The Marked Trajectory

If you think that after your parents die and you're relocated to a children's home, they let you quietly grieve in a corner, then you've never been in the Japanese social system. No, seriously. These people seem to have decided that the best way to help a traumatised child is to surround him with so much care that he simply physically cannot think about anything bad. Sounds sweet. In practice, it means I am not left alone for a single minute. Case in point – Saturday morning, my third day at Tsuin. Rain is drizzling outside the window, the living room smells of boiled cabbage, and two metres away from me sits Honda-san – an elderly woman with an Eagle Eye Quirk that lets her see three hundred and sixty degrees. The perfect observer. She pretends to be knitting a scarf, but I know: her left eye, the one on the side, is tracking my every move. It's not even paranoia. It's a fact. Yesterday I tried to go to the toilet without asking – she materialised in the hallway with a "where are we off to?" We. As if she's coming with me. To the toilet. The fact that I managed to slip away on the first day was a sheer miracle, and the bedlam that awaited me upon my return… I don't want to recall it. And my current state of affairs was starting to wear on me. "Seiha-kun," came a voice from the door. "You have a visitor." I turned around. In the doorway stood Tanaka-san, my social worker – hair pulled into a tight bun, an expression of calm benevolence on her face that, I'm certain, they practise in front of a mirror every morning. She came every day. To check how I was "adapting." In reality – to make sure I wasn't trying to throw myself out of a window. I had to put on a performance. I plastered a smile on my face, one I'd call exemplary, and rose to meet her. "Tanaka-san, good morning. How are your affairs?" "My affairs are in order," she tilted her head slightly, studying me. "How did you sleep?" "Great. The bed's comfortable." "And your appetite?" "I ate everything they gave me. Even the cabbage." "And your mood?" "Excellent. I'm dreaming of getting some fresh air." She blinked. That last sentence clearly deviated from the standard "I'm-a-poor-traumatised-child" script. I saw the gears turn in her head: on one hand, fresh air is beneficial; on the other, an outing means leaving the controlled territory, and that's a risk. "You know," she began cautiously. "Perhaps you should rest a little more. Your body is weakened after the hospital…" "I feel perfectly fine," I cut in. "Honestly. The doctors said I'm physically completely healthy. And sitting within four walls isn't rest, it's…" I paused, searching for the word. "…deadly boredom?" "Exactly." Tanaka-san sighed. I could see she was hesitating. On one hand – protocols prescribing intensive supervision for children in the first week after relocation. On the other – I did look suspiciously energetic for someone who had learned of his parents' death three days ago. "Alright," she said finally. "But only within the grounds of the children's home. The yard is quite large; there's a running track and a sports area." The yard. Right. Fifty metres long, thirty wide, visible from every window. A hamster run. "Thank you," I said, continuing to smile. She stood there a bit longer, as if expecting me to burst into tears and admit that I actually felt terrible. She didn't get to see it. She left. I exchanged a glance with Honda-san. She lowered her eyes to her knitting, but her left eye continued roaming the room. Fine. Yard it is. It'll do for a start.

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By midday, I understood three things. First: Tsuin's sports area is a mockery of the very concept of sport. A pull-up bar that creaks like an ungreased cart, a basketball hoop with no net, and rusty swings that likely remember the era before Quirks appeared. Second: the yard is indeed visible from the windows. Not all of them – from four. The commendant's room, the kitchen, the second-floor corridor, and, I think, the staff toilet. Honda-san, with her eagle vision, could see me from practically anywhere. Third: at the far end of the yard, behind the hedge bushes, there's a hole in the fence. Small, clearly made by one of the previous generations of residents. Big enough for a teenager to squeeze through. I noticed it purely by chance while pretending to stretch by the bushes. And I immediately understood: it was fate. Two problems remained: distracting Honda-san and disappearing unnoticed.

