The Marked Trajectory

Consciousness returned in a jolt — like someone had flipped a switch in a dark room. No smooth transition, no gradual waking. One second there was blackness, the next I was staring at a white ceiling and hearing the steady beeping of some device on my right. Hospital room. It smells of sterility, bleach, and something medicinal. The curtains are drawn, but dim morning light seeps through the fabric. I blinked. Then again. And then it hit me. I feel my body. All of it. Arms, legs, fingers — everything in place, everything responding. I wiggled the toes of my right foot — they obediently scraped against the sheet. Left foot — same. I clenched my fists — muscles tensed, knuckles cracked. "Damn," I breathed aloud. The voice was alien — clear, boyish, with an unfamiliar accent I hadn't noticed while speaking. "So damn awesome…" I tried to sit up and almost managed — my body was still weak, but the sheer fact that the muscles obeyed triggered a wave of pure, undiluted euphoria. I jerked more sharply than I'd planned, and that movement must have finally pissed off the sensors. The beeping quickened, its pitch shifting to alarm. Almost immediately, the door slid aside with a soft hiss. A nurse rushed in — a woman about thirty-five, in a pale uniform, with a funny mole above her lip. She saw me struggling to sit and threw up her hands. "Kaburaya-kun! You're awake!" She darted to the monitors, quickly ran her fingers over a touch panel, checked something. "Lie down, lie down, don't move suddenly! The doctor will be here right away." "I'm fine," I said, still stunned that I could say it at all. "More than fine." The nurse — whose badge read "Ishihara" — smiled a professional smile, but you could see she was genuinely glad. While she measured my blood pressure with some fancy cordless gadget, I stared at my own hands. Alien hands. Thinner than my old ones, fingers longer, skin paler. But they moved. Clenched into fists, unclenched, wiggled each finger individually. "Your reflexes are normal," Ishihara said, noticing me flexing my wrists. "Remarkable for a patient who's been unconscious for four days." "Four days?" "Yes. The accident was serious. You're very lucky." I was about to toss in a comment about luck, but the doctor walked in — an elderly man with glasses, a tablet in hand, and the tired yet sharp gaze of someone who'd seen it all. "Kaburaya Seiha-kun," he checked his notes. "I'm Dr. Hayashi. How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Nausea?" "I feel alive," I said, and it was the honest truth. "Head's clear. No nausea." The doctor nodded and started a standard exam: penlight in the eyes, reflex hammer on the knees, coordination check. I did everything obediently, rejoicing in every movement. When he asked me to stand and walk, I nearly laughed with happiness. My legs held me. A little shaky, but they held. I took a step, a second, a third — walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and stared out at the city. Tall buildings, people on the streets. Some were walking to work, some were even flying… literally. I spotted a figure in a skintight suit leaping from rooftop to rooftop. In the distance, another flashed by, leaving a smoky trail behind. Heroes. Or villains. Or just folks with Quirks who were too lazy to use the stairs, even if they were breaking a law that was usually overlooked. "Good," Dr. Hayashi said behind me. "Physically, you're recovering excellently. But we'll need to run a few more tests — neurology, tomography. You lost a lot of blood, and the head injury was substantial." "Head injury?" "Concussion. Fortunately, without complications, but we need to make sure your cognitive functions weren't affected." I nodded and turned from the window. Cognitive functions… If he only knew what was going on inside my head right now. The examination lasted about half an hour. The doctor asked questions: what the date was, who I was, what I remembered. I couldn't answer the date, of course, but I gave my name — Kaburaya Seiha. Thanks, muscle memory. Then things got strange. Because when he asked "what do you want to be," I nearly blurted out "programmer," then caught myself and said "a hero." And both answers were true. One from my past life. The other from this one. It was as if two sets of memories coexisted in my head. One was my own: Russia, university, a wheelchair, a damn lightning bolt. The other was someone else's: a boy named Kaburaya Seiha, thirteen years old, Japan. Parents. School. The accident. A truck veering into oncoming traffic. His mother's scream. That was all. I shook my head and suppressed an involuntary tremor in my fingers. The body remembered, even if my mind perceived it like someone else's movie. When the doctor finished and nodded to the nurse, another person appeared in the room. A woman in a severe gray suit — hair pulled into a bun, expression calm, but eyes sharp and assessing. A social worker. "Kaburaya-kun," she said after the doctor left, leaving us alone. "My name is Tanaka-san. I'm from the Municipal Guardianship Service. I'm glad you've regained consciousness." "Likewise," I replied, settling onto the bed. "Serious talk, huh?" Tanaka-san raised an eyebrow slightly — apparently not expecting such a calm tone from a thirteen-year-old kid. "Yes, Kaburaya-kun. Do you remember what happened?" I closed my eyes. Fragments: the car interior, my father's voice — he was saying something about school, my mother turned from the front seat, smiled. The screech of brakes. Impact. Then — darkness. "An accident," I said, opening my eyes. "A truck." Tanaka-san nodded. "I'm sorry to tell you… your parents didn't survive. You're the only