Fractured Wings

As jet engines hummed steadily beneath me, I flipped another page of the worn leather-bound diary I'd found tucked away in the library's forgotten corner. My seat vibrated faintly with the turbulence, but my focus was unshaken. The words scrawled in faded ink painted a grim picture of a history too easily dismissed. 

The quirk registration act. The diary's author, some nameless MLA sympathizer, had described it's inception with venomous disdain. Enacted under the guise of public safety, the QRA required users to register their abilities, cataloguing power, range and potential danger. 

The government claimed it was a measure to prevent quirk-based crimes, to ensure accountability. But the reality? It was just another tool for them to control. 

The diary detailed the early days after the act's passage. Families torn apart as registration unearthed secrets people kept hidden for good reason. People with dangerous abilities but wanted to live normal lives were marked for danger and potential threats. 

The government's rhetoric spoke of unity, of bridging gaps between quirk users and the quirkless, but their actions only fostered division. Quirkless neighbourhoods ostracized those that registered, employers only got scared and blacklisted those workers with "dangerous" abilities. 

And then came drones, meant for monitoring. They patrolled the skies, scanning for unregistered quirks. Random inspections in schools and workplaces. People dragged out of their homes in the dead of night for failing to comply. The act dehumanized us... it turned quirks into commodities, turned us into points in their system. 

The MLA finally seized the moment. Their rhetoric was more relentless and reckless, branding the QRA as nothing less than a betrayal of human rights. Posters plastered on the city walls depicted commanding figures shackling a brighter figure labelled, "The future." 

Speeches from MLA leaders, broadcasted illegally, compared the act to many more historical atrocities of the old world before quirks became what they were. 

I leaned back, staring out the small plane window as the land below blurred into abstract shapes. My stomach twisted. Even now, decades later, the echo. I wondered how much of my own life had been shaped by these shadows of the past. 

But it wasn't just the QRA. The diary took me to an even darker turn as it delved into The Purge of 2080.  

"A cleansing," they called it. What a joke. 

The government had been desperate to snuff out the MLA's growing influence. Membership was rising, fueled by anger over the QRA. The MLA wasn't just a movement, it was a fire, spreading through the youth, oppressed workers, and anyone who felt the weight of society's fear. So, the government struck first. Hard. 

They called the operation, "Higan no Ketsuzoku". Officially, it was a series of targeted operations against suspected MLA stronghold. In reality? It was a slaughter...

The diary's author didn't hold back on descriptions: homes raided without warning, children taken as collateral, private executions in front of crowds of affluent higher up individuals. Entire neighbourhoods burned under the pretense of "cleansing dissent." 

The brutality was meant to crush the MLA. instead, it did the opposite. The Purge became a rallying cry. Survivors were scarred, orphaned, displaced, they flocked to the MLA's cause. The public, horrified by the government's overreach, began to see the MLA as a necessary resistance instead of a threat. 

I ran my fingers over the cracked leather of the diary cover, lost in though. These weren't just stories. This was the foundation of everything we're fighting today, I guess. The MLA only forged in the flames of the government's fear and hubris. And the echoes of that creation resonated with an entire city's worth of people ready to pounce at any moment. 

"What are you reading?" a voice broke my thoughts. 

I glanced up. Nagant sat across from me, her legs crossed, a faint smirk on her face. She wasn't wearing her usual aloofness, instead, her eyes held genuine curiosity. 

"History," I said, my voice dry. "Stuff about the creation of this organization and stuff. It's probably a little... or a lot biased thought." 

She raised an eyebrow but didn't press any further. 

I turned my attention back to the diary. the plane dipped slightly, signalling our descent into Yokohama. My grip on the book tightened. 

A lot of these books could just be seen as relics of the past. Or they could be seen as information on what may come in the future. 

I felt something trying to slip out of my right pocket, it was the USB, I tucked it back in before zipping up my pocket. 

I had brought that out with us because there was a lot less surveillance outside. So I can find a computer, probably some public one or something and then figure out what is on it. 