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The solution came from an unexpected quarter – in the form of Koji, my red-haired roommate. He spilled out into the yard around three in the afternoon with the air of someone who urgently needed to vent an excess of energy. His Quirk, Finger Extension, wasn't a combat-type, but he loved grabbing all kinds of junk off the ground with his extended fingers and launching them at the wall. A kind of dexterity training. The perfect candidate for the role of distraction. Touching the trash can, I ran over to the boy. "Koji," I called out, approaching him. "Bet I can hit that trash can with my eyes closed?" He stared at me with disbelief. "Eyes closed? You're lying." "Let's check." I picked up a pebble from the ground, then dramatically squeezed my eyes shut and threw it. It described an arc and, with a quiet clink, landed precisely on target. Koji's eyes bulged. "No way! How?" "Trade secret. Want another?" For the next ten minutes, I entertained Koji, and a couple of younger kids who'd been drawn by the noise, with show-stopping demonstrations. I threw pebbles from behind my back, threw them standing on one leg, threw them after spinning around my axis. A direct hit every time. The crowd grew, the excitement mounted. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Honda-san had been distracted from her knitting. She was standing by the window, watching the performance with interest. Perfect. "And now – the grand finale!" I announced loudly, so everyone could hear. "I'll hit the can standing with my back to it, from ten metres!" The kids buzzed. Koji rubbed his hands together. I stepped back ten metres, turned my back to the can, and… froze for a moment, pretending to concentrate. In reality, I was gauging the distance to the bushes. About seven metres. If I bolted right after the throw, I could disappear while everyone was watching the flying pebble. Three. Two. One. I tossed the pebble over my shoulder and immediately dashed towards the bushes. Four quick steps and I was already pushing through the hedge, leaving shreds of my t-shirt on the branches. From behind came the clang of the pebble hitting its target, the joyful shouts of the children, and… Koji's bewildered cry: "Hey, where is he?" Ignoring the shout, I kept pushing through. The hole in the fence – there it was. I squeezed through it sideways, scraping my elbow on the rusty mesh, and tumbled out onto a vacant lot beyond the orphanage grounds. Freedom! I scrambled to my feet and, without looking back, ran towards the embankment. Dagobah Beach was a twenty-minute walk away. If I was lucky, my absence wouldn't be noticed until supper. And if I wasn't… well, then I'd at least find out what the punishments for going AWOL were in this children's home, aside from the dressing-down I got the first day.

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Having reached the beach, I stopped and braced my hands on my knees, catching my breath. My heart was hammering somewhere in my throat, but it was a pleasant sensation. So… alive. Real. "Running is so damn awesome," I exhaled aloud, addressing no one in particular. Dagobah Beach was still the same kingdom of junk and desolation it had been yesterday. Mountains of scrap metal, rusty car frames, stacks of tires, assorted planks and plastic drums. An ideal training ground. I pulled off my gloves and shoved them in my pocket. "Alright, Seiha," I told myself. "Time is short. No chaotic shooting at televisions. You need a system." Yesterday's training was, essentially, a test of basic mechanics: does the Quirk work, how far do projectiles fly, how accurately do they hit the target. Today, I was going to move to the next level. A training labyrinth. I looked around and began gathering materials. Several sheets of plywood – they would serve as walls. Car tires – as mobile obstacles that could be rearranged. Three targets: a rusty saucepan, an old road sign, and a plastic bucket. I arranged them in a semicircle at a distance of about twenty metres. Between me and the targets – plywood shields set on edge and a pile of tires. Half an hour to set up. Excellent. Now – the tricky part. I needed living targets. The Quirk, as I'd already realised, was designed more for living matter – people, animals, anything that breathes and moves. But I had an ace: either my transfer into this body had slightly warped the power, or the original Seiha also had this peculiarity – I could mark inanimate objects too, something I'd discovered on the very first day. "Well then, let's begin." First target – the saucepan. I touched it with my right hand, setting the Mark. Then I moved to the starting position and picked up a piece of brick with my right hand. The task was simple: hit the target by circumventing the plywood shield. Not flying over it – that's too easy. Precisely circumvent it. I took a swing and threw the brick at an angle to the ground in front of the shield. It hit the sand, ricocheted left, flew past the tires, and… slammed into the saucepan with a dull "bong." "Got it!" First attempt – instant success. I smirked. Beginner's luck, nothing else. Let's make it harder. I cancelled the Mark by touching the road sign with my right hand – the Mark switched to the new target. Now the task: hit the sign through two rows of obstacles, using a ricochet off the car frame on the right. I mapped out the trajectory. Throw to the right, rebound off the door, flight over the tires, approach