one who pulled through." I was silent. There was sadness, but distant — as if I were reading a book and had reached a tragic chapter. After all, those people were Seiha's parents, not mine. But the body remembered. My eyes stung, and I blinked rapidly. "I see," I said. "You have no other relatives who could take you in. After discharge, you'll be transferred to the Tsuin Sandzu-en children's home. It's a good facility on the outskirts of Mustafu. The paperwork is already being prepared." "When will I be discharged?" "Dr. Hayashi says a few more days. They need to be sure there are no hidden injuries." "Got it. Thank you." Tanaka-san gave me another odd look — maybe she'd expected hysterics or tears. But I was too busy processing the information. After she left, I lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. So. I'm a transmigrator. A genuine soul migration. My past life — Viktor, Russian, died from a lightning strike. Current one — Kaburaya Seiha, Japanese, orphan, thirteen years old. The world around me — My Hero Academia, an anime I once watched but dropped after the second season, finding it too childish and annoyed by the long breaks between seasons. I remember the general outline, a few names, a ton of fan rumors I naively believed, and some grim art that made you realize it wasn't exactly a children's fairy tale. That's it. No complete picture, and that's probably for the best — it'll be more interesting. But the main thing — the Quirk. I raised my right hand and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. Somewhere inside, beneath the skin, at the edge of sensation, something familiar smoldered. The body remembered. This kid had a Quirk that manifested, like most, in early childhood. He called it Mark. Considered it useless — no flashy effect, no brute force. Just a touch of the hand, and that was it. For a child who dreamed of eye lasers and flight, that had been a terrible disappointment. But I knew what it was like. "Mato Mato no Mi," I whispered, tasting the words. "Mark and projectile." One Piece. One of my favorite anime in my past life. There was this Devil Fruit — the Mato Mato no Mi. You touch a target with your hand, and then any object thrown by that same hand flies unerringly toward it, changing its own trajectory. The farther the target, the harder the impact. Two hands — two marks. The Fruit was considered weak; its canonical user only ever used it for stalking and nothing more. But I never believed in weak Fruits. I believed in weak users. And now, lying in a hospital bed, I stared at my palm and felt a cold, calculating excitement simmering inside. This isn't overpowered. Not yet, anyway. But the potential… "No debuff to water," I muttered, bending a finger. "Two marks at once. Unerring projectiles. The farther — the stronger. And you can use the projectile as transport." I sorted through possible applications in my mind, and with every second my confidence grew. An old phrase that often echoed in the One Piece community surfaced: "There are no weak Devil Fruits. Only weak users." I was going to become a strong user. And then there was — Awakening. In One Piece, Devil Fruits could awaken, granting their owners fundamentally new abilities. I had no idea if that rule applied in the world of Quirks. But I intended to believe in it fanatically. Because belief is fuel. If I train, search for unconventional uses, refine every detail… sooner or later Mark would outgrow itself. I would achieve Awakening. I didn't know when — maybe in a year, maybe in five. But I would. I clenched my fist. "There are no weak Quirks," I told the ceiling. "Only lazy users."

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Discharge was routine. Tests, a tomography, a nod from Dr. Hayashi, a couple of papers from Tanaka-san — and there I was, standing at the entrance of Tsuin Sandzu-en Children's Home. The building was three stories, with a neat facade and a small yard where some scraggly bushes grew. Inside — clean, but institutional: bright corridors, the smell of the cafeteria, a board with rules of conduct. The superintendent, an elderly bald man with tired eyes, issued me a uniform, showed me the room, and told me to be at dinner by seven. A room for four. My bed was by the window, which I immediately appreciated. The roommates hadn't come back from class yet — today was a school day, and the kids from the home, as I found out later, went to nearby schools. For now, I was on home study until full recovery. I tossed my bag onto the bed and first thing opened the drawer of the bedside table. There, among some junk, were old cloth gloves — probably left by the room's previous occupant. I pulled them on and clenched and unclenched my fists. The Quirk activates by the touch of a hand. One careless touch and the mark gets overwritten. So, gloves would become my permanent gear. Good enough for now, but later I'd need to find something more durable and comfortable. In the evening, I met the roommates. Three boys. Koji, red-haired and loud, with a Finger Extension Quirk he proudly demonstrated by reaching across the room to the light switch. Takumi, quiet and skinny, whose Quirk let him see in the dark. And Ryohei, a guy with a perpetually grumpy face, whose Quirk had to do with Skin Color Change. Ordinary kids. No one pestered me with questions about the accident, and I was grateful for that. "Hey, so what's your Quirk?" Koji asked at dinner, stuffing three sausages into his mouth at once. "Mark," I said without going into detail. "I'll show you later." "Boring name," Ryohei snorted. "Must be weak?" "Yeah," I agreed easily. "Totally ordinary." No point in showing my cards too early.