The feeling I keep getting from it is telling me that it is something important. 

____

Arata lead the group with his quiet air of authority, his voice calm but decisive. "We'll need rest before anything else. Pushing through now won't help us." 

Nagant nodded, her sharp gaze sweeping the streets like she was expecting a threat to materialize at any moment. "It's already late." 

Ren, broke into a wide grin. "This place is amazing. I've never been to Yokohama before—it feels like the start of one of those big movies where the main character starts off in a small town and sails out into the wider regions." 

Nagant smirked faintly, her tone dry as she shot a sidelong glance at the excitable Ren. "A movie? Back when I was working with the commission, it was more like a crime documentary. There were many yakuza groups at war trying to take over the bay. A lot of smuggling, racketeering, you name it." 

Ren's eyes widened, her steps quickening to match Nagant's stride. "Seriously? Did you ever, like, fight them? Take down a whole gang?" 

"A few run-ins." Nagant started. "I worked with a team. And a lot were arrested. That was years ago now. Most of the big families either went underground or got swallowed up by something bigger." 

"Cool, cool, cool." Ren said, nodding enthusiastically. "So, if we do run into some old-school yakuza, what's the protocol? Bow respectfully or start fighting?" 

Nagant raised a brow, "If we run into one and they want to fight, then we fight—" 

"But we should keep our heads down and not try to run into them unless they have information on our mission." Miku, who was silent while walking behind us, cut in. 

Avoiding unnecessary trouble would be the best course of action. Best we keep quiet and do our job as quickly as possible. But I still had my other plans, now that I am out of Deika city, I had a chance to move on my own. 

"First let's find a hotel. Then we talk about plans the next morning." Arata said. 

The city's rhythm shifted as we moved deeper into it's maze of narrow alleys and bustling thoroughfares. Eventually, we arrived at a small, nondescript hotel tucked between a convenience store and a ramen shop. The sign above the entrance flickered faintly. 

The lobby was simple but clean, the faint scent of lavender air freshener blending with the polish of worn wood floors. The clerk handed us keys with a smile that seemed more rehearsed than genuine. 

Ren bounced on her heels as we rode the elevator to our rooms, her energy as irreplaceable as ever. "I call the window bed!" 

Nagant raised a brow, Arata had already told her that she would be sharing a room with Ren, her tone was laced with a mocking expression. "No one's calling anything punk." 

"Yeah they are. I called it!" Ren stuck her tongue out, Nagant seemed a lot more comfortable with these people after our last mission. 

She muttered something about patience, though I did see a small smirk on her face. 

Miku, holding her single keycard like it was a ticket to freedom, slipped out of the elevator the moment we reached her floor. She didn't say a word, but there was relief on her face. 

By the time we reached our room, Arata's steady presence had almost become a comfort, not something I wanted. He opened the door, stepping aside to let me in first. 

"Get some rest," he said, setting his bag down with the kind of deliberate care that spoke of routine. "We're going to be real busy tomorrow." 

I flopped onto the nearest bed, kicking my shoes off with a carelessness I didn't entirely feel. "Rest. Got it boss." 

Arata glanced at me, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a faint smile. He didn't press, and for that, I was grateful. He had a way of knowing when to push a topic and when to let things slide. 

The room was unremarkable, two small beds, a window overlooking a small section of the city, and a desk cluttered with a few complimentary bottles of water. Outside, Yokohama hummed with life, it's energy seeping through the walls. 

Arata stretched, his movements unhurried. "you've been quiet tonight," he remarked, his tone casual. 

"Must be jet lag," I said, keeping my voice light. 

He hummed in acknowledgement, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he turned away. 

As he settled into his bed, his breathing evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep, my own thoughts refused to keep quiet. The USB was still in my pocket, it felt heavier, like a light weight strapped to my leg. I couldn't shake that whatever was on it was extremely important to me. 

Time dragged on in the stillness of the room, the clock's faint tick-tick marking every agonizing second. I lay motionless, my body tense as I listened to Arata's breathing deepen. 

