MHA: Absolute Telekinesis

(Kata POV – Age 4)

A few months after the visions began, something strange happened.

I was walking outside with my mom on our way to a mandatory checkup—something she clearly resented. But I didn't mind. I was just happy to be outside again.

That's when I saw it.

A row of TVs in a store window was broadcasting footage of All Might's latest rescue. The tall, muscular man with bright yellow hair and an impossibly wide smile was carrying multiple people from a collapsing building, laughing as he reassured them.

"It's fine now. Why?" All Might's voice boomed through the speakers.

""Because I am here!""

The words left my mouth before I even realized. I repeated them perfectly, every inflection identical. But I had never heard them before.

A shiver ran down my spine. My vision blurred as images flashed across my mind—a young boy, sitting cross-legged on the floor, eagerly reading a comic book. The same scene. The same words.

The same visions that had been haunting me for months.

Beside me, my mom stiffened. She tugged me forward, her lips curled into a strained smile, though her fingers gripped my wrist too tightly. As soon as she saw I was following, she released me—quickly wiping her hand on her skirt.

But I barely noticed. I was still trapped in my own head, replaying the moment over and over.

How did I know those words?

(Kata POV – Age 6)

The house was silent.

I pushed open my bedroom door, wincing as the hinges creaked. Holding my breath, I tiptoed across the hallway to my father's study and turned on his computer.

I wasn't supposed to touch it. But I needed answers.

The hallucinations were getting worse.

The screen flickered to life. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating—then moving instinctively. I had only discovered my father's password two days ago, yet somehow, typing it felt familiar.

I started searching.

The first name I typed in: All Might.

A hero ranking list appeared.

"All Might… Endeavor… Gang Orca…"

With each name, new visions crashed into me. Images of people I had never seen. Powers I should never know.

And yet—I did.

A sharp pain lanced through my skull. I slumped forward, gripping my head as my breathing turned ragged.

"Who… am I?"

Am I even real? Is any of this real?

And then—Liam. That name. That boy. Why does he feel more real than I do?

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the panic down. I couldn't afford to break down now. My father would punish me if I got caught. With shaky hands, I navigated to the browser history and erased everything with surprising familiarity.

Then, just as quietly as I had come, I slipped back to my room.

I barely made it to the floor before my legs gave out.

The truth clawed at my chest, making it hard to breathe.

The visions are real.

Which means… I'm not.

A shudder ran through me. My stomach twisted violently, and I curled in on myself as the tears came, silent but endless.

(Kata POV – Age 9)

I started elementary school two years ago. At first, everything seemed fine. But that changed once they found out I was quirkless.

It started small. The few friends I had made began avoiding me, making excuses not to play together. Then the rumors spread. Soon, the entire class—no, the whole school—treated me like I was invisible.

At first, it stung. But I was used to being ignored. At home, my parents barely acknowledged my existence. I wasn't allowed outside much anyway. So, I told myself it didn't matter. Being alone was better than being noticed.

But then, it got worse.

I was smart—really smart. Lessons felt effortless, numbers and words stuck in my head like they belonged there. I always scored first, aced every test. For the first time, I felt proud of something.

But there's a saying: Jealousy is the tribute mediocrity pays to genius.

The other kids didn't like it. They couldn't stand a quirkless kid being better than them at anything. Their jealousy turned to resentment, and soon, to something worse.

It started with petty pranks. Stolen books. Scribbled insults on my desk. Spitballs when the teacher wasn't looking. When I told them to stop, they pushed me. I fell easily—my body had always been weak since I was four. No one stepped in.

And once they realized they could get away with it, the 'pranks' escalated. Shoves in the hallway. Tripping me mid-step. Then, fists. Kicks. If my parents cared enough to pack me a lunch or give me money, they probably would've stolen that too.

I told the teachers. They brushed it off. "Boys will be boys." "It's just roughhousing."

I told my parents, hoping—praying—they'd care, if only to protect their own reputation.

It backfired.

"You… you useless pest! How dare you embarrass my family name like this!"

The slap cracked across my face before I could react. The taste of blood flooded my mouth as my baby teeth hit the floor, and that only made it worse. My father saw the mess and beat me harder for daring to dirty his floor.

He stopped before he could kill me. Barely.

The next morning, I woke up in a hospital bed, something I would soon become familiar with. They said I had fallen down the stairs, and the doctor either didn't care enough to question, or was too scared to question a famous pro hero for the sake of a quirkless child.

And that was how six years of elementary school life went.

(Kata POV – Age 12)

I stepped out of the hospital as the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the pavement. The familiar sight should have brought comfort, but it didn't. This place was a second home at this point.

For the past three years, my parents had used me as their personal stress relief, beating me until my frail body could barely move. The hospital was the only place where I got regular meals. The only reason I could keep up with school, along with my high intellect. The only place where, even if just for a moment, I wasn't suffering.

I sighed, dreading the walk back 'home'—if I could even call it that.

