I always tried to prove to myself that I am better now than that small Quirkless boy. That I am stronger, smarter, more purposeful, and talented. And I proved it through actions and their results. I trained and killed, feeling the pleasant pain in my muscles afterward or the blood on the enemy's hands. I studied and invented, feeling a tingling in my eyes from reading yet more books on mechatronics or the pleasant cold of a device that might save my life. I set difficult goals for myself or followed a strict diet schedule when I had the chance, and I felt satisfaction from a completed goal or the realization that my actions were correct. I thought over or analyzed heroes and their actions, and the rustle of turning the filled pages of my notebook caused internal self-satisfaction.
But still, sometimes it seems to me that my life is absolutely useless and insignificant. That gaining strength and fighting are meaningless, revenge is fleeting and unnecessary, my knowledge and intellect are tiny compared to the whole world, and my will is as fragile and crumbly as a sandcastle before seawater or a child's discontent. And talent is like a tiny spark before the massive sun of talent—someone like All Might. In such moments, I am overcome by apathy and childhood fears. I become the person I hate and despise: a weakling and a whiner. As absurd as it is, I can find an excuse for the weakness or whining of other people, but not for myself. If I did, I wouldn't find the strength for further training, the further race for power. I would remain an ordinary petty thief who would be caught by heroes sooner or later. It was in such moments that music saved me.
The assertiveness of guitar chords, the refinement of piano keys, the monumentality of organ registers, the lightness of a flute melody. The melodies, songs, and rhythmic sounds created by various instruments and singers always caught me in some way. However, I didn't pay much attention to them either before the laboratory or after escaping from it. Until one time I hid on the roof of a house that stood near a small square where a stage had been set up and where quite a few people were starting to gather. Back then, I was hiding from the police, who had reacted quite quickly to the sound of an alarm from a store I wanted to rob. At that moment, I felt only fatigue and indifference. Perhaps if those policemen had appeared before me then, I would have just given up. Моё тело сидело, облокотившись о парапет крыши, а глаза бездумно смотрели на начавшее покрываться звездами небо. My body sat leaning against the roof parapet, and my eyes stared blankly at the sky that was beginning to be covered with stars. Suddenly, the clamor of people began to subside until silence fell. The strumming of strings sounded. The beat of drums and the playing of some keyboard instrument slowly joined in. A male voice began to sing. I don't remember the lyrics of the song, and it sounded in English then, which I didn't know well. I even missed its title. But without noticing it, I had already turned toward the stage and was listening to the music with my eyes closed. The energetic melody and catchy rhythm filled me with energy; I wanted to move, to scream like those people below, to shake my head pointlessly. And I did it. I didn't care how stupid I probably looked at that moment. A new world opened up before me then—the world of music. When the concert ended, I just stared with burning eyes at the band's lead singer: a middle-aged man with blonde hair. As I found out much later, his name was Kyotoku Jiro. At that moment, he was a hero to me, having saved me and opened a new facet of this life.
Like one possessed, I searched the internet for compositions he had written. And I listened. Later, I paid attention to other songs and music. Songs of various genres and languages were heard by me. But most of all, I liked rock. Perhaps because that first music was of that genre. Music added new, brighter colors to my gray life consisting of theft, murder, training, and playing tag with the keepers of law and order. Now I never left the house without the headphones I had bought. After meeting Giran, I became more discerning in my targets for theft. It would be quite embarrassing to get caught stealing food because you were too stingy to pay for it. I approached the choice of headphones with the same responsibility and diligence as I did the planning of a serious robbery. First, I read every site that had information about them and the characteristics of various headphones. Later, I went to stores selling gadgets for smartphones. I listened to the sound of the speakers. And only after careful selection did I choose and buy my precious. At that time, I was in such a state that I was literally ready to kill if anyone laid a hand on them. Only after a year of using them did this mania of mine subside slightly. Though taking over-ear headphones on crimes would be stupid, so I took in-ear ones. But I didn't use them either unless I was completely confident in the safety of doing so. After all, hearing is an important part of the human sensory system. And giving it up like that is deadly stupid.
And so, listening to music, I am walking home from another training session, which this time was with Midoriya. Half a year has passed since I returned from the USA. Giran (that damn exploiter of underage labor) demanded that I work for him as a courier for drug dealers for a month in exchange for information about the organization. The previous one was caught by the police.
"...and a suitable person hasn't been found yet, and besides, a reliable and fast person is needed here. Just like you, Iori."
The broker spoke with his eternal grin. At first, I refused. The drugs themselves and the drug dealers caused me nothing but disgust. He named his price in money. My gree... ahem, thriftiness, developed over years of criminal life, decided to try to gain consciousness. I decided not to allow this phenomenon and graciously accepted the broker's offer (may he get the hiccups). Everything was going fine; I carried drugs to the designated places for the right people, trying to mess with them along the way. Well, I approached one person unnoticed from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. He was far too nervous. His scream amused me greatly. This was also appreciated by the police who burst into the warehouse along with a hero. The hero was a man of absurdly rounded proportions in a yellow hoodie and black pants. Well, Fat Gum lives up to his hero name. And here's the situation: the drug dealer and I are looking at them, and the police with the fatty are staring in shock at my mask. Apparently, I am still remembered. An A-Rank Villain after all. I turn to the loser and say:
"Well, anyway, you're on your own from here. It was a pleasure meeting you. But I really must go; time is money, you understand."
I say this to the police, while dodging a blow from the rather fast fatty. But he couldn't continue, because he hadn't learned to walk through walls. In short, I did my job and demanded the information. Haijima—the name of the organization that was behind that research complex. An extremely secretive organization, it was engaged in researching the possibility of enhancing or changing people's Quirks. For this purpose, they obtained children for research by one means or another. However, three to four years ago, they vanished completely. I even found that building, and there were only empty rooms there. I tried to find a lead to Haijima through the official past and current landowners. Nothing.
***
And so I walk and think about what to do. Several months have passed and no results. The only thing that comes to mind is the recently appeared Quirk-enhancing drugs. Could Haijima be connected to their production? Eh. Too little data. I hear a strange noise. Some clatter of metal on metal and the whistle of the wind. I look up and see a strange semblance of a quadcopter flying in my direction. Flying at high speed. I quickly jump to the side. This thing landed with a loud sound on the spot where I had been standing. I am already about to exhale in relief when it explodes. For a moment I freeze because of doubts about whether I should use Choice, but I decide to dodge the fragments. Not a single one hit me. I look around. I see a girl with pink hair running here, who is already muttering apologies along with comments on possible problems with the device, apparently to herself. I head toward the fallen headphones. During the jump, I had taken them off and tossed them aside so they wouldn't interfere in case this was some kind of strange attack on me. I approach and pick them up. I already want to put them on my neck and give a scolding to that sorry-excuse-for-an-engineer with pink hair when I see several fragments sticking out of them.
The whole world turns gray. My headphooonessss...