Earlier that day
He was dragged to the police precinct, again. Officer Takuma finally wrestled him into the back of her police car after a frustrating chase that had weaved through the crowded market district. Her chest heaved, each inhale a ragged gasp against the backdrop of the city's hum. The only reason she'd even managed to corner him this time was thanks to the modified taser on her belt, its output dial cranked to nearly double the standard current. Sparks still danced in the air around the prongs.
"Haa… haa…" Officer Takuma wheezed, bracing a hand on the car door for support. "You… you're definitely getting faster, kid… aren't you?" She managed between gasps, finally sliding into the driver's seat.
Akira's head still buzzed with residual electricity, the world a blurry watercolor painting. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. "Mph… leave… me…" he mumbled, the words slurring together like loose threads. Officer Takuma let out a short, weary chuckle. She tapped a comm on her wrist.
"Sato, yeah, got him again. Tell Tsukauchi we're en route. Thanks." She ended the call with a sigh.
Officer Takuma was a study in organized efficiency, even when winded. Her Quirk, Data Vault, was legendary within the precinct. It wasn't just a phenomenal memory; it was a living, breathing database. Every face she encountered, every stray detail, every whispered word was meticulously indexed and instantly retrievable. The slightly oversized tactical vest she wore over her uniform hinted at her practical approach, prioritizing freedom of movement over strict adherence to dress code. She wasn't exceptionally tall, standing at around 5'6", a height that allowed her to blend into a crowd when needed, but her presence was undeniable. Her sharp blue eyes missed nothing, and her mind was a steel trap. If Akira had to sum her up, a strange sense of déjà vu would prickle at the edge of his awareness, a fleeting echo of faces long turned to dust. He'd often catch himself thinking, with a detached amusement he didn't quite understand, that she reminded him of someone… someone from a lifetime ago.
The ride to the precinct was silent. Akira leaned his head against the cool plastic of the seat, the hum of the hovercar a dull lullaby against the lingering static in his skull. From the corner of his eye, he watched the shimmering cityscape blur past. Two hundred years. He'd seen cities rise and fall, technologies bloom and wither, and humanity, with its strange and often useless quirks, continue its relentless march forward.
Quirks. The world had been irrevocably changed by their emergence centuries ago. He remembered the chaos, the confusion, the thrill of the unknown. He'd been a child then too, a slightly younger version of the boy currently slumped in the back of a police car. His own curse, the silent, absolute refusal of his body to age or truly die, had manifested early, a terrifying and isolating anomaly in a world just beginning to understand its newfound powers. While eighty percent of the population now possessed some kind of quirk, most were… underwhelming. Finger lasers that lacked power, the ability to change hair color at will, an uncanny talent for whistling – the vast majority were more party tricks than world-altering abilities.
Akira's transgressions were minor, almost comical in their mundanity. Petty theft, mostly. A bit of parkour that strayed into trespassing. He didn't need to steal; he had accumulated enough wealth over the years to live comfortably. But comfort bred stagnation, and stagnation, for someone who had witnessed the world unfold, was a slow, agonizing death. The thrill of the chase, the fleeting adrenaline rush, even the sting of the taser, were small sparks in the vast, monotonous landscape of his immortality.
He knew Officer Takuma, or at least, he knew of her. Her reputation preceded her, a meticulous detective with an uncanny memory. She'd been the one catching him for the past 3 years, a persistent thorn in his side, and yet, there was a strange familiarity in her presence. He'd seen faces like hers before, lifetimes ago. The diligent officer, the unwavering protector of peace. They came and went, different faces, different quirks, but the same unwavering dedication.
He wondered, sometimes, if she suspected. He looked perpetually sixteen, his driver's licenses and official records painstakingly forged and updated throughout the decades. But there were slips, moments where his old-fashioned slang or detailed knowledge of historical events betrayed his age. Officer Takuma was sharp. She noticed things. He'd seen the flicker of something in her eyes, a hint of unease when he'd mentioned a long-dead historical figure with casual familiarity.
The car pulled into the brightly lit underground parking of the precinct. Officer Takuma cut the engine and turned to face him, her expression a mix of exasperation and something that bordered on… concern?
"Alright, problem child," she said, her voice softer now that they were off the road. "Out."
Akira pushed himself upright, his limbs feeling strangely heavy despite his youthful appearance. As he shuffled towards the exit, a thought, unbidden and strangely poignant, surfaced in his mind.
Damn blondes and their hot temper… and their uncanny ability to make me feel like I'm repeating history.
Izuku, or rather, Akira as he was currently known, let out a silent sigh that ruffled the perpetually messy green curls framing his face. Problem child. It was a term of endearment by now, a familiar cadence in Officer Takuma's usually clipped tone. He'd been called worse, much worse, across the centuries. He'd been hailed as a demon, a god, a prodigy. "Problem child" felt almost… comforting in its normality.
