Marvel: I am the bastard son of stark

Tomura Shigaraki lay against the rough bark of the tree, his small body curled beneath the makeshift cape. The night was quiet, the distant sounds of the city fading into the hum of the forest. His mind swirled with fragmented thoughts—memories of his mother, the chaos he had caused, and the haunting images of his past life. He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all, when a voice broke through the silence.

"Hello, Tomura Shigaraki."

Tomura's eyes shot open, his heart pounding. The voice came from within his sleeve, dark and smooth like velvet. A mist seeped from the fabric, coiling around him. "I am Kurogiri," it said, "your servant. I can teleport you to safety, assist you in your journey."

Tomura stared at the swirling mist, his young face a mixture of fear and curiosity. "Why should I trust you?" he whispered.

"Because I am the only one who understands what you are," Kurogiri replied. "You have been chosen for a purpose greater than you can imagine. I am here to ensure you fulfill it."

Tomura's small fingers clenched the cape tightly. His voice wavered as he said, "Fine. But you have to promise—you can't leave me. Everyone else is gone."

"I will never leave you, Tomura Shigaraki," Kurogiri assured him. "You have my word."

As the first light of dawn began to pierce the forest canopy, Tomura's quiet moment was interrupted by the sound of light footsteps. He turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a man in a sleek black suit, his movements calculated and precise. Before Tomura could react, the man raised a small device. A sharp hiss filled the air as sleeping gas engulfed him.

"Kurogiri!" Tomura cried, reaching out for the mist, but his vision blurred, and darkness swallowed him.

When Tomura awoke, he was strapped to a cold metal table. Harsh lights flickered above him, casting eerie shadows on the walls of the sterile room. His small body ached, his wrists and ankles bound by heavy restraints. He struggled, panic setting in, but the bindings wouldn't budge.

"Ah, you're awake," a voice said. A man stepped into view, his face cold and clinical. "Welcome to my lab, little one. My name is William Stryker."

Tomura glared at him, his small chest heaving. "Let me go!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the room.

Stryker ignored him, turning to a tray of instruments. "You are a fascinating subject, Tomura. Such raw power at such a young age. We're going to make you stronger—perfect."

The experiments began immediately. Tomura screamed as needles pierced his skin, as machines hummed and buzzed around him. They injected him with a strange liquid, his small frame writhing in agony as the adamantium bonded to his skeleton. Every day was a nightmare—endless pain, brutal training, and beatings that left him battered and broken.

Through it all, Kurogiri remained. The mist would seep into his cell at night, whispering words of comfort and encouragement. "Endure, Tomura," Kurogiri would say. "This is only the beginning. You will rise from this stronger than they could ever imagine."

The lab's training regimen was as relentless as its experiments. Each morning, Tomura was dragged to a stark, windowless room where a squad of mercenaries awaited. They were his instructors, and their methods were merciless. He was forced to fight, to dodge, to adapt to pain. His small hands, still those of a child, wielded weapons he barely understood. When he faltered, they struck him down without hesitation.

"Faster, boy!" one of them barked as Tomura struggled to lift a weighted staff. "If you can't even hold this, you're worthless!"

Tomura's muscles burned, but his mind burned brighter. With every strike, every insult, he learned. The movements of his attackers became patterns, their weaknesses small openings he could exploit. By the end of his first month, he was no longer the weak, crying child they had captured.

Stryker observed from behind a glass panel, his face betraying neither approval nor disdain. "The adamantium bonding has succeeded," he noted to an assistant. "But his true potential lies in his mind. Break it, and we lose him. Push it, and he'll be unstoppable."

Tomura's nights were no reprieve. The scientists would inject him with experimental serums designed to enhance his endurance and healing. The pain was unbearable, his body convulsing as the foreign substances coursed through him. Yet, in the silence of his cell, Kurogiri's voice was his anchor.

"You're more than this pain, Tomura," Kurogiri would say. "Each scar, each bruise, is a step toward becoming unbreakable."

In the darkest moments, when he felt the edges of his sanity fraying, Tomura would close his eyes and remember his mother's smile. He would hold onto the warmth of her voice, the fleeting touch of her hand before his powers had taken her away. That memory became his shield against despair.

By the third month, Tomura's training intensified. He was introduced to combat scenarios designed to test not just his strength but his cunning. One day, he was thrown into a simulation room filled with robotic adversaries. The walls shifted, the floor split open to reveal traps, and the air was thick with the hum of danger.

"Survive," the voice over the intercom commanded.

Tomura's instincts kicked in. He leapt over a spinning blade, his enhanced bones absorbing the impact as he landed. With a guttural cry, he used his quirk to disintegrate a robot lunging at him. The metallic dust settled around him, and for a moment, he allowed himself a grim smile.

"Is that all you've got?" he muttered.

His victories were hard-earned, his failures punished severely. When he hesitated or miscalculated, the mercenaries would drag him back to the cells, their fists and boots teaching lessons painlessly.

Through it all, Kurogiri's presence remained constant. The dark mist became his confidant, his silent witness to the horrors he endured. "You are becoming what the world fears most, Tomura Shigaraki," Kurogiri said one night. "A force of destruction they cannot control."

Tomura clenched his fists, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Good," he whispered. "Let them fear me."

By the sixth month, the transformation was undeniable. Tomura had become a weapon, his adamantium skeleton and quirk making him nearly unstoppable. Yet, beneath the hardened exterior, the boy remained. Late at night, when the lab was silent, he would sit in the corner of his cell and trace patterns in the dust, remembering a simpler time.

One evening, after a particularly brutal training session, Tomura collapsed in his cell. His body was bruised, his muscles screaming in protest. Kurogiri appeared, his mist coiling protectively around him.

"You've done well," Kurogiri said softly. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we begin again."

Tomura's voice was barely a whisper. "I'll make them pay. All of them. For her."

"And you will," Kurogiri promised. "But first, you must survive."

Through the torment and training, a singular truth burned in Tomura's heart. He was no longer just a boy running from his past. He was a force forged in pain and steel, and with Kurogiri by his side, the world would tremble at his name.