Am I Shadow, or am I Izuku? Those names swirl mind-numbingly, knocking me into memories of two different lives. The young boy, Izuku, gave his smile to his computer as he watched his favorite hero saving so many lives with a grin. And there is Shadow who lives in darkness. Shadow's only light source was an analog clock shining a barely seeable red. That is how he slept every second, every minute, every day for 365 days. He wasn't alone. Maria spoke to Shadow through the air vents keeping him company until it was time for bed. Maria is beautiful. Maria told Shadow how she looked in a prison void of all light and mirrors. Pale skin, blue eyes, a blue dress, and the thought of her smiling made him blush. I could look back to the past as much as I wanted, but the closer to the present he got, the more was missing. Izuku wakes before it cuts to him falling back to bed in the mid of the black night, while Shadow's clock tells him the day is over without Maria uttering a word. Then both memories are cut to red, dissipating to white, and finally to black. I awoke on the rugged asphalt at the entrance of a dirty alleyway, releasing a pungent smell resembling dog shit and crude oil mixing in a vat of tap water. It was cold.
My winter breath pierces through the red scarf, which warms me when I run through the frosty air. It was near Christmas. Where fathers and mothers spend their well-deserved break with their sons and daughters. I have family, maybe. It depends on which memory I tread. It was evident that Izuku had a family, a caring one too. They hugged him on Christmas night and woke him with another hug on Christmas morning. Shadow only remembers the prison. He either slept in the dark or attacked pillars of white steel, releasing his aggression.
My fingertips are red, bitten by the snowy air as I lean against the half-slab wall near the roof's edge while police sirens scream across the starry sky, camouflaged by the black smog of industry working overtime. My white breath freezes when it touches the chilly air, the snowy air transforming into tiny icicles. I try my best to be warm. Orange lights blink on the roof of every factory from here to Kamino Ward. It's such an ugly tint. I step onto the roof's edge, looking down at the tiny street. If I fall, would I die? Izuku would not want to die yet, and Shadow would wish to learn more instead of only remembering that bleak building.
Every tiny falling icicle stops mid-trek. Planes, trains, the south-flying birds, and smog seem so slow. Blood accelerates through every vein and artery; neurons spark faster than lightning giving every organ and muscle its job: to be fast. I fall from the rooftop, letting air blast my face freezing the moving blood. The ground came fast as I crashed, lifting the dust beneath me. Inside the soles under my heels are frictionless skates. When I run, regular shoes would burn into unusable charcoal. As I zip across the ground, letting speed build up with the skates. I watch my surroundings turn thin and faint as thoughts take my attention while my body skirts left and right of moving cars and missing the steep potholes. It is hard running for more extended periods, although I wish it were possible to run forever.
The science of my speed is unknown to me. In all likeliness, there is an equation to calculate the exact acceleration. Until then, there are too many questions. The cars here are more robust, with more defined edges—racing cars with exhausts crying thunder and burning rubber showing off their epic designs supported with enough upgrades to make enthusiasts cry like the crowd. When did I join the group of street racers?
A sudden ringing of a small handgun begins the race. The screaming of tires excites the public as the two cars coated in neon colors barrel down the highway blasting ear-breaking music as blue flames burst from every gear shift's exhaust as they skirt around the bend, barreling toward a construction site. Dozens of red steel beams hung overhead, and spectators threw rocks and trash at the racers between the site's foundations. Floodlights illuminate the next stage: a cement bowl with plywood blacking the track. Quick rights and lefts keep the racers free from a deadly crash. The cars accelerate toward wooden planks supported with cement bricks leaning against the edge of the cement bowl—the engines roar, speeding closer to the wall. Any misstep will cause damages. The chopping of police helicopters releases brighter floodlights at the racers, causing them to lose concentration and smack into the side of the walls.
