"Hey there, ya shrimp dick idiot!"
Now, you might be wondering who I am talking to. Maybe you are looking around, maybe you feel oddly targeted. Relax. I am talking to you. Yes, YOU. The one behind the screen. The one with the small penis.
Don't get offended that I revealed the truth. It's very much true that your dick is small. Statistically speaking, someone had to be below average. Congratulations, because it sure as hell ain't me who is below average!
Anyway, that's beside the point.
BANG!
I raise my handgun and fire into the distance.
"Head-shot!"
The bullet travels clean and true, straight from my handgun into the skull of an assailant roughly 200 to 300 meters away. Wind accounted for. Angle perfect. No witnesses. No cameras. No way to clock it back to me.
I'm currently on the run from the police. I mean, yeah, I did kill a few people, so erm… I guess it's well deserved. But it's not like the people I killed were innocent. Matter of fact, I was helping their shitty justice system clean up what it refuses to touch.
Now, shrimp-dick, you might also be wondering what compelled me to do this. What kind of broken childhood leads someone here?
Well, I honestly don't really know.
It all started when I was a little kid. Scratch that. It started when I wasn't even in this universe.
*MONTAGE VOICE OVER*
Hey there. This is a little segment in this chapter so you can understand what's fully going on, shrimp-dick. You see that guy over there? Yeah, that's me. Yep, largely different from this muscular, lean, six-foot, handsome teenager you're currently stuck listening to.
I'm honestly not too proud of it.
I used to be a shrimp-dick loser like you.
A boy, roughly nineteen years old. Average at best. Brown hair. Brown eyes. No muscle definition. No sharp jawline, someone who would need to mew or looksmaxx. The kind of guy you would forget existed five seconds after passing him on the street. Someone without purpose, ambition, or a decent sleep schedule.
Now look at what's in my hand. Yep, that manga. My Hero Academia. It had finished a year or two ago, but I was only just getting the physical volumes. Collector mindset, you know?
You might be wondering why that matters. Or maybe you already read the title and connected the dots.
Well, I'm inside that world.
I won't bore you with pointless details, but basically, I died one day while reading that piece of gold and BAM. Truck-kun sends his regards, and suddenly I'm reincarnated as a tiny, disgusting baby in a world full of quirks.
A slide-show plays of me getting obliterated by a truck, then cutting to a smiling baby version of me
"Oof. Huge budget cut."
Now here comes the good part, shrimp-dick. Maybe I should stop calling you shrimp-dick. No need to insult you guys any longer. I think it's perfectly fine to have a shrimp dick. But anyway, limp-dick, if you've read that masterpiece of a manga, you'll know that 80 percent of the population has a quirk.
Now, the authenticity of that statistic is a massive "trust me, bro" moment. I mean, look at real-world population counting. India alone has hundreds of millions unaccounted for. Are babies included? Are quirks present at birth? Or do they only count after age four? And if quirks manifest later, does that mean the data is constantly outdated? There are loads of plot-holes here.
Yeah. Sorry. Yap fest. This is supposed to be a montage.
Moving on.
Long story short, I gained a quirk. But it was… weird.
Both my parents had intellectual-based quirks. In normal human terms, they were nerds. Genius-level processing, enhanced cognition, that kind of thing. You would expect their kid to inherit something similar.
I didn't.
You could call me an exception. An anomaly. But honestly, I was never really their son in the first place; I was a man trapped inside the body of a kid.
Slide-show of stick figures with massive brains, followed by a baby stickman with absurd muscles
I got their looks, but not their quirk. What I got instead was raw physical power. Super-strength would be low-balling it. It's closer to something unnatural. Something wrong.
I'd compare it to Toji Zenin. Yes, Zenin. Not that bum fake last name Fushiguro. Even if it does sound better, he can't hide who he really is. I mean, what kind of cuck takes the name of his wife after marrying her?
I may look like him, have the power like him but I assure you, we have our vast differences!
Then childhood happened. School. Friends. Training. Growth. Nothing tragic. No abuse. No trauma. My parents were loving, supportive, and just all-in-all normal.
Now I'm sixteen.
And I go around killing people. Not because I enjoy it. Not because I'm broken. Probably because it's exactly what Toji wouldn't want me to do.
I call myself a vigilante. I like to think that word still fits. It's better than calling myself what I actually am.
*MONTAGE END*
I try continuing my montage, but for some reason, I cannot seem to get the click.
"Don't tell me.."
"Motherfucker!"
"HOW FUCKING DARE YOU CUT OFF MY MONTAGE!!!" I yelled.
Not the smartest decision. Sounds can reveal my location. Especially when there are several idiots nearby that I'm actively trying to kill.
Recently, I've been researching the child sex trafficking business.
"…Okay, that sounded wrong."
What I mean is that I've been tracking the major contributors. The organizers. The suppliers. The people who never get their hands dirty but profit the most. Jokes aside, these people are the worst of the worst. No excuses. No redemption arcs.
I've gotten a few leads. Names whispered in back alleys. Accounts that don't quite add up. Patterns that point somewhere ugly.
But ultimately, I'm not a cop.
My information network is full of bums and idiots. People who want money more than justice. People who disappear the moment things get dangerous.
I pull a few strings here and there.
Break a few bones when necessary.
Still, I have nearly no real leads.
And that's the problem.
"But I don't want peace… I want problems… Always!"