I always tried to prove to myself that I was better now than that little Quirkless boy from back then. That I was stronger, smarter, more determined, and more talented. And I proved it through my actions and their results. I trained and I killed, feeling afterward the pleasant ache in my muscles or the blood of my enemies on my hands. I studied and I invented, feeling the strain in my eyes from reading yet another book on mechatronics or the satisfying coolness of a device that might one day save my life. I set difficult goals for myself or followed a strict diet when I could, and I felt satisfaction from achieving those goals or knowing I was on the right track. I thought about and analyzed heroes and their actions, and the rustle of turning pages in my notebook filled me with a quiet sense of pride.
But still, sometimes I felt like my life was completely useless and meaningless. That gaining strength and fighting were pointless, that revenge was fleeting and unnecessary, that my knowledge and intellect were tiny compared to the whole world, that my will was fragile and crumbly like a sandcastle before seawater or a child's tantrum. And my talent seemed like a tiny spark next to the enormity of someone else's genius, like All Might's.
In moments like these, apathy and childish fears overcame me. I became the very thing I hated and despised: a weakling and a whiner. As absurd as it sounded, I could find excuses for other people's weakness or complaining, but not for my own. If I did that, I would never find the strength to keep training, to keep chasing after power. I would have remained an ordinary thief, eventually caught by heroes. It was in moments like these that music saved me.
The driving force of guitar chords, the elegance of piano keys, the monumental sound of organ registers, the lightness of a flute's melody. The melodies, songs, and rhythmic sounds created by various instruments and singers had always hooked me somehow. But I hadn't paid them much attention, neither before the laboratory nor after I escaped from it.
That changed one time when I was hiding on the roof of a building that stood on a small square with a stage set up, where a large crowd was beginning to gather. I was hiding from the police, who had reacted quickly to the sound of an alarm from a store I had tried to rob. Back then, I only felt tired and indifferent. Maybe if those police officers had appeared in front of me at that moment, I would have simply given up.
My body sat leaning against the roof's parapet, my eyes staring blankly at the sky, which was just beginning to show stars. Suddenly, the noise of the crowd began to die down until silence fell.
The strumming of strings began. Slowly, the beat of drums and the sound of some keyboard instrument joined in. A male voice started to sing. I don't remember the words of the song, and it was in English, which I barely knew back then. I didn't even catch the title.
But without realizing it, I had already turned toward the stage and was listening to the music with my eyes closed. The energetic melody and driving rhythm filled me with energy. I wanted to move, to shout like the people below, to mindlessly wave my head. And I did.
I didn't care how foolish I must have looked in that moment. A new world had opened up to me in that moment: the world of music. When the concert ended, I just stared with burning eyes at the lead singer, a middle aged man with blond hair. Much later, I found out his name was Kyotoku Jiro. In that moment, he was my hero, the one who saved me and opened up a new side of life.
Like someone possessed, I searched the internet for the music he had composed. And I listened. Later, I started paying attention to other songs and other music. I listened to songs of various genres and languages. But rock was my favorite. Maybe because that music was rock music.
Music added new, brighter colors to my gray life, which consisted of thievery, murder, training, and playing cat and mouse with law enforcement. Now I never left the house without my headphones, which I had bought. After meeting Giran, I became more selective about my targets for theft. It would be a shame to get caught stealing food just because I didn't want to pay for it.
I approached the choice of headphones with the same care and diligence as planning a major heist. First, I read every website that had information about them, along with the specifications of different models. Later, I went to stores that sold gadgets for smartphones. I listened to how the speakers sounded. And only after careful selection did I choose and buy my prized possession.
I was in such a state back then that I was ready to literally kill anyone who dared to lay a hand on them. It took about a year of using them for this mania to subside a little. Still, it would be stupid to take expensive headphones on a job, so I used in ear ones for that. But even then, I wouldn't wear them unless I was completely sure it was safe. After all, hearing is an important part of the human sensory system. To give it up like that would be deadly stupid.
And so, listening to music, I was walking back from another training session. This time, it had been with Midoriya. It had been six months since I returned from the United States. Giran, that exploiter of child labor, had demanded that I work for him for a month as a courier for drug dealers in exchange for information about the organization. The previous courier had been caught by the police.
"…and we haven't found a suitable replacement yet. We need someone reliable and fast. Just like you, Ken."
The broker had said with his perpetual smirk. At first, I refused. Drugs and drug dealers made me feel nothing but disgust. He named his price in cash. My greed… ahem, my thriftiness, honed over years of a criminal life, tried to make itself known. I decided not to let that happen and graciously agreed to the broker's proposal (damn his eyes).
Everything went smoothly. I delivered drugs to the designated people, occasionally trying to mess with them. For one guy, I snuck up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He was really on edge. His shriek really made me laugh.
The police and a hero who burst into the warehouse right then did not share my amusement. The hero was a man with a comically round build, wearing a yellow hoodie and black pants. Fat Gum lived up to his hero name.
And there we were: the drug dealer and me staring at them, while the police and the fat guy stared back at my mask in shock. It seemed they still remembered me. An A class villain, after all.
I turned to the unlucky drug dealer and said:
"Well, you're on your own from here. It was nice knowing you. But I have to go. Time is money, you know."
I said this to the police as well, while dodging a surprisingly fast punch from the fat guy. He couldn't continue his attack, though. He hadn't learned how to walk through walls.
Anyway, I completed my task and demanded the information.
Haijima. That was the name of the organization behind the research complex. An extremely secretive organization. They were researching the possibility of enhancing or altering people's Quirks. To do this, they obtained children for research in one way or another. However, three or four years ago, they had completely disappeared. I even found that building, but it was empty. I tried to find a lead on Haijima through the official past and present owners of the land. Nothing.
So I walked along and thought about what to do. Several months had passed, and I had no results. The only thing that came to mind was the recently emerged Quirk enhancing drugs. Maybe Haijima was involved in their production? I sighed. There was too little data.
I heard a strange noise. Some kind of clanging of metal against metal and the whistling of wind. I looked up and saw a strange quadcopter like object flying straight toward me. It was moving very fast.
I quickly jumped out of the way. That thing landed on the spot where I had been standing with a loud crash. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when it exploded.
For a moment, I hesitated about whether I should use "Choice," but I decided to dodge the shrapnel instead. None of it hit me. I looked around.
I saw a girl with pink hair running toward me, already apologizing while muttering about possible problems with the device, which, judging by her words, she had made for herself. I walked over to my fallen headphones. I had taken them off during the jump and thrown them aside so they wouldn't get in the way in case this was some kind of bizarre attack on me.
I walked over and picked them up. I was about to put them around my neck and give that pink haired disaster of an engineer a piece of my mind when I noticed several pieces of shrapnel sticking out of them.
The world turned gray.
My headphones.