Episode 6. "No chains on me". Part I.

It seems that the bench's kung fu is stronger than mine.

***

"In the end, it's all for the best," I tried to convince myself, staring gloomily at the cast. It was a frustrating situation—I had finally figured out what I was missing, understood exactly what needed to be done to achieve the desired result, but now I couldn't train, and it would be a while before I could.

Still, I had a pretty good idea of what I had been doing wrong.

Before, I tried to fixate on my entire arm as the 'impact point' of my Quirk, treating it as a part of myself. Even if I focused on a specific section, or a particular spot—I'm not an idiot—I think anyone looking at their own limb would perceive it primarily as part of themselves.

As a result, the impact point was blurred onto the abstract... or perhaps the very concrete me, and nothing worked.

The right approach turned out to be different: I needed to detach from perceiving my hands or feet (or maybe even other body parts, like my back... although I'll think about that later) as part of the whole 'me', to stop seeing my hand as a complex object with all its skin, muscles, and bones (and really, when I create an impact on a concrete wall, I don't even think about what it's made of, whether there's rebar inside, or if it's part of a building, and so on), and instead see only a specific point on the skin. As if I were wearing thin leather gloves and wanted to impact not the hand itself but the surface... of the skin. A bit of a paradox, but there you go.

In other words, I taught myself to perceive the same hand not as part of my body and therefore part of the source of the Quirk, but as a discrete, separate object. I just bypassed some psychological block in my head—and it worked... well, if I'm right.

Being the stubborn aspiring pro hero that I am, obsessed with years of training, I tested this hypothesis right in the hospital as soon as they put the cast on.

Why not? I had another hand, time while they were filling out paperwork, and if anything happened again, I wouldn't need to go anywhere.

But this time, I was almost certain it would work. Plus, I used the bare minimum of force—the first time, my radius broke mainly because of the surprise. And bad luck, of course.

I looked at my left palm... turned it forward...

After a light clap, my intact hand was gently pushed back into the air, as if someone had walked by and given me a casual high-five.

I exhaled and smiled wearily. Then winced in pain as I tried to lean back on the couch, forgetting that I was sitting on a hospital bench, not a sofa.

The day was just beginning...

***

Then everything started spinning... again.

I was back on track, moving forward towards my goal—and I wasn't going to let minor inconveniences like a broken bone slow me down.

When I finally made it to school the next day with my broken arm, I made quite an impression: many of my classmates who had been considering a career as a superhero got really serious when they learned the reason for the fracture (I wasn't keeping it a secret). Now they had a closer look at what I meant by 'serious training.'

That guy with the claws (when will I remember his name? Hayato, maybe?) and the water runner Mikumo lingered around the edges in the hallways and cafeteria, clearly wanting to ask something, but my grumpy face and Yui's stern caretaking (seriously, she had taken to looking after me, which was both annoying and touching) were enough to keep them at bay.

No 'Wolverine' regeneration was granted to me by either my Quirk or the fact of my reincarnation, so I could only remove the cast after a month. And I was lucky at that, as the fracture was uncomplicated.

It's becoming more and more apparent to me that the so-called 'Quirk Factor' (a term coined by various scientists and other experts to describe the combination of immunity, endurance, muscle density, and ligament elasticity that people of the new generation possess to a much higher degree than ordinary humans without Quirks) doesn't really apply to me. I have no body protection, no enhanced reflexes, no Olympic-level strength or speed...

All I have is a long-distance support-type Quirk, damn it.

I refused to accept that.

Which, however, doesn't change the fact that if I get into a clinch with some Nomu or even Shigaraki, I'm a dead man in seconds.

That means I need to be VERY fast. And skilled. That whole 'float like a butterfly, sting like a bee' thing—I need to jump in quickly and deliver an enhanced blow, then promptly break away, focusing entirely on attack, dodges, and speed. Hard blocks, as well as glancing ones, and even my favorite counterattacks, are out—if I take even one hit in return, the story's over.

