It's been a couple of days since my first outing as a vigilante. I've done it three times now, and honestly, it's been fun just running around, testing all my dumb ideas for powers. Turns out, when you can mess with the atomic structure of things, there's a lot you can do.
Take fire, for example. Heat, and by extension fire, is basically atoms jiggling really hard. Yeah, that's my scientific explanation. I'm not going in-depth because it's boring, and frankly, telling people "I jiggle the air really fast to make fire" is way funnier.
So here I am, out again. I teleport my phone into my hand. 1:21 a.m. Plenty of time before I crash—sleep is an elite-tier activity, after all—so I'll be home by five-ish.
Let's-a go.
I hop off the building without even trying to be efficient. It's about looking cool. The moment my foot hits the ground, I use my knowledge of… whatever that law is that says forces have reactions. Newton's third, I think? Anyway, I make a force downward to cancel the impact.
"So fucking cool," I mutter, grinning. Yeah, I get why people like jumping off buildings now.
I slide forward across the pavement, testing my frictionless-floor trick—basically making the ground super slippery whenever I touch it. It works. Really well. Within seconds, I'm faster than a bike, gliding through the streets like some smug penguin.
Then I hear it.
"YOU—" Oh great. These two again.
"FUCK YOU!"
"NO, FUCK YOU! YOU CAN'T HAVE MUSTARD ON A BURGER!"
Same argument. Same drunk idiots. And in this quirk-filled society, "disagreeing" means "trying to kill each other." I've broken them up three times already. Guess we're making it four.
I step around the corner. They're both swaying, seconds from face-planting. Could be drunk, could be concussed—either way, apparently mustard is worth homicide.
One charges the other, mid-step, and freezes as ice creeps up his leg. Fun fact: fire is jiggly atoms, cold is atoms barely moving. Ice is just making them stop jiggling.
"WHAT TH-" he starts, but both freeze (metaphorically this time) when they see me.
I point at Mustard Guy. "Look, I get it—he's weird."
"HEY!" Mustard Guy protests.
"But it's his weird opinion. No need to beat him over it. Here's the deal—if I catch you two fighting about mustard again, I'll beat you up instead." I turn to leave, flicking my hand so the ice melts in exactly two minutes.
Mustard Guy starts to smirk. "Heh, karm-"
"SHUT IT!" the other one snaps, then grins. "I won, you know."
"HOW?"
"The kid said you're weird, too. That's two against one."
I snort and turn the corner, scanning for actual criminals. Funny as it was, it's going straight into the "never to be remembered again" part of my brain. Right next to The Toothbrush. We do not talk about The Toothbrush.
---
Up on the rooftops again, I'm eavesdropping on an obvious drug deal. The dealer's mask catches my attention—it's bird-shaped.
"Right. Yakuza guy," I whisper, remembering Eri and Overhaul. This should be fun.
"Is it true? Can it really remove quirks?" the buyer asks, twitchy as hell.
The dealer nods. "Yes, but only temporarily. Prototype." He flips open a case with a vial of red liquid inside. "A dose, and your quirk is gone. For a bit."
"How much?" the buyer asks, pupils blown wide. He looks high as hell.
"A lot," the dealer says, snapping the case shut. "But worth every pen—AAAH!" His sentence turns into a scream as I land feet-first on his back, bones snapping.
"Hi, mind if I drop in? Actually, never mind, you clearly mind." I say cheerfully.
The buyer freezes as I flick my wrist, lifting him into the air like a ragdoll before slamming him headfirst into the pavement. He's out cold, concussion guaranteed, death not included. he hasn't done the crime, so he doesn't do the... time, which is apparently infinite boredom in a black void.
Stepping off the dealer, I check the damage. "Mmm, yes. Mach dead." I nod with great accuracy. "Aw, little birdy's dead? Let's fix that."
I rewind his body until the breaks heal, and he gasps back to life.
"What… what the hell?" he croaks.
"Welcome back! Now, you have something I want. Info on Overhaul. And I'm going to get it, one way or another."
"I-I won't tell you," he stammers.
I sigh and twist his arm until it pops, shatters, and finally breaks off. I drop it with a wet thud. "Let's see how many tries you last."
Turns out the answer is three. three arms. After that, he's crying and begging.
"Fine, fine! I'll talk!"
"Good! Now, write it all down. Main base, Overhaul's routine, anything useful." I hand him a pen and a notebook. He scribbles like his life depends on it, which, fair enough. It does.
Once I've got the info I needed, I told him, "Now march yourself to the nearest police station and confess everything. If they ask why, tell them Entropy is a very good convincer." i smiled with my teeth showing. to show I was very kind and benevolent.
Before leaving, I glance back. "Oh, and don't mention me anymore than that. Or your limbs will vanish, I will know. Bye-bye."
He bolts. Smart man. Well, smart now.
I teleport home, ready to research the addresses. "Tomorrow morning will be perfect," I mutter, firing up the computer.
Meanwhile…
Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi is not a morning person. His phone won't stop ringing, and eventually, he gives in.
"Detective Tsukauchi here," he grumbles.
The voice on the other end lists details. His annoyance turns into confusion, then mild alarm.
"Wait, what? Someone turned themselves in? Yakuza? Why isn't Nighteye handling this? Oh… okay. I'll be there."
He hangs up and checks his watch. 4:23 a.m. "Why is it never daylight for this crap?"
As he grabs his coat and shoes, he mutters, "If that coffee machine's still broken, I'm asking Aizawa for his stash."
What's his stash? Vodka. Lots of vodka. Works about the same. And honestly? He's probably built up at least a level 5 resistance to alcohol.