A million things can go wrong in the span of twenty seconds.
I find myself on the wrong end of a sword. A sword. In the 21st century. In an empty parking lot behind an abandoned strip mall. The crackhead wielding it is probably hopped up on a cocktail of earth's strongest hallucinogenics because he's not making any sense. My fault for getting involved with him, I guess. When I heard some asshole muttering to himself and wielding a massive sword, I really couldn't help it. In my defense, I'm drunk.
Well, I was, but having a sword pointed at me sobered me up right quick.
The man slurs his words. "It demands blood," he says. I have half a head to believe him. The sword he's pointing at me isn't normal, but a bulky hunk of metal that gleams a soft, breathing red. Like it has a heartbeat of its own under the surface.
If any weapon were to demand blood, it would be this one.
"Does it have to be my blood?" I ask, putting my hands up in a gesture of surrender. I'm still not quite sure if my life is really at risk. I don't know much about weapons, so I can't tell if the sword is made of some fancy styrofoam fitted with LEDs or if it can actually kill.
"Yes," the man says quietly. "It has to be you. It demands you."
"Are you hitting on me?" I say with a smirk.
The man doesn't respond and I notice that his eyes are vacant, his pupils shot. His sclera is red, too red. The fingers he holds the blade with are a gradient of crimson, his nails long and sharp.
My head spins as my stomach sinks. It doesn't look like cosplay. It looks real. The blade hums with a malice that makes me shudder.
I tilt my head. "You're not high, are you?" I say.
He mutters something I can't hear. He looks scared. "I will!" he whispers. It's not directed at me. To the sword. He's talking to the sword. "Just.."
My voice comes out uneven, strained. "Just what, buddy?"
His eyes lock onto mine and I can tell this isn't some prank. He looks at me with anger. Hatred. He hates me. Why? His fingers tremble on the hilt of his sword.
Tears fall from his eyes.
I feel nothing as he drives the bulky blade into my chest. It carves through my ribs, my lungs, my heart with ease. I feel hollow. Empty.
My blood stills. My heart was pounding in my ears a few moments ago. Now it's still. My blood is still.
The man lets go of the sword still impaling me and collapses to the ground, lifeless.
I realize now that I am going to die. Like this. All because I couldn't keep my curiosity in check.
"Yeeeessss," a voice rattles through my skull, low and rumbling, dripping with malice. "A worthy vessel! Finally! Don't die yet, minion!"
The edges of my vision grow fuzzy as I collapse. Everything is muted and distant, even when my head hits the concrete. There is nothing but the feeling of blood turning cold in my veins.
"No!" the voice protests. "You will not die!"
I barely register it. It's so far, everything is so far and cold.
I hope I left enough food for my cat. I hope my asshole boss dies in a car crash. I hope my landlord is hung from his ankles. I'm only disappointed I can't kill them myself.
If I ever do get another chance, I'm killing everyone I don't like.
Yea. Sounds nice.
*
My second chance comes in the form of a fall from five stories up. I only regain consciousness on the way down, about five thoughts away from being an inconvenient splatter in a back alley.
There's no time to think. No time to react. I barely manage to twist in the air before my shoulder crashes against the pavement.
The pain is blinding. No amount of adrenaline can mask the way my body breaks down, the feeling of my bones snapping and sliding out of place. My screams are soundless, my voice missing as the air is stolen from my lungs.
I clench my jaw hard, feeling my molars crack against each other as I try to hang on to the last threads of consciousness left. I need to remember.
My mind is frayed at the edges from the pain, mind swirling with memories that aren't mine. Dots connect, my memories merge together as my vision slowly darkens around the edges.
This body I'm in doesn't belong to me. At the same time, it feels natural, his memories now my memories, our beings intertwined. He is everything I am not. Meek, quiet, shy, non-confrontational. That's how he ended up like this. His bullies pushed him so far they ended up pushing him off a building.
He's quirkless, a new term to me. This world belongs to those with supernatural abilities. Wings, super strength, power to create ice, whatever. Yuri doesn't have any of that. To be more specific, he does, but he can't use it.
I use his quirk now, one that allows me to slow down my perception of time by a great deal. The only problem is that the more I use it, the greater I make its effect, I become functionally blind. The more Yuri used his quirk, the less he could see. Not only that, but the damage was permanent, leaving Yuri with exceptionally poor eyesight and absurdly bulky correction lenses.
I can barely see. Even as I activate the quirk to give myself more time to think, I can see less and less, and my heart sinks at the thought of this change being permanent. But I need time to think. I'll die anyway.
What can I do?
Footsteps. The sound of footsteps draws closer.
"Help…" I say, barely finding my voice. If this person calls an ambulance, I could live. I'll have time to figure out how I got here, in this new body. I can't die like this. "...please."
"What have we here," a man says, crouching next to me. I can't move my head to look at him. I think my neck is broken. No, it's just in shock. It would hurt too much to move. "A free organ bag? Just for me? Don't mind if I do."
The fleeting moment of hope vanishes as the sobering realization that this man will not be of help washes over me.
"Looks like you're still alive," he says, noticing my breathing. He laughs as his eyes lock onto mine. "Oh don't look at me like that. You're the one who jumped from the rooftop. You knew what kind of place this was. Don't worry, I'm sure your kidneys will save lives, kid."
My breathing is shallow, forced. I probably have a perforated lung, my ribs surely broken.
"Pathetic."
My eyes snap open. There's no one but me and the man in the alley. If so, who said that? It's loud, rumbling through my skull. I know that voice. But how?
Memories flood back in. How I'd died before. Ah. The sword. The sentient sword.