Sigh... where can I get teleportation... or Iron Man's armor?

Anyway, while lugging around the cast, I didn't waste time: over the month, I managed to decently learn how to release... a wave? An impulse? Seriously, I need to come up with a name for my Quirk and its action because my vocabulary is running out. On one hand, the name should be flashy—just like my entire superhero persona, from costume to name. After all, if I survive my training at U.A., I'll need to make a living somehow.

But on the other hand, I don't plan on making typical idiot mistakes.

All available information about powerful heroes (and I didn't plan on becoming anything less) is accumulated online by their fans on thematic 'wikis.' Where any villain with a brain big enough to read can easily find it. And as if that weren't enough, many heroic individuals choose such superhero nicknames and Quirk names that any imbecile, hearing it once, can immediately understand what it's all about.

Yes, you won't derive all the details of the power's usage, Quirk limitations, duration, and so on from just the name. That's what fan sites are for, haha. But why do these wonderful, noble, heroic fellows so rarely think that any information about you as a hero is an advantage? Professional deformation from constant public exposure, I guess.

An advantage, by the way, that the League of Villains in the original timeline used quite effectively. Even more so because in the anime, among the good guys, there was supposedly some traitor who was never revealed, and the heroes knew squat about the villains, while the villains knew almost everything about the heroes and students.

And just out of curiosity, has no one ever considered that many heroes with brains use such pseudonyms, and names for their Quirks too, that it's hard to draw any concrete conclusions from them? All Might, Endeavor, and Deku come to mind, along with Crimson Riot, Thirteen, the ninja Edgeshot with his 'paper limbs,' Ingenium... take the latter, for example—no one knows for sure how exactly his speed works, whether his knightly armor is connected to his Quirk, if it's real armor, or just for show, and so on.

Well, nothing to worry about, brother, your dear brother will mess everything up...

Anyway, I digress.

At first, I was creating something like an air shove with my whole hand, starting with a light clap like in the hospital and ending with a full-blown 'push' that created a gust of wind and threw me backward (fortunately, the tailed dojo master, though he frowned, let me back in, so I fell onto a pile of mats).

Progress was evident, though in the early days, I beat my left palm black and blue despite the bandages—it was incredible, but these 'reverse boosts,' returning some of the impulse to me, also delivered a powerful kickback. It was as if I were firing a large-caliber gun. Obvious, but I was too caught up in the possibilities. Plus, when creating a powerful directed 'strike,' I risked dislocating my shoulder or wrist. For my purposes, it turned out to be more effective to make this 'Quirk impulse' (ugh) defocused and spread it evenly in all directions, which reduced the kinetic energy transferred to my body somewhat, but it also made the direction of movement more controllable and predictable, meaning I didn't just fly off anywhere.

However, it was much easier and safer with the bandages, that's a fact. So, within a week, I got the hang of directing the impulse where I needed and not losing control of my only intact... well, not so intact anymore... upper limb.

But it wasn't enough for me.

The first time I tried it with my leg, I almost got into another embarrassing situation—I didn't expect to seriously launch myself into the air on the first try (I wasn't even expecting to move from my spot), so I didn't calculate my heroic strength and ended up doing a crooked backflip, landing on the same mats.

Speaking of Stark's armor—the scene of my flight was exactly like in the first Iron Man movie, where the crazed billionaire tested the repulsors on his hands and feet, only to slam into the ceiling, then into his car, and finally get sprayed by a fire extinguisher from his robotic assistant.

Yeah, that's what happened to me too. Except there wasn't a race car in the dojo, but I tried my best. First, I thought of 'ten percent power' for my impulse, then it was like a grenade exploded under my right foot, I bounced off the dojo ceiling, and then I made a deliberate (outright lie, but I wasn't going to admit it to anyone!) dive onto the pile of long-suffering mats, and finally, instead of a robot, Mashirao came running with his tail in the air. I was scared to imagine what exactly he intended to pour on me, so I quickly got up and hobbled away. Only got away with a minor sprain, didn't even bother my casted arm.