Two hours. Then another half an hour. 

When I was sure he was asleep, I shifted carefully, my movements as quiet as the shadows. My quirk, thrummed beneath my skin as it activated. The sensation was always strange when I planned on using it in this manner—my body flattened into something thin and weightless, like paper caught in between pages of a book. 

Sliding through the narrow gap in the window was effortless. The city opened up beneath me, it's lights as scattered and mosaic of colour and movement. The air was cool against my paper-thin form, carrying me gently downward as I drifted away from the hotel. 

Below, Yokohama's streets seemed quiet. I only recognized the minute movement from cars in motion or people coming home from late shifts of their jobs. 

I landed on the ground and followed the tugging sensation within my gut, guiding me to a location that I needed to be in. 

A library. 

The biggest one in the city. Closed but I didn't have to be told what to do next. 

***

After sneaking into the wide space filled with rows and rows of books, I kept my head and face covered. The air was silent, broken only by the faint, rhythmic squeak of the janitor's mop on the floor below. He whistled to himself, a cheerful tune that felt alien in the dense quietness of the building. 

The computer station loomed above, an island of cold glass and steel overlooking the labyrinth of shelves. I ascended the stairs swiftly but silently, each step feeling like a countdown to something monumental. Once at the top, I slid into a chair at the terminal facing the entrance, my back pressed against the wall. Habit—always keep an eye on the exits. 

"Alright, let's get this done." I muttered under my breath, though my voice barely stirred the air around me. 

I pulled the USB from my pocket, it's edges digging into my palm, and slotted it into the port. The screen flared to life, and the interface blinked, waiting. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and then they moved. Not with conscious thought, not with deliberation, but a certainty that felt otherworldly. 

Patterns, keystrokes, commands flowed through me like a current, as though some invisible force guided my hands. Characters filled the screen—a long, impossible string of letters, numbers and symbols. The lock gave a soft chime, and the files unraveled before me. 

The screen lit up with folder after folder, each one labeled with terse, cryptic names. I clicked on the first and I almost gasped at the name of it. Eden Project Overview. The document opened, and my breath hitched as the words unfurled before me. 

'This is about the Eden Project.' I wanted to be happy. I finally had the proof I needed, it was right in my pocket from a stupid game that I was forced in. I should feel happy but I didn't really feel it. 

Proxy had this information. For a while I was wondering if Daigo Kiyoshi could have been a part of the project, victim or otherwise. And now I feel he is connected even more so. 

A list of names appeared, among the names listed as architects of this nightmare project was Hideaki Mitsuhara, a high-ranking official within the Hero Public Safety Commission. His old ideology practically appeared in my mind from an old clip I had seen on the internet. 

Hero society must evolve, or it will crumble under its own stagnation. 

It was his manifesto. And he had appeared in many online talks in the past as well as appearing alongside news anchors and such to speak on what he believed were issues in the hero society. 

If one tried to look for those same interviews it was incredibly hard. It was like they were all being blocked out. 

Although there were rumours of him recanting many of his previous statements. 

Other names listed were: Ichiro Kawabata, Mariko Hisakawa, Daisuke Ishimura. Faceless men and woman who wielded influence like weapons. And then the financiers, sprawling lists of wealthy elite within the nation. 

Among them was a name that many people knew, Haruto Fujimoto, the founder of countless orphanages and relief programs. The realization struck me like a blow, many of the children in those orphanages seem to have been part of the project. Sacrificed with no one knowing, no one asking after the parentless children. 

My hands clenched into fists. Haruto Fujimoto. I stared at his name, and an unfamiliar heat rose in my chest—a mix of anger and helplessness. 

I forced myself to move quicker through the information. One caught my attention. Participant Rankings. I clicked it. It was as the title labelled itself, a ranking system. It ranked potential, like it was a commodity, like the hero rankings. 

