Sirens Call

1

The darkness of the holding cell Hiromi's been in for years has grown familiar if not a little comforting. The darkness is all she can see, and being alone with your thoughts to keep you company is not what she'd call entertainment.

It was more like torture.

Scenes of memories play through her mind like a bad movie on a tv. And there's no remote. It was gruesome. Even in the pitch black she could still hear the screams, and smell the blood. The mental images of people tearing themselves apart because of her.

No matter how she tried to re direct her thoughts, all efforts were proved fruitless. She couldn't shake the memories, or the feeling of when her quirks manifested. She remembers the pink bubbly feeling of the first half of her quirk. It made her little four year old self giggle. It was like a drug, the happy feeling was addicting.

That day was the best and worst of her life. Her quirk was a curse as much as it felt like a blessing.

The dark half emerged hours later after the vibrant half of her quirk did. The images of the screaming children at the day care and the adults. The blood splatter as one of the attendees took their life right in front of her. She was just a child that didn't want to lay down for nap time. A child's tantrum was nothing new to the attendees, but when you're a child— you can't control your emotions.

So naturally the ugly side of her quirk chose that moment to rear its head. An angry child whose quirk made you hallucinate your biggest fear— it scares you so bad the only way to free yourself from it is to take your own life.

Trauma was a joke to Hiromi. The word made her chuckle every time she heard it.

Her parents had paid big money to keep the incident under wraps, but the memories never went away. No matter how many therapists or children's psychologists she saw. That word—- Trauma. It only hardened her and made her sarcastic and pessimistic as she grew older.

No matter how much special ability training her parents put her through she still felt the darkness of her quirk lurking in the back of her mind.

No matter how much her parents pounded it into her brain that she could never use that side of her quirk— something just never felt right.

She had originally gone to the hero commission for help at eighteen. She had run away from home, and was traveling with another boy who from what she learned was doing the same thing. She traveled with him for three years before she went to the hero commission, begging that poor soul at the desk for help.

She remembers her vision swimming with darkness, and the horror on that mans face as her conscience left her, the build up of her emotions and the suppression of the dark side of her quirk snapping in a second. When she came too, she was in this cell.

It didn't matter how loud she screamed, no one came. No matter how much she cried no one consoled her. She's lost all sense of time being in that dark room. All she knows is that its been years since she's seen the outside world.

The building animosity and irritation is cut short when her cell door swings open. Her senses are on edge immediately— its not the normal guard to drop her food off. She can tell by his silhouette. The light flickers on, and she winces slightly, squinting at the man. It's a man dressed in all black with a scarf wrapped around his neck, his hair is long and wavy. She doesn't recognize him and her brain begins to asses him— to see if he's a threat.

Those extensive years of training, from the age of four to fifteen. They've given her specific skills.

Identify threats, read people's body language, look for an exit, or identify the weakness and take down the target quickly and efficiently. Never leave evidence behind. Never let anyone know it was you.