At the same time, several vehicles surround the construction site. Everyone panics. Fans escaped left and right with their quirks to give them a better chance until that option was rejected by pro-landing in the center of the crowd smiling like All-Might. His body widens and turns into a fishing net, snatching swobs of people. The hero turns to me and launches himself at me collecting others as he advances. I jump onto my skates and race—where did my speed go?
I roll out of the hero's way, but the hero still grasps my leg with a finishing net and drags them across the dirt. The hero tosses me inside one of the police vans, where lasers shoot from every corner and strike me. I'm slow. The excitement outside dies down as the truck begins to move somewhere. Why was I arrested?
I wasn't the only one captured. A male and female couple sat less than a meter from me, whispering closely to another's ear. The woman's hair is unorthodox, to say the least: half of her head had hair, all neon and tied, hanging over her three eyes. While her compatriot, her brother? Friend? Boyfriend? Unclear, but he had a single eye and no hair, letting the lights illuminating the truck inside bounce off his head. Both are wearing leather clothing. Personally, Izuku, nor I, wouldn't wear it because leather (Maybe Shadow would?) doesn't provide the same warmth as wool, like my scarf still around my neck.
"Hey, kid," the woman is staring at me with his middle eye while looking back at Cyclops. Cyclops is a bit rude, but that is what he is, "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," I say as the truck begins to move. "That is the shittiest lie I've ever heard. Come out and say it—you were looking at our eyes. Am I right, or what?" He is correct, but I don't think it's something to be proud of; wait. He called me a kid. How old am I? Do I look that young? Izuku is no younger than 13, but Shadow... I never got a good look at Shadow. Every memory is dark and confusing; he never lets himself stay still long enough near a mirror or light.
"Yes, I was." I finally reply. Too much introspection lets time pass quickly.
"By the way," I say as both of them turn all three eyes to me, "how old am I?"
"I don't know. Why are you asking me, mop head?" Mop head? Does my hair look like that? Messy?
"Wait. Don't tell me you have a quirk that makes you look younger than you are, like one of those lolis?" lolis?
"Wal! Shut it with your dumbass manga references," the Cyclops woman raised her hands with two fingers bending down once on the word manga. What does that mean?
"No, my quirk isn't that. I just wanted to know how I look. I haven't stared myself down in a mirror in a bit." I interjected.
"Yeah, I can tell. Maybe you should take a long look while in a shower," Wal says, covering his nose with his cuffed hands. Do I stink as well?
The wall separating the guards, us, and the driver thuds, with the police guard screaming, "Shut it!" as the truck comes to a complete halt. We were the only people in this truck. As soon as the back doors whip open, we see three lines of spectators from the race before. Cops stood in every dark corner while four stood in the direct spotlight, allowing themselves to be seen at midnight. Who knew so many officers didn't go home for the holidays? One would think they would go home, given a chance.
"All of you have committed crimes of reckless endangerment. Others have committed street racing offenses and, for a few, unregulated quirk use. You can fight these charges in court. Meanwhile, you be seated in custody until trial."
"Move." another officer from my left tells us with a long chrome staff with electric bits at the end. He pointed the electric tips at their backs as they moved along with the crowd, which moved into the office building surrounded by dozens of cameras eyeing everyone.
I had never felt warmer once we stepped through the double glass doors. Our group walked for a good minute before coming up to a jail door that opened to a massive room with tons of machinery in every corner. There were probably more cameras inside than entrance. Wal wasn't freaked, and neither was his friend. My feelings were ambiguous as this was my first experience with the police. There is broad news on the streets about the police, other than a few kids calling them useless workers.
"In a timely fashion, move through the line and expect to be stopped at any time." one of the speakers said while its words became jumbled at every third word as we marched through some scanners. The cops only pulled three people to the side with minor resistance. The process was prolonged. I tapped my fingers and heels to pass the time. It wasn't until almost forty minutes later a cop possessed me, leaving Wal and his friend behind, seating me on a chair next to a regular beat cop with a stack of papers lying about on his desk. The pile shifted all over the desk, riddled with coffee stains and one stress ball designed with a Japanese flag.