Yeah, definitely a future hero, damn him, he'd even get me up on broken legs...

Alright, that was almost as dumb and irresponsible as that genius-playboy in his film. I admit, childhood got the better of me.

The next time I came to train my 'counter-jumping,' I showed up in a motorcycle helmet I ordered online (Future Japan! Half-day delivery!), and a set of protective gloves, boots, knee pads, and elbow pads for extreme motorcyclists (luckily, I was strong and tall for my age, plus I was smart and bought the smallest women's size... though the gear was still a bit too big, so I had to tighten it all the way). I started jumping... well, more like flying off in random directions, falling, somersaulting, and all that.

A couple of the junior Ojiro kids even tried to laugh at me—until I got the hang of it and decided to try a series of jumps... which I ended in style, crashing into a pile of long-suffering mats and kicking it in flight to at least slow myself down.

But when I kicked the heavy mat under enhancement (really just forgot to cancel the last step of the 'jump sequence'), the poor rectangle flew south, scattering the rest of the mat pile and almost burying the would-be jokers under it.

There were no more jokes.

I was lucky I didn't kick the dojo wall in the same way. Let me remind you, those walls only look like the delicate wooden latticework typical of Japanese culture—beneath the facade, it's solid steel. After all, this is where they forge real professional heroes, ones who tread the path of martial arts!

Although, at the moment, I more resembled an out-of-control villain who injures himself.

The kickback from the Quirk isn't huge, but the regular strike occurs just before the enhanced one, even if the difference is measured in milliseconds. With that kind of acceleration, my weight, and the force of the blow, I would have pulverized the bones of my striking leg.

I recall the anime's protagonist had protective armored boots that allowed him to kick concrete walls without fear. I'll take two! Or better yet, four, so I can double up just to be sure...

A week later, I finally got the cast off and tried combining impulses from all four limbs at once. At first, I thought four was too ambitious—I should start with two—but then I remembered the movie saga about Tony Stark and realized that for maneuvering and changing trajectory, I actually needed impulses from my hands. Otherwise, I'd be like a car without a steering wheel. Which, as I recently demonstrated by crashing into a wall, doesn't end well.

Creating an impulse with my hands was simple: I'd clap my palms together. The effect of the Quirk wasn't very powerful, but I couldn't think of a better method.

As for my "hopping around," it was like playing Flappy Bird, but from a first-person perspective—you create an impulse under one foot, causing a jump forward and upward, then try to land on the other foot without breaking it. At the moment of ground contact, you create a new impulse, jump again, Mashirao quickly gets out of your way, and oh look, hello wall, be gentle with me... my back, my back!…

All in all, I was as happy as a kid who just got a new LEGO set.

Hmm. Except this LEGO set came with firecrackers and lighters.

It's funny—if any really powerful Quirk user catches me standing still for even a second, they'll squash me like a bug. And now, if I make even the slightest mistake while moving, I'll smear myself against the nearest wall, like a bug on a windshield.

Well, in the worst-case scenario, I'll "play the hero" and selflessly splatter myself all over a villain, blinding them and giving Midoriya a chance to finish them off... oh, wait, the main bad guy is already blind. Damn, what a shame...

Alright, enough with the defeatist attitude.

The biggest problem with this method of movement was that I needed to perfectly synchronize my legs, arms, and Quirk activation. Initially, I tried hopping on one foot or both simultaneously, the "Hulk style," but it turned out to be utterly ineffective.

Each "step" I took, jumping from one foot to the other, launched me at least half a meter into the air and three meters forward, making it look nothing like regular running. Success depended on developing a reflex to swing the alternate leg while airborne, being ready for a hard landing, and placing that leg correctly so it wouldn't twist in a way physiology didn't intend.

