Tonight, the air crackled with a different kind of energy. Sirens wailed in the distance, a familiar symphony of heroism and chaos that punctuated the otherwise ordered rhythm of this quirk-saturated society. Another villain, no doubt, testing the boundaries, pushing the limits, forcing the heroes to rise to the occasion. I'd seen countless heroics, watched generations of saviors ignite and fade like brilliant flares in the night sky.
My name, for now, was Akira. A common name, easily lost in the shuffle. I'd been many names over my time on this planet, each shed like an old skin when the whispers started, when the questions became too pointed, the stares too knowing. Sixteen was a good age, a comfortable anonymity. Old enough to move freely, young enough not to draw undue suspicion.
The first quirks… I remember them. Not as history lessons in classrooms, but as a raw, bewildering phenomenon. A newborn baby glowing with an inner light, a toddler accidentally setting the curtains ablaze with a thought, a teenager suddenly sprouting wings. The world, it seemed, had hiccupped, and this strange new reality was the after-effect. Panic and wonder warred in the hearts of humanity back then. Scientists scrambled for answers, philosophers debated the implications, and the rest of the world simply tried to adjust.
I was young then, even by conventional standards. My curse was a quiet one. A stillness within me, a resistance to the decay of time. I didn't glow, or fly, or manipulate matter. I simply… continued. I'd watched heroes and villains rise and fall, seen the slow creep of technological advancement, witnessed wars fought with conventional weapons give way to skirmishes powered by the fantastical. All of which ended with bloodshed.
The emergence of powerful quirks, capable of feats that defied logic and imagination, had led to a new societal structure. The balance shifted. Villains, empowered by their own unique abilities, rose to challenge the established order. And in response, heroes, dedicated and trained individuals, stepped forward to protect the innocent. It was a dance I had observed for quite some time, the choreography changing slightly with each new generation, but the fundamental steps remaining the same.
I passed a massive screen displaying the news. A villain with a mutation quirk, giving him the form of a monstrous spider, was wreaking havoc downtown. On screen, the young hero Red Riot, his body hardened and crimson, was bravely engaging the creature, buying time for civilians to evacuate. A flicker of something akin to pride touched me. I'd seen so many iterations of heroism, but there was always a spark of genuine courage that shone through, a willingness to stand against the darkness.
But there was also a profound weariness that settled deep within my bones, a feeling that no amount of sleep could alleviate. I had seen too much. Too much joy, too much sorrow, too much fleeting brilliance extinguished too soon. I had made friends, only to bury them in what seemed like a blink. I had fallen in love, only to watch the light fade from their eyes, leaving me to drift in the vast ocean of time.
The students at the crammed school, with their eager faces and dreams of becoming pro heroes, were a constant reminder of this ephemeral nature of life. They buzzed with excitement about their quirk training, discussed their favorite heroes with passion, and worried about upcoming exams. Their lives stretched before them, full of possibilities. Mine stretched behind me, an endless tapestry of what was and what could never be again.
Sometimes, a pang of longing would hit me. A desire for that finite existence, for the urgency and beauty of a life measured in years, not centuries. To feel the genuine sting of loss without the crushing weight of knowing you will inevitably outlive the pain.
I ducked into a small ramen shop, the warm steam a welcome respite from the cool rain. The owner, a kindly old woman with a quirk that allowed her to perfectly season any dish, greeted me with a smile. She'd seen me come and go over the last few years, another face in the endless stream of students. She knew nothing of the time that separates us, the history I carried within me.
As I ate, watching the rain streak down the windowpane, I remembered a time before quirks, before the heroes and villains. A simpler time, perhaps, but also a time of greater fragility. Japan had one boogeyman, a man of myths. His quirk allowed him to take and give other quirks at will, the quirk thief he was called. He is almost as old as I, if he is still alive that is. His cursed power to rule the world had vanished with the rise of All Might, the number one hero, which managed to beat him about 5 years ago. The thief, as he was commonly referred to, was a stunning man. His red eyes and white hair were encapsulating, his long stature seeming to grant a sense of protection. I used to know that man, before he turned into what he is now, before he became the monster of the underworld.