the target from the flank. Throw. The brick hit the car, changed trajectory, flew over the tires and plywood… but still hit. Though not at all as I had planned – the projectile itself found the shortest route to the target after the ricochet. "I hit, but it didn't fly the way I needed." That was an important nuance. The projectile isn't guided by my consciousness – it simply pursues the target along the shortest path. If I want it to circumvent an obstacle along a tricky trajectory, I need to calculate the throw angle so that the shortest path coincides with the desired trajectory. Otherwise, the Quirk will choose the route itself. I walked up to the car and studied the surface carefully. Aha, there's a dent here – probably from previous hits. If I hit that, the trajectory changes more sharply. And here, closer to the handle, the surface is smoother. Second attempt, and this time the brick flew exactly according to plan. Rebound, flight, impact on the sign. Clang! "Two out of three," I wiped the sweat from my forehead. After that, the real work began. I experimented with different projectiles: stones, brick fragments, pieces of metal rebar, plastic bottles filled with sand. Each behaved differently. Light projectiles were easily deflected by the wind. Heavy ones required more throwing power but were more stable in flight. Rebar turned out to be the best option: heavy, durable, with good aerodynamic properties. An hour later, I changed tactics. Instead of single throws, I began working with two targets simultaneously. Left hand – Mark on the saucepan. Right hand – on the bucket. An ordinary person has two hands, meaning I can hold up to two Marks at once – one per hand. The task: hit both targets sequentially, using different projectiles and different trajectories. First attempt: I throw a stone with my left hand at the saucepan, then immediately rebar with my right at the bucket hidden among a pile of tires. The stone hits perfectly. The rebar flies towards the bucket, but along the shortest path it runs into the heap of tires. The Quirk forces it to seek a detour – the rebar twitches, tries to squeeze between the tires, but gets stuck physically: they're packed too tightly, can't break through. The projectile didn't give up; it continued pressing against the rubber, but couldn't break through. I wait several seconds – useless. "Okay," I mutter. "So an insurmountable obstacle does stop the projectile after all. The Quirk doesn't make it all-powerful." Second attempt: I change the throw angle. Now the rebar doesn't go directly but in an arc – I toss it higher so that it circumvents the tires from above instead of trying to punch through them. The Quirk catches the projectile and guides it to the bucket through the air, over the obstacle. Third attempt: both projectiles in the air simultaneously. The stone flies low, the rebar high. The stone bounces off the shield, the rebar flies over the tires. Two impacts merge into one. "Yes! Both!" I laughed. It was like juggling. Only instead of balls – pieces of metal, and instead of hands – the invisible threads of the Quirk. And now I knew for certain: the projectile will seek a path to the target until it reaches it or until it hits something it can't physically break through. Mark reassignment mid-flight. A huge seagull was loitering on the beach – rummaging through a heap of seaweed about ten metres from me. I crept up quietly and touched it with my right hand. The bird flinched but didn't fly away – probably too used to people. Mark set. Now the essence of the experiment. I throw a projectile at the seagull. But before it reaches the target, I touch another target – say, the bucket – and switch the Mark. The question: will the projectile change trajectory and fly towards the bucket, or continue pursuing the seagull? I moved back fifteen metres. In my right hand – a piece of brick. Throw. The brick soared, heading for the seagull. The bird finally noticed the danger and squawked, flapping its wings. I quickly touched the bucket with my right hand – the Mark switched. The brick in the air changed trajectory. It didn't freeze; it simply changed course, turned in a wide arc, and flew towards the bucket. The seagull remained unharmed but let out an indignant cry after me. Bam. The brick slammed into the bucket. "So, the Mark switches even for a projectile already in flight," I murmured, analysing the result. "The projectile always flies towards the current target. If the target changes – it just redirects to the new one." That was cool. It meant I could launch a projectile, then reassign the Mark, and the opponent wouldn't know where the projectile would ultimately fly. Or I could mark an enemy, throw a projectile, then touch another enemy, and the projectile would switch to the new victim. The tactical potential was off the charts. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and sank onto the sand. My muscles ached pleasantly after an hour of training. My lungs burned. My shirt was soaked with sweat. And I was absolutely, indecently happy. Ideas swarmed in my head. Attack patterns, tactical combinations, scenarios for using the Quirk in real combat. I felt the excitement – the same one you feel when solving a complex puzzle and realizing the solution is close. Mark-Mark Fruit. In the original – a fruit in the hands of an idiot. In my hands – a potential weapon for a tactical genius. Well, maybe not a genius. But a very persistent guy with a lot of free time.

