Chapter One

Growing up sucks.

Doing it a second time sucks even more because this time you know what to expect.

But now, now it was even worse because when you wake up as a baby in the future, with the world filled with superpowers, heroes, and villains running around like it's nobody's business.

"Did you study today, dear?"

I stopped and looked at my mother as she leaned out of the kitchen, her black hair falling from her shoulder.

"Yes."

I responded simply, not wanting to make this conversation longer than necssocary.

She smiled and gave me a proud nod before going back inside to continue making food.

Yes, making a child learn how weapons are constructed is very productive. Since this child, aka me, could make guns from seemingly nothing.

I went upstairs to my room and dragged the footstool to the door, opening it. Walking inside, I dragged the helpful device inside with me and closed the door.

Climbing on my bed, with another use of the handy footstool, I laid down and looked at the ceiling.

Heroes. Villains. Laughable. With these roles, the military stagnated, technology stayed where it was right before the superpowers known as Quirks appeared.

It was sad, honestly.

A single change and the whole Human race became like a snail, because "Heroes" needed support items, because of that, all the research and resources went into making the Quirks of said individuals stronger using technology that was suited to them.

And the ideology everyone held was like they were five years old. "Villanous quirk" my left butcheek.

So what if I can make guns? It doesn't mean I'm going to shoot anyone, even if I really want to.

I raised my arm, watching as a black matter materialized on my hand, forming a ninety-degree angle and finally, shrunk in on itself, forming a perfect replica of 1911, only fully black in color.

It had no magazine, no bullets, but it could shoot. Being able to regulate the stopping power, penetration, and speed.

The best part? it made no sound unless the bullets penetrated the sound barrier.

It was so annoying it was almost sad.

I was four, why should I be a hero?

I grabbed the top of the gun, cocking it back, and looked inside. There was no bullet in there, just the same material as the pistol itself.

Hey, at least I was in America. No one is going to bat an eye at a four-year-old with a pistol in hand.

Letting go of the thing, it snapped in place, and I created an identical copy in my other hand.

I watched them for a moment, willing them to shift, but nothing happened and I sighed in annoyance.

Three months and I couldn't progress further than making pistols.

It was like learning to walk again. Stupid quirks. Learn the components of the weapons, make the weapons, and make sure that the weapon is actually functional.

In their eyes, I was fucking four, and these assholes that gave birth to me only provided me with food, notes on guns, and All Might videos.

And let's not forget about that dumb blonde.

The number one hero, saving everyone in the blink of an eye, fast, strong, durable, some would say he was too strong.

I say Plot.

In all seriousness, All Might was bullshit personified.

I didn't want to be a hero, but I couldn't do anything until I was legally of age. The restrictions about age got only harsher after the appearance of Quirks.

There came another thing that only made the world more disgusting.

Quirk Marriages.

Two people come together to create a child that has the potential to have better power than the last generation.

I was a product of a Quirk marriage.

My mother had a quirk that let her control the same matter that I make the guns with, though she didn't have good control over it and my father had a quirk that let him control what the mind perceived as a weapon.

So, technically, if he saw a whole building as a weapon, he can control it as long as it's not connected to the ground because his telekinesis sure as hell isn't that strong.

I would technically be the best military personnel if I joined the army.

Which I would not do.

"Adam! Come on down! I have a surprise for you!"

The deep voice of my father came from downstairs, and I could only sigh and made the two pistols disappear from my hands.

I bet it was another hero poser.

... It was.