Occasionally, I encountered others like me. Not many. Immortality, it seemed, was a uniquely tailored curse. We recognized each other, a flicker of understanding in the eyes, a shared weariness cementing the fact we all were social outcasts. Our meetings were infrequent, unplanned, often silent. A nod in a crowded marketplace, a shared glance across a busy street. We were ghosts, haunting the edges of humanity, bound by secrets we had no one to share with. There was no solace in these encounters, only a confirmation of our shared, solitary burden.
Why did I stay? Why not retreat to some isolated mountaintop or wander the desolate corners of the earth? The answer, I suppose, was a stubborn remnant of the human in me. A fascination with the ever-changing tapestry of life, a morbid curiosity to see what new wonders and horrors humanity would come up with.
The news broadcast in the ramen shop flickered to a new segment. The spider villain had been apprehended, not by Red Riot alone, but by a coordinated effort involving several other up-and-coming heroes. Creati, Uravity and another one which seemed quite familiar, but I couldn't place my finger on it.
The commentary praised their teamwork, their efficiency, and the bright future of hero society. The young heroes, flushed with victory, waved to the cameras,well, at least most of them did. The blonde one just scowled and turned his back, stomping off. I felt a pang, not of envy, but of something similar to pity. Their victories, so significant to them, were but fleeting moments in the grand scheme of things. Their legacies, however bright, would eventually fade. It was a cruel truth, one I could never share.
As I slurped the savory broth, my eyes met another's across the small, steamy shop. An older man, seemingly in his late 50's, sat hunched over a bowl, his gaze distant. He wore nondescript clothes, a baseball cap pulled low, the uniform of someone trying not to be noticed. But there was a weight in his posture, a weariness that belied his
appearance. A fleeting flicker of recognition passed between us, unspoken, a silent acknowledgement of a shared burden.
He didn't smile, didn't nod. He simply held my gaze for a moment longer than was socially acceptable, a silent question hanging in the air. I met his gaze with equal stillness, a mirror reflecting his own old soul. His blue sunken eyes seemed to bore holes through my head, judging me with nothing but his gaze. His golden hair, which seemed to fall to his sides, looked as dead as he did. A walking corpse.
He finished his ramen, paid quickly, and slipped out into the rain. I watched him go, a pang of something like a missed opportunity striking me. In all my centuries, such encounters were rare. An immortal never regretted anything, as simply with the passage of time, the same opportunity would rise once more.
My own bowl emptied, I paid the owner and stepped back into the neon-drenched night. The rain had softened to a drizzle, the air thick with the scent of wet concrete and electricity. As I walked, I replayed the brief encounter in my mind. He seemed old, perhaps older than I originally thought, a mere fledgling in the grand scheme of things. I wondered about his story, his name, the things that make him tick, but it was all for nothing.
Reaching my cramped apartment, a small, nondescript space I rented under the guise of a student, I shed my wet clothes and settled onto the futon. The news on the wall-mounted screen was still reporting on the spider-mutant villain. Red Riot, bruised but unbowed, was being interviewed, his earnest determination shining through even on the pixelated screen. The public adored their heroes, held them up as beacons of hope in a world still grappling with the implications of quirks. And rightly so. They were the shield against the darkness, the embodiment of humanity's enduring capacity for good.
But even the brightest stars eventually burned out. I had watched countless heroes rise and fall, their triumphs and tragedies etched in the hall of fame, and in the deeper recesses of my own memory. They were mortal, their brilliance finite. And that, perhaps, was their greatest strength. The urgency of their existence fueled their heroism, the knowledge of their limitations spurred them to push beyond their perceived boundaries.
My own immortality was a different kind of burden. It offered endless opportunities for experience, for learning, for witnessing the grand sweep of history. But it also came with the crushing weight of detachment, the slow erosion of connection as friends, lovers, and entire generations faded away like whispers in the wind.
As the city outside hummed with the sounds of the late night, a familiar thought settled in my mind. Tomorrow, I would be Akira again, a sixteen-year-old student navigating the complexities of cram school and teenage angst. I would blend into the crowd, another face in the neon-lit tapestry of Musutafu. And the centuries would continue to roll on, another day in the long, unending life of an immortal child. Perhaps, one day, I would see that man in the ramen shop again. Perhaps not. Time, for me, was an ocean. And encounters, like ships passing in the night, were rare and precious things.
End of Chapter 1