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I had to return at an accelerated pace. The sun had almost set, and supper at the orphanage was served promptly at seven. If I was late – my absence would be guaranteed to be noticed. I squeezed through the same hole in the fence, ran through the backyards, and entered the building via the back entrance. The corridor smelled of fish and soy sauce. Noise came from the living room – someone was watching TV. I quickly ducked into the common bedroom to change my dirty t-shirt. And froze on the threshold. Tanaka-san was sitting on my bed. Beside her stood the commendant. Arms crossed over his chest, face – stone. And in the corner, with a guilty look, Koji shuffled his feet. "Kaburaya-kun," Tanaka-san said in her "social-worker" voice. "Please, sit down. We need to talk." Well, there it is. Busted. I slowly lowered myself onto the edge of the bed. Options for excuses swirled in my head, each more insane than the last. Got lost? Looking for a cat? Meditating in a rock garden? "Where were you?" asked the commendant. I opened my mouth to lie something plausible, but Tanaka-san preempted me: "Seiha-kun, we aren't angry. We're worried. You're a child who has recently experienced a traumatic event, and we're responsible for your safety. Do you understand?" I nodded. I understood. It's just… "How did you find out I was gone?" Tanaka-san smiled gently and indicated Koji with her eyes. Traitor! – I mentally promised myself that at tomorrow's training, I'd use a photo of his red-haired mug as a target. "I didn't mean to!" Koji immediately jabbered. "They asked where you went, and I can't lie—my face goes all red straight away…" "It really does go red," confirmed the commendant. "Very noticeable." I sighed. Fine. My own fault – I should have planned a better cover instead of running off at random. "I was training," I said honestly. "At Dagobah Beach. There's no one there, tons of space and materials. I'm developing my Quirk." Tanaka-san and the commendant exchanged glances. "Your Quirk… Mark, correct?" Tanaka-san clarified. "Mark and projectile," I corrected. "And yes, I want to develop it. In two years, I plan to apply to U.A. High School, and by that time my Quirk needs to be at a level that will impress the admissions board." A pause hung in the air. I could see professional anxiety warring with something resembling respect in Tanaka-san's eyes. "U.A.," the commendant said slowly. "Ambitious." "I'm serious." "We understand," Tanaka-san rose from the bed. "But that does not change the fact that you broke the rules. You should have told us where you were going. You should have gotten permission. You shouldn't have left alone, unaccompanied." I braced for the worst. Now they'd forbid training. Or put me under house arrest. Or assign a personal overseer to me… "Therefore, the punishment will be as follows," she continued. "This week, you will leave the grounds of the home only when accompanied. We will assign someone from the staff to watch over you during your training sessions." I blinked. "Wait. Are you saying…" "You may continue training," she smiled, for the first time not her duty smile but something more human. "But under supervision. Until we are convinced that you aren't looking for trouble." "And until we are convinced you won't run off again," added the commendant. I slowly exhaled. That was… unexpectedly not bad. Yes, supervision. But they didn't forbid me from training. They allowed it. "Agreed," I said. "And one more thing," Tanaka-san leaned towards me. "The next time you feel like running off, just tell me. I'll try to help." She winked, and I suddenly realised that, I think, I like this social worker. They left. Koji mumbled apologies and scurried out after them. And I remained sitting on the bed, dirty, tired, but with the feeling that this day hadn't been wasted. Tomorrow – a new training session. Under supervision, but still – training. And I intended to squeeze the maximum out of it. Because I had only two years before admission, and damn it, I wasn't going to waste them.