Moreover, unless I made a sharp change in direction (let's not even talk about braking yet—I have no idea how to do it without smashing into a villain), I kept gaining speed with each jump, as the impact of the Quirk-enhanced strike with the ground was already amplified by the previous impulse. It would literally take me years of training to master this damn "superhero stride."

And that's not even mentioning that without using my hands, I had very little control over direction, but I needed my hands for attacking the enemy, and not every opponent would have super strength, so I couldn't forget about blocks and grabs either.

Though few would survive an attack in the style of an "uncontrollable kinetic projectile, subtype Niren, modification wildly flailing arms trying to stop."

And when I say "few," I mean it—see the section on "bug on a windshield."

I don't know what kind of amazing movements the explosive blond Bakugo, likely one of my future classmates, has, but if he mastered a similar "flight"—that is, in the anime, he literally flies using explosions from his hands—he has my respect. He must've been training since childhood too.

Though, in that case, I don't understand why he doesn't use his legs to generate explosions. Quirk limitation? Or the user's limitation?

After three weeks, I managed to brake for the first time without smashing into a wall or my face—when dangerously close to the climbing wall, which this time the merciless Japanese randomness had flung me toward, I managed to extend both hands in front of me, clap, and send both impulses forward, shedding most of my speed and rolling to the bars along the floor.

My body hurt terribly. The "impulses" with almost opposing vectors nearly tore me in half, and then I got dragged across the floor for good measure. I need to brake more gently, more smoothly...

The next day, my protective gear was joined by a thick motorcycle jacket, though this time a men's one—I'm frugal, but not that frugal. Despite my height, I looked menacing.

It was almost a shame that no one in my dojo would get the joke about the party that stinks and me f***** hating these people.

Then again, what's there to be surprised about? In this reality, most of the games and movies from my first world that I still remember are either long forgotten or never existed at all.

After a month, I had gained enough confidence to more or less smoothly move from wall to wall, turn, and even brake. Akira-sensei—may I be forever grateful and indebted to this man—had long since set aside about a third of the hall for my training so that I wouldn't risk, quote, "splattering myself all over his beloved nieces. You should splatter yourself FOR my nieces, Niren, not ON them!"

The trick to smooth and somewhat safe braking turned out to be, first, braking with both feet—I kind of managed to dig my heels into the ground—if I was close enough to the ground when approaching some lovely solid surface—and second, releasing "braking" impulses from each hand separately—first one, then the other. And if possible, instead of extending my arm, I should lock my shoulder girdle and bend my elbow, tensing my muscles as much as possible. And, if possible, tuck in.

As a result, I turned into a solid, tense ball of Niren, through which the impulse was more or less evenly distributed, and I avoided injury.

Later...

My parents, intrigued by my strange but well-argued purchases, visited the dojo over the weekend, catching me in the middle of training. Oh...

There were serious talks, with Ojiro-sensei, with me, and even with Mashirao, who played the role of a fluffy moral support. Mom gasped and fanned herself, even though she didn't actually have a fan, nor any fun; Dad frowned and was simultaneously enviously proud; and Akira rolled his eyes and waved off my stubbornness. Because he knew perfectly well that if I didn't train in a fully padded room with a prepared person who could provide first aid, I would train without those things, which would negatively affect the survival rate of Niren as a species in a given prefecture.

At least they came at the end of my "flight" training, not at the beginning, when I was crashing into something every day. They were used to the bruises on my body, after all—I've been practicing martial arts since childhood.

And yes, "at the end"—I had gained enough control that both I and Akira-sensei considered it safe to resume sparring. Like, enough control over my strength to avoid accidentally injuring an opponent with an unintended burst of power during a jump or strike, and if I hurt myself—well, Ojiro-senior never really worried about my safety; after all, he had his own pack of blockheads to look after.

As I stepped into the "ring" with Mashi-kun the next day, I grinned with joyful anticipation, while the tailed one seemed a bit nervous.