?" He looked over at his nightstand, a cheap alarm clock displaying the time in red numbers: 2:38. Great, I can't even start my day early. Shimura rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillows. His grayed out baby blue hair fell over his ears, itching them slightly. He scratched the back of his head with his half gloved hand and returned it back to his side. Shimura groaned, a primal and guttural sound deflated by annoyance.
He stood up stretching his back. His sleep was already bad before it'd been cut short. His pajamas were thin and boring. His top was just white, a coffee stain plaguing its bottom leftmost side. His pants were slightly nicer, being a christmas present he'd gotten a few years back. But because they were so old they came up a few inches above his ankles. You see, Tenko Shimura was a twenty year old not knowing what he wanted to do with his life. He hadn't gone to college because he thought he'd be doing his job forever, but his park had been dying. And that fact had been weighing on him, just an ever present itch in the back of his head. You know, a jog would be nice.
And like that he was outside, dawning his signature black sweatshirt and sweatpants. Cheap earbuds were shoved in his ears, blasting whatever music was recommended to him. His neighborhood wasn't the best, but two high school graduates couldn't afford so much. The apartment wasn't bad, two bedrooms and a bath was all they needed. It was the surrounding area that made it so cheap. While Mustafu had its fair share of supervillains, the smaller scale crooks were just as bothersome. Every few days some hotshot with his oh so powerful quirk tried to rob him of his belongings. Those people learned their place fast.
The dead of night was the perfect time to relax, the less people on the streets the less people were in danger of a premature death after all. One of the greatest upsides was that nobody could watch Shimura partake in his guilty pleasure. He jogged about a mile before stopping, slightly winded. He was standing before an abandoned crumbling building. There were multiple chains around the door handle capped off with a pretty expensive lock. It would've been a good way to ward off any squatters or delinquents, but the ability to decay anything he touched made it easy to get in. He slipped off the glove covering his ring and pinky fingers and grabbed a single link in the chain, which crumbled to dust after a couple of seconds. With his other hand he removed the chains from the door and stepped inside.
The building had once been a very prominent business in the nineties, but once its stock prices fell after some villainous connections it never recovered. The old tenants hadn't bothered to clear out the chairs, desks, or comically blocky computers, so Shimura saw it as free real estate. Whenever he felt particularly stressed he'd come down to the building and let loose, punching, kicking and most important of all, decaying anything he saw fit. Most of the technology had long since stopped working, so he didn't feel bad. The small minority of things that could turn on he brought back home for his roommate to take a crack at it, seeing how he was into that thing.
He didn't know why he felt particularly anxious that night. It might've been the stress of work getting to him. It could have been the dream he'd just awoken from. Of a cold child wishing to be saved. But it was probably because he hadn't truly destroyed anything in a few weeks. Whatever his motivations were he didn't question, he just did what he did best.
His first target was a desk that had already been halfway eaten by termites. A rush of something washed over him as all five of his fingers connected with the rotting wood, crumbling it into dust. Once he started he couldn't quite stop. He pulled open a drawer that withered away after a few seconds, dropping writing utensils and a lone stapler onto the hardwood floor. For ten whole minutes Shimura consumed the office floor, coughing as he breathed in the dust of a red plastic chair. When he tired from the childish display of power he looked at the one thing he'd refrained from touching in his temporary work there, an empty beige wall. From day one he wanted to plant his extremities on it and bust through it, to see what was on the other side. But he refrained, like it was some precious piece of pottery he wasn't supposed to smash. He placed his left hand on the brittle paint, four fingers gripping its surface. His middle finger still lingered, feeling nothing but the natural ventilation coming from outside. After a few moments of deliberation he relented, dropping his fifth and final finger onto the wall. At first cracks spread throughout, centered on his hand. Not long after the dust he had become accustomed to started peeling off the wall, and suddenly a considerably hard hole was in the wall. What was in the next room wasn't anything special, just more of what was in the first. Well, at least the itching stopped.