"Okay, kid, what's your last and first name, middle name?" he asked.
"I don't know." Izuku or Shadow are probably not good ideas for a legal name. Especially since I have no idea what and who they were connected to. The cop has tired black sacks sagging under his eyes. When was the last time he slept?
"Really now? You know it's illegal to keep important information from law enforcement; it's called obstruction of justice. So if you don't want to be put to jail, let me know your name."
"I'm not lying. I don't know my name or where I was born."
The officer gave a small stare before continuing to scribble on his papers. He stands and brings me into a holding cell filled with dozen of other people—some big, some small, some wide. I have no idea what will happen next, but I do not want to stay and find out. But all of my abilities were gone—I couldn't feel an ounce of power flow. The world doesn't slow down, and every conversation is fast.
It had been an hour since they caged me. My body needs to move. These cuffs are certainly not helping. No one has been taken out and put into custody. Most likely not until tomorrow. After all, it's almost Christmas. One officer comes marching down the hall—a beagle in a dark-colored trench cloak—opens up our cell and snatches me by the cuffs, which started to chafe my wrists. My body bounces off the others, "Where are we going?" I ask. The dog officer stared back, fraught with a stern look of annoyance. He didn't care to answer them as he kept dragging them by the cuffs. The officer stops us suddenly and shows me a weak, lazy gesture. I assume he means to take a seat near his desk.
The officer was no beat cop like the one before. He had odd wisdom hiding behind his eyes. Unlike the beat cop's desk, everything is neatly organized, stuck within a border marked out by blue masking tape. Vanilla folders are stacked as if they were a sky scrapper. A mug was placed over a thick, black coaster. A small bookcase sticks to the far wall of the office's cubical, filled to the brim with notebooks with dozens of sticky notes spearing out. This was no regular cop. He is a detective.
"Ruff!" the beagle detective barks, "Officer Nagi says you won't release your name and origin to us. Why is that?"
I fix my position on the half-plastic, half-cloth chair I was sitting on."I am not giving you my name because I don't know it," I say as my eyes even out with the detectives. His phone buzzes.
"You're lying, yet, you're telling me the truth at the same time. As most in the precinct are on strict schedules, you are telling us the truth. You look like a kid who's going through a tough time. I am going to let you off with a warning."
Something warm inside me, it was excitement." But," as quickly as it came, those feelings were gone with the sound of the detective's heavy voice, "My decision is influenced by the fact you're quirkless. Don't make this an excuse to cause trouble. Your age should be stuck under curfew. If I were you, I would be ashamed."
As the beagle ends his sentence, my cuffs automatically unlock and drop to the floor, "How did you know I was quirkless?" I ask.
"Ruff! The building ran a full body scan on your entire body as soon as you entered the building. I had Officer Nagi notify me what quirk you had, to which you had none. Now leave before I change my mind."
At the end of the detective's sentence, I complied, and I quickly left the building. Once I step one foot outside into the freezing winter air, my power, once more, flows throughout my veins. Looking back again, the line of criminals still extends to the outside. Wal and his friend appear in my mind. While our meeting was short, I needed to repay them a debt. What debt, I ask myself. Someone-to-talk-to debt. I smile as an icy breath leaves my mouth.
The world turns bleak as the icicles slowly fly through the air and freeze mid-trek. I dash inside, passing through the long lines of criminals awaiting an officer, ducking under and between the jail door bars. Quickly snatched a guard's keys and unlocked the cell where Wal and his friend sat. I grab hold of one of Wal's arms and his friend's. All three of us zip through the building to the winter landscape outside, keeping a time-stopping dash back to the race track.
As time catches up to us, a cascading boom explodes in front of Wal and his friend. Establishing them into the ground. Wal stares at me as I smile before disappearing from their eyes as a sonic boom echoes through the track leaving the two speechless.