My name was ranked in third. Third. Above me in second was the name, Saya Kurotsuki, the name didn't bring memories but the face did. Hair the colour of crimson blood jewels, the hair framed her angular face. Her eyes are empty, a cold amber colour. Her skin was pale and smooth with streaks of dried tears in the picture. 

I remember her quirk was strong, she controlled her blood. Within the Eden Project we had fought a lot, it was part of the program, I had beat her some times, yes, but she had beaten me too many times for me to count. 

And then there was first place, Daiki Tenma. Seeing his face almost made my heart jump. I never beat him. I had only come close once. 

Daiki wasn't just strong, he was like a force of nature, one of the only people that even though hated the project, thrived in it and seemed completely content within it's barriers. 

He was a ball of raw power, remembering his brute force approach to things reminded me so much of the All Might replica I had fought in the game world. Daiki was incredibly strong and through the whispered conversations people had within those walls, they believed him to be the only one there that would end up comparable to All Might. 

I wonder what he could be doing now? He would be in his latter years of teenagerhood. I doubted he was dead, but he was someone who thrived in the violence, I don't believe that he would sit idle and play it at a normal life. 

Him potentially being a villain would be terrible. He would be doing the opposite of the teachings we were all put through... but hey, look at me. 

I put my head back down and scrolled past that and moved on to another file that shown the title: Methodologies. They were ideas to make us stronger, or really, more subservient. 

They did this through what was supposedly the easiest way, trauma. We were beaten, isolated and starved. Trauma was used as a tool to break us and reshape us into weapons. 

And then I found my entry. 

The memory came unbidden. 'Had I forgotten?' 

It was strange, it was like a picture in my mind was being blacked out with ash, and something was wiping it away revealing the long lost memory back to me. It swallowed me whole. 

I was nine. They had beaten me for hours, their fists and boots reducing me to a trembling heap on the floor. But I hadn't given them what they wanted. I'd spat the blood onto the concrete and glared up at the face's covered by pure white cloth. 

So they'd tried something else. 

They put me in a room, stark and sterile, with a dozen men. Random people who had also volunteered for money I was told. A whisper dropped down into my ear that told me they were hopeless and lazy bums of society. 

Their mouths were gagged, their hands bound by mechanical cuffs that hissed and clicked with every movement. I didn't understand at first. I thought it was another test of endurance, a game of waiting. 

A day passed. The cuffs were removed. 

Only the cuffs and blindfolds. The men stared wide and hollow, they stared at me with hungry eyes. Fear gnawed at the edges of my resolve, but I stayed still. And then the door opened, and someone walked in...

Their face was obscured, shrouded in shadow, but their arms were... wrong. Chainsaws replaced their limbs, revving to life with a mechanical snarl that echoed in the room. 

The men tried to run, but they couldn't, not a single one. The slaughter was swift and brutal. Blood sprayed the walls, the floor, my skin. Limbs were severed, bodies torn apart. I couldn't move, couldn't scream. All I could do was watch as the chainsaw figure dismantled the room, leaving nothing but red ruin in it's wake. When it was over, they turned and left without saying a word, slamming the door shut behind them. 

I was left alone again. Alone with corpses, the stench of... death, the sticky warmth of blood pooling around me. Three days. Three days I was left in that room afterward, the silence broken only by the drip of blood. I remember curling up in the corner, my knees drawn to my chest, trying to keep the darkness from swallowing me up. 

The memory faded. My hands trembled. 

I clenched and unclenched them, trying to regain control, go back to normal. 

'So much death.' 

And I couldn't do anything. Why wasn't I next? 

All those bodies, hollow and torn apart with no mercy. Rotting and decomposed. 

The memory brought the sight of Yui, dying in the games to Abyss. 

It brought memories of all the people I had seen die from the beginning, from the Eden Project and from the games and even underground fights I had been to. 

A sick feeling was worming it's way through my core as I failed to stop the shaking. My mask was falling off and I could feel tears stinging my eyes. 

All those faces of the dead instantly morphed into my face. 

I think.... I'm... I think... 

'I'm scared to die.' 

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