My right hand burns as if on fire, but it's barely anything compared to how the rest of my body cries out in torment.
"Ooh," the man says, sounding almost delighted. "A quirk! How interesting. I should probably kill you before you get the chance to use it, huh?"
I can hear a switchblade click into place.
The voice in my head rumbles. "If you do not wish to die again, I suggest you move. I will keep you alive."
I try to roll away but the man's hand shoots out too quickly. He grabs my other shoulder, the one that isn't broken, and holds me still. "Now now. Relax."
His knife presses against my throat.
"We're moving to plan B. Bleed," The voice says.
I can do nothing else and I just slam my eyes shut as the man's blade slices across my throat. Blood gushes out from my artery. I feel cold again.
My vision fades. But I know what to do. It's instinctive, like I perfectly understand the weapon's plan. I know what it wants me to do, and I want to live so I obey.
My hand is nearly limp but I focus every last bit of whatever brain power I have left and press it against the puddle of blood where my throat spills onto the pavement. It's warm. I reach inside as if there is no pavement, as if the pool of blood is inches deep instead of millimeters.
The man notices my movements too late. By the time he moves his knife to fully finish me off, I'm already elbow deep into the pool of my own blood.
My quirk is still active, slowing down my perception of time and blurring my vision. But it doesn't matter. It's over.
"Yeeeessss!" the voice rumbles with glee as I pull a sword out of the pool of blood. It's light as a feather and I use my last breath to swing it up at the man's face.
He barely dodges, but the tip nicks his cheek. The sword tastes blood. I taste blood.
My vision clears first. Everything is back in focus, crisp and sharp as if Yuri had never used his quirk in his life. Then my broken ribs heal, then the open gash on my neck begins to seal itself.
It stops short. I still can't breathe.
"What did you expect?" the voice ridicules me. "A single drop of blood to heal all that? You'd need a gallon."
I can barely stand. I watch the man's expression as he takes a hesitant step back. His smile falters. I recognize the look of pure terror in his eyes. He should be scared. I should be dead thrice over, yet I stand in front of him, my throat half cut open, my left arm broken and bent, blood soaking my clothes.
"Wha-What the hell is that quirk?" He stammers, taking another step back. "M-monster!"
"Cut him down!" the voice yells in excitement. The man can't hear it. Only I can. "Taste his blood! Survive."
I stagger to the man, my right arm, still burning and dyed a sickening shade of scaly crimson, lifts the blade in the air. The man can't move.
I don't wait for him.
I feel nothing as I swing the blade and draw a large gash across his chest, staggering and missing the decapitation angle.
The sword is bathed in blood now, and it greedily absorbs it into itself. Into me.
The knife wound across my neck heals in the blink of an eye, my collapsed lung setting itself right. My arm, bent and broken, cracks into shape, the bones breaking and healing with a sickening crunch.
I am whole.
The man collapses against the narrow walls of the alley, panting. He isn't dead. Close but not quite.
"Show me your quirk," I say, voice cold and steady. "Come on. Don't be boring. Show me. Fight me."
The overwhelming urge to keep fighting takes a hold of my mind and doesn't let go. I consciously understand that this is the weapon's doing, that its hard crimson scales are moving up my arm. I don't care.
My would-be killer flashes his fangs at me and stumbles away from the wall, righting himself. His nails sharpen and extend, turning to wolf-like claws.
"Is that it?" I say mockingly. "Fine. But don't die on me."
He swings forward with abandon, clearly having already forfeited his life. He doesn't fight because he believes he can survive me. I can tell that much from the look in his eye.
No. He fights because I told him to. He fights me because he's scared of what might happen if he disobeys.
I block the claws with my blade, pushing him back, drawing more blood from his fingers. The sword becomes lighter. No. I'm getting stronger.
The more he fights, the more he resists, his attacks growing desperate, the stronger I get. The more blood I spill, the stronger I become.
There is no technique when I swing my blade. No finesse. But there is power and a thirst for blood.
"Oh come on," I mock him. "Come on! Stand and fight!"
But he's dead. He slumps back against the wall, lifeless.
My grip on the blade loosens as I feel the power that's been building inside me flowing back out. The sword grows dimmer. I sink to my knees and discover that my right arm is red up to my shoulder, hard scales forming small red pauldrons of bone.
I look down at the sword before me. "What are you?"
It can't be a quirk, it's been with me since my previous life, before I took this body over in his world of quirks. It's something else. And it isn't my friend.
"I am your new master," it says in its low, rumbling voice. "You will be my vessel."
Something nudges at the edges of my consciousness, something doused in blood. It tries to fray my mind. I will not let it.
The scales spread up my shoulder to my neck as the crimson fog draws over my mind. I can fight it. I don't know why, but I can resist.
I activate my quirk, slowing my perception of time drastically. This single activation robs me of a great deal of my vision, but it gives me more time to think, to fight back. The crimson fog demands blood and carnage and destruction. I fight it with hatred. I meet it with its own tactics.
Blood trickles down my nose and my head lurches violently, my brain trying to flee from its bony compound through sheer force.
This mental battle will kill me.
"Fine," the weapon says. The fog lifts and the scales retract back to my forearm. "You'd be willing to kill yourself to stop me? Good. Good. You will become a great vessel."
"I am not a vessel," I say, clutching the sword's hilt. "You are my weapon."
It scoffs. "And I am not a sword. We both can lie."
I stand, stabbing the dead man's corpse with the tip of the blade, letting it taste blood.
"Barely warm," it says. "It will do."
My vision heals, back sharper than before.
I stare down at the blood soaked weapon.
"You will do."