When he was a child, quirks were nothing but a curious thing to study about for him. He'd bother his dear parents for quirk knowledge, watch the heroes appear in the television screen. Many quirks alike, yet so different.
As he got his very own, he was thrilled. A quirk that morphs him to anything he wants, but his imaginary picture needs to be as clear as day, or else it wouldn't work. As young as he is, his imagination never failed him.
Some quirks were easy and flexible to grasp, while some, not so much. But unfortunately, growing up for him wasn't easy.
Imagine a kid heading up to you with just a simply question, 'what's your quirk?' And having to explain every strength and flaw you've ever had, wondering if the kid even gets it. It was like being investigated, very thoroughly.
After every encounter and small amount of conversation, he'd learnt that he'd probably had to go the hard way. He's curious. Real curious.
Quirks are special, one of a kind.
Some are even capable of destroying anything in their path if used the wrong way. Which was what captured his utter determination. To study, to learn.
Not that he studied much in his politeness, since he'd observe people's conversations afar, taking every detail, and every crease of the person's clothing, before simply morphing into them and taking place of their original identity.
Of course he had to be discreet, who would want to find their own doppelgänger talking to their friend anyway?
Being a mad scientist wasn't one of his expectations though. Instead, if anyone ever asks, he'll simply call himself someone who is 'helping'. Helping, for others to use their quirks better and to their full potential.
What's the point of getting one if no one is using it to their full benefit and purpose?
Experiments were like small hopeless tasks, always ending up with same results. The victims would fall sick, or even worse, succumb to their own fate and simply become one with the fallen. Screams of agony and pain would often linger, and ring in his ears, but he found it pleasant. Because at the end, he is helping.
When he saw the burned down house that day, engulfed with bursts of flames that covered the area, the thick smoke covering the sky...
He didn't pay attention to the depressing situation. No, his eyes scanned and observed, and he found himself a child.
The child hunched over, his knees pressed against the ground. And he cried, his shaky breaths mixing in with the burning crackles of fire. The child cried, until his eyes were hazy and unfocused, face covered in tears. He cried, until there were no more tears to cry, and succumbed to his own exhaustion, simply resting on the ashy ground.
If it was any other person who was more normal in the head, they'd probably help of course. Or, just pretend like nothing had happened.
But the man, he wasn't like others. He was himself, and only himself.
So he took him.
The child had no dreams that moment, but they themself know fear.
Potential was something worthy grabbing onto, worth studying. If a child can blow a house up, he would take the chance and call it potential. Because who knows? Not everyone might be considered completely useless, unless their potential had just simply faded away with time and age. Then, they'd be discarded to who knows whatever fate they have left.
He was that kind of a person.
Complicated. And probably not sane in the head.