Catching my reflection in a store window, I barely recognized myself. Snow-white hair, messy but curling slightly where it fell over my forehead. Two crimson eyes, dull and lifeless, half-hidden under tired lids. My body was still weak, but I had grown taller than most kids my age—4'11" at twelve. My face was quite handsome, a 9/10 if I was being harsh. Another thing I got bullied for. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. It didn't matter. No amount of height nor looks would make me strong.

I turned into an alleyway, a shortcut leading home, and stopped dead in my tracks. A crime in progress. A woman lay crumpled on the ground, blood pooling around her. A man—no, a hero—stood over her, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

For a second, I considered running. But then the visions started again. A scene from the manga flashed through my mind. A pro-hero—this exact hero—tried to rape a woman, accidentally killing her in the process, only to be killed by Lady Nagant afterwards.

And now I was here. Living this moment. The hero turned, his gaze locking onto me. He was surprised—he must have checked to make sure no one was watching. My heart pounded in my chest as cold sweat formed on my forehead.

I put on a fake look of shock and dejection, "Oh no! You must've failed to save her in time, I'll go look for help!"

I took a cautious step back. Another. Just a little further and I could run—

He moved. Faster than I could react, he was in front of me. His hand wrapped around my throat and slammed me against the wall. My vision blurred from the impact as his grip tightened.

"Sorry, kid. Nothing personal. Wrong place, wrong time."

I struggled, gasping as black spots danced in my vision. Life was flashing before my eyes. But something was wrong. It wasn't my life—it was Liam's. His entire life. His death. Even after death.

And then, it all made sense. The hallucinations weren't hallucinations that predicted the future. They were memories. That thing—the bastard who sent me here—had planned this. He wanted me to suffer. Wanted to delay my quirk awakening, make it nearly impossible to manifest. No loving family. No support. Just isolation, trauma, and despair.

A smile crept onto my lips. The hero hesitated, confused—maybe even disturbed—by my reaction.

Then, I felt it. Something ancient. Something primal... Anger. Not just mine. The anger of generations. A bottomless, seething rage against everything that had brought me to this moment. My parents. My classmates. The teachers who ignored me. The bystanders who turned away. The society that let it happen and perpetuated discrimination against the quirkless.

I welcomed it. The ground trembled. The walls shuddered. The hero's grip loosened in shock—just enough. My vision cleared for an instant, and I focused everything—all of my hatred—on him and he flew.

One moment, he was holding me. The next, he was a blur, slamming into the opposite wall with bone-crushing force. I dropped to the ground, coughing, my throat burning as air flooded my lungs again. A sharp pain pulsed through my head, but I ignored it. I staggered to my feet, barely glancing at the hero—or his victim.

I needed to get out of here. So I turned and used this shortcut as it was originally intended and ran. Ten minutes later, I was home, shutting my bedroom door behind me. I sank onto my bed, heart still hammering.

Then reality hit. I wasn't just some quirkless punching bag anymore. I had my power. A power with the potential to make me a god... maybe more. A grin formed on my face and disappeared just as quickly as a comfy bed and clearer mind began to think.

I had either just nearly or succefully killed a hero. A hero on the Hero Public Safety Commission's hitlist.

I am so fucked.

(3rd person POV)

A few minutes after Kota disappeared into the night, a woman stepped into the alley.

She moved with a quiet, deliberate grace, her tired yet sharp eyes scanning the scene. Tall and imposing, she had long indigo and pink hair tied into a high ponytail, strands swaying slightly as she walked. The faintest scent of blood lingered in the air, but she paid it no mind.

Her gaze fell on the lifeless woman sprawled across the pavement, her body soaked in blood. No reaction. No pity. Just a moment of detached observation before her attention shifted to the gaping hole in the alley wall.

Without hesitation, she stepped through the wreckage, her arm bending at the elbow with an eerie fluidity. A long-barreled gun extended from within, the smooth metal gleaming faintly under the dim light.

Reaching up, she plucked a strand of her hair and watched as it hardened, reshaping itself into a sleek bullet. She loaded it effortlessly before continuing deeper into the rubble.

Then, she saw him.

The hero lay crumpled beneath layers of broken bricks and debris, his form mangled, his breath ragged. Blood pooled around him. His body was a mess of shattered bones and torn flesh—whoever did this had already done most of the work for her.

Without hesitation, she raised her gun.

A single, precise shot.

The hero's body jerked once before falling still. The alley was silent again.

She exhaled slowly and pressed a finger to her earpiece. Her voice remained calm, neutral—devoid of any emotion.

"Mission complete. However, the target was already close to death when I found him."

A brief pause. She listened as her superior relayed new orders.

"Find whoever dealt with him. Eliminate them—and anyone else who asks questions."

"Yes, sir."

For a moment, the faintest hint of a frown touched her lips. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished.

Stepping out of the rubble, she surveyed the scene with a practiced eye, scanning for anything out of place. That's when she spotted them—several strands of fine, white hair caught on the jagged remains of the wall.

Not the hero's. Not the victim's.

Someone else had been here. Someone strong.

Plucking the strands from the debris, she studied them for a moment before tucking them away.

Then, without another word, she turned and disappeared into the quiet night.