The library was quiet, sterile, and packed with more screens than books. Accelerator sat hunched over a public terminal in the corner, a cheap hoodie pulled low over his head. The computer whirred as it connected to the local network. He tapped at the keyboard with one hand, eyes scanning faster than most humans could follow.
Keywords: Musutafu. Quirks. Hero system. History.
The results came fast.
A timeline. A global incident nearly two centuries ago. A glowing baby born in China. The rise of genetically embedded abilities—Quirks, they called them. Within a few generations, 80% of the population had developed some form of superhuman trait. Governments collapsed. New laws emerged. A new society formed around regulating these abilities.
Heroes. Villains. Pro Hero rankings. Hero Academies.
Academy City? Never Existed. Nothing about it in any current map or database. Not a trace of the old science-based superpower development. Not even a rumor. He leaned back in the chair, lips twitching slightly. "So I'm not just in another world," he muttered. "I'm in the future." He pulled up some video footage—news clips, hero battles, public incidents. One name popped up more than once:
All Might. The so-called Symbol of Peace. Accelerator narrowed his eyes. "So they handed society over to clowns in capes." He dug deeper. Regulation systems, Quirk laws, genetics breakdowns. Some quirks mimicked natural laws—wind control, matter manipulation—but the science was… vague. Sloppy. No standard vector math, no calculation systems, just raw instinct and training. He scoffed.
He sat on a rusted bench outside the library, scrolling through the phone he took from a thug that tried robbing him. Most of it was junk—low-res movies, a few stolen apps, a few back-alley VPNs. Useless. He pulled out the money he'd lifted last night and checked it again. Three crumpled bills. Less than 8,000 yen. Enough for a couple meals. Maybe a night or two in a capsule hotel if he was lucky.
Not enough. Accelerator clicked his tongue. "Tch. Figures." He needed a steady source of income. Not from beating up junkies and looting their pockets—that was temporary. And loud. If anyone got a good look at what he did, some Pro Hero was going to come knocking eventually. He needed to blend in. Move quietly.
But how the hell was he supposed to get a job? He had no ID. No Quirk registration. No family, no education records, nothing. He didn't even legally exist in this world. He stared at the blinking lights of a nearby vending machine, mind turning. His options were: Fake ID? Risky. Expensive. But maybe doable. Underground work? No paperwork. But usually dirty and dangerous.Use his powers discreetly? Could make money fast—but only if he stayed under the radar.
Then his eyes landed on a contact saved in the burner phone's directory. "Kenji – Odd Jobs." Cheap work. Courier runs. Dishwashing. Janitorial gigs. Nothing that required paperwork or background checks. No real questions asked. He stood. "Guess I'm starting at the bottom." Before crossing the street, he ducked into a narrow side path behind the library. It was shielded from cameras, and more importantly, from people. The air smelled faintly of mold and stale smoke, but it was quiet. Isolated. Just what he needed.
Accelerator pulled out the cheap burner phone he'd lifted off some low-level thug the night before. The screen had a hairline crack across the corner, but it worked. He tapped the contact and brought the phone to his ear. It rang twice before someone picked up. "…Yeah?" came a low, cautious voice. "I'm calling about the jobs," Accelerator said flatly. "I need work. No questions." A pause. "Who gave you this number?" "No one you know. Doesn't matter." His tone stayed cold, unreadable. "You hiring or not?" Another pause. Then the voice gave a short, gravelly chuckle. "Heh. Cocky. Alright. You want a shot? Meet me in person. XXX district. East train station. Platform 3. Far end, near the vending machines. Twenty minutes." "Done."
Click. The line went dead. Accelerator lowered the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He didn't know who this Kenji was, but the tone said enough. This was underground stuff—cash-only, off-the-record. Probably mob-adjacent. Maybe worse. But he didn't care. He wasn't looking for safety. He was looking for survival.