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The next morning, right after breakfast, I slipped out of the home and set off to explore the surroundings. Mustafu looked exactly as I remembered from the first seasons of the anime — big, modern, with a ton of skyscrapers. The people on the streets were all sorts: some with dog ears, some with scales, some with weird tubes protruding from their shoulders. An ordinary Japanese city, just with Quirks. I walked with my hands in my pockets, automatically noting the route. I needed a secluded place. Somewhere with lots of objects for training and few witnesses. Wandering without a specific goal, I ended up right at Dagobah Beach. In the anime, the main character — Izuku Midoriya — cleaned it up, preparing to enter U.A., turning it back into a pristine beach. But now, what opened before me was a massive coastal dump, packed with mountains of trash and scrap metal. "Holy shit," I breathed for the fourth time that week. That word was definitely becoming my motto. "Did I land in pre-canon? Since it's this trashed…" But the main question was, how far before? I decided not to clutter my head with that and surveyed my new domain. The beach was perfect. Old refrigerators, rebar, smashed televisions, piles of tires, assorted crates. And not a soul around. Only the sound of waves and the cries of seagulls. I pulled off the gloves, stuffed them into my pocket, and just stood for a few seconds, breathing deeply. The salty wind tousled my hair; underfoot, sand mixed with broken glass crunched. I was alive. I was standing on my own two feet, smelling the ocean, and looking at the world that would become mine. "Alright, enough poetry," I said to myself. "Let's begin." First target — an old TV with a cracked screen sticking out of the nearest pile. I walked over and touched it with my right hand. A strange tingling ran through my fingers — like a faint electric charge from knuckles to wrist. No glow, no special effect. Just a sensation. Mark set. "One," I pronounced, picking up a small stone from the ground. I weighed it in my hand, drew back, and hurled it away from the TV — just into the sky. The stone soared upward, reached its peak, and… curved in the air. I froze. It was incredible. The stone changed its mind about flying straight — it turned at an unnatural, broken angle and plummeted down, straight toward the marked TV. Bam! Plastic cracked, shards spraying out. "Holy shit," I said with feeling. "That's just unreal." Next test — two hands. With my left hand I marked a "No Entry" road sign sticking out of a metal heap, and with my right, a rusty barrel nearby. I picked up two stones, threw both at once. One traced an arc left, the second — right. Both hit their targets exactly, within a split second of each other. I laughed loudly, out loud. I probably looked insane: a thirteen-year-old kid standing in the middle of a trash beach, cackling as he hurled stones at rusty metal. I didn't care. Next — distance. I backed off about fifty meters, chose a more serious projectile — a piece of rebar the length of my arm — and marked another TV. Drew back, threw. The rebar whistled through the air, picking up speed, and slammed into the target with such force that the TV shattered to pieces. Plastic, glass, circuit boards — everything flew apart like a decent explosion. "The farther — the stronger," I murmured, noting it down. "So at short range I have almost no advantage, but at long range…" I walked along the beach, picking up different projectiles. Stones flew predictably, rebar — even better. An empty tin can? Works too. A chunk of wood? Works. The Quirk made no distinction — any object thrown by the marked hand became a projectile. "What if I don't throw it myself?" I muttered. I touched the marked hand to a small stone lying on the ground. Nothing happened. I tensed, tried to mentally command it to fly… The stone quivered but didn't move. Aha. So, just touching isn't enough — you actually have to throw it? Or send it with effort? Need to experiment. I picked up the stone, placed it on the open palm of the marked hand, and focused. I imagined it flying to the target — to that same rusty barrel. No throw. Just the desire to send. The stone jumped on my palm and, with a sharp whistle, shot forward, denting the barrel. "It works," I grinned. "So you don't have to make a physical throw. You can just command it. That opens up a ton of possibilities." I spent about three hours on the beach. Threw, hurled, tried different techniques. Discovered that marks work on living creatures too — I marked a seagull that landed on an old fridge and launched a paper ball at it. The bird didn't understand anything, and the ball, tracing a convoluted arc, lightly bopped it on the side. "For stalking, then," I chuckled. "Like in canon. But I'm not going to use it for stalking." I thought about transport: mark a distant target, throw something big, and jump onto it. About tactical schemes: two marks — two threats at once. About marking an ally so I could send them something in a pinch. Too many options to call this Quirk useless. The old Seiha was a child. He wanted explosions and lasers. I was an adult who knew that real power isn't in special effects but in brains. I put the gloves back on and looked at the sunset sky. Time to head back — dinner soon, and I didn't want to miss it. A healthy young body demanded fuel. "Well then," I said aloud. "Two years until my potential enrollment at U.A. And I'm going to turn this 'useless' Quirk into a weapon that will surprise everyone." And I'm not joking. Awakening isn't a myth. I'll make this power evolve. But for now — training, training, training. I turned and walked toward the bus stop, whistling an old tune from the One Piece opening. Behind me the ocean roared, ahead the lights of Mustafu flickered, and somewhere in my chest beat a heart — strong, healthy, young. The heart of a guy who'd been given a second chance. The world of heroes has no idea what's coming for them.