The thought about blondes and their temper resurfaced, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. It wasn't just the hair color, though that was often a marker. It was the fire, the unwavering conviction, the almost blinding sense of justice. He'd seen it in warriors, even in the early days of quirks when society was still grappling with this new reality. He'd learned to recognize the type, the soul perhaps, that cycled through time, always ready to defend the innocent. And they were always so… determined to catch him, whatever he happened to be doing at that particular moment in time.
He lumbered out of the car, his bones still hurting. He watched Officer Takuma's brisk movements as she retrieved his confiscated belongings – a surprisingly sophisticated lock-picking kit this time – from the glove compartment. He wondered if she ever felt it, this echo of the past. Did she ever get a strange sense of déjà vu when dealing with him? He doubted it.
As they approached the precinct entrance, a figure emerged from the sliding doors. A man with a cat mutation quirk greets us, officer Tamagawa.
Tamagawa was a tall man, standing at about 6 feet, his feline features making him look slightly taller. His ears, which were those of a cat, twitched imperceptibly, likely already picking up the subtle hum of the precinct beyond the doors. His eyes, also feline, with those disconcertingly vertical pupils, flickered over Akira with a quick, assessing glance.
"Ah, Takuma…" He peered at Akira through the open car door. "Nice catch. Tsukauchi is waiting for both of you in the interrogation room. Just park the car over there," he gestured with a long, slender finger tipped with a small, retractable claw towards a section of the underground parking lot clearly marked for containment vehicles.
Officer Takuma gave Tamagawa a curt nod, a low grunt serving as her acknowledgment. She smoothly navigated the car towards the designated area, the electric engine whirring softly. Parking with practiced precision quite close to the main precinct entrance, she powered down the vehicle. With a sigh that seemed born of a long habit, she unbuckled her seatbelt and exited the car. Her movements, though efficient, held a certain weariness that mirrored his own, albeit for drastically different reasons. She yanked his door open, the sudden movement jarring him slightly. "Alright, let's go, problem child."
Akira dutifully unfolded himself from the low-slung seat, his joints making the slightest of protesting creaks, a sound in stark contrast to his youthful appearance. He followed Takuma into the precinct, his eyes taking in the familiar layout. As for the station itself…. It was a fairly big one, located in Mustafu, on the other side of the city from the U.A. The city itself hadn't had much petty crime due to the hero academy cementing itself on the small hill, overlooking the town. He remembered when that hill had just been a patch of trees, before the dawn of heroes, before quirks had reshaped the world.
The interior was quite spacious, many desks and office chairs scattered around in a neat arrangement, the low hum of conversation and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards filling the air. The front desk was manned by a familiar figure – a black haired woman with slightly darker skin. He'd seen her type before too, the quiet observer, the one who saw and heard everything but rarely spoke. She had a mutation which made what would normally be the white of her eyes black, and the iris itself yellow. Her hair was a wild mass of black curls, a striking visual that reminded him, oddly, of his own unruly mop. She wore the standard officer attire: heels, black pants, a crisp white dress shirt and a black half-buttoned overshirt. She didn't even glance up as they passed, completely absorbed in the stack of digital paperwork before her. Her focused intensity was another constant in the ever-shifting table of time.
Akira followed Officer Takuma, the weight of centuries settling heavily on his young-looking shoulders. He was just another "problem child" in the eyes of this futuristic society, a recurring nuisance for the meticulous Detective Takuma.
The walk was quiet, the sound of shoes clicking on the floor and the rustling of the cuffs around his wrists being his only noise for comfort. A trend that seemed to grow on him was his lack of communication. He always felt trapped. His body is not suited to the soul within.
Opening the door to the interrogation room down the hall, a metal desk and chair lay there unaccompanied. A paper cup filled with water was present on the desk. In front of the desk sat a one-way mirror. He had seen them a lot in movies.
Usually, they would have a few armed personnel there to make sure he didn't do anything stupid, if he managed to take off the quirk-suppressing cuffs that is. He could only guess that Officer Sato was behind the glass, waiting for Takuma to join him.
Officer Sato is a tall man in his mid 30s with a sharp, clean-cut look. His navy-blue police uniform is tailored perfectly, complete with white gloves, a badge that gleams even under the faintest light, and a cap with an intricate golden emblem symbolizing justice. He has short, jet-black hair, neatly combed, and sharp, almond-shaped eyes that seem to pierce through deception. A subtle scar runs down his left cheek, a memento of a particularly dangerous case. Despite his stern appearance, his aura carried a sense of fairness and duty.
Akira was led to the chair, cuffed to the desk and left alone in the room to wait for the detective.