Mastering the "Pistol" was a breakthrough, but it was also a reality check. I spent the next few days trying to repeat the feat, only to find that my accuracy was abysmal. Sure, I could hit a stationary wooden post if I stood perfectly still and aimed for three seconds, but a moving target? A villain? I'd be lucky if I didn't hit a bystander by mistake.
My body felt like it was in a constant state of "sore." Not the kind of sore you get after lifting weights, but a deep, structural fatigue, as if my very molecules were tired of being pulled apart.
I sat on the orphanage steps, chewing on a piece of dried jerky I'd managed to snag from the kitchen. I needed more protein. More everything.
"You're doing that thing again," a voice said.
I looked up. It was Miwa. She was a year younger than me, with a Quirk that let her make her skin glow like a glow-stick. It was useless for combat, but she was the brightest person in the building—literally and figuratively.
"What thing?" I asked, my voice slightly muffled by the jerky.
"The 'I'm-planning-to-fight-the-world' face," she said, sitting down next to me. "You've been hitting that post in the park for hours, Kota. Your knuckles are all weird and shiny."
"That's just the rubber," I said, holding up my hand. Under the sunlight, my skin had a slight, unnatural sheen to it. "I'm just training, Miwa. I have to be strong."
"To be a hero?" she asked.
"To be free," I corrected. "There's a difference."
She tilted her head. "I don't get it. But you look like you're hurting yourself. Isn't your Quirk supposed to make you not feel pain?"
"It makes me not get hurt by being hit," I explained, trying to find the right words for a nine-year-old. "But it doesn't stop the 'pull.' Imagine if you had to pull a really thick rubber band all day. Eventually, the rubber gets warm, right? And if you pull it too much, it gets weak. My body is the same. If I use my Quirk too much, I feel like I'm melting."
It was a sensation I'd started calling "Elastic Fatigue." If I pushed my stretching too far or held a high-tension state for too long, my limbs would become sluggish. They wouldn't snap back as quickly. It was a terrifying thought—being in a fight and having your arm stay stretched out, dangling like a dead weight while a villain moved in for the kill.
"Well, don't melt," Miwa said, standing up and dusting off her skirt. "Ms. Minami says we're having extra stew tonight because someone donated a crate of vegetables. You better eat a lot so you don't turn into a puddle."
"I plan to," I muttered.
That night, as the other kids slept, I lay in my bunk, staring at the ceiling. I needed a training plan. A real one. I had roughly five years until the UA Entrance Exam. Five years to bridge the gap between a kid who could barely aim a punch and a hero candidate.
I broke it down in my head, using my knowledge of the future and my understanding of the Gum-Gum Fruit.
Phase 1: Foundation (Year 1-2)
I needed to master basic mobility. Luffy could use his arms like grappling hooks. I needed to learn how to "Gommu Gommu no Rocket" without smashing my face into a brick wall. I also needed to increase my "Snapping Velocity." The faster the retraction, the harder the hit.
Phase 2: Variation (Year 3-4)
"Gommu Gommu no Gatling." "Gommu Gommu no Bazooka." These moves required more than just tension; they required rhythm and multiple points of release. I also needed to work on my "Twist." If I could learn to twist my arm while stretching, the rifling effect would increase the penetration power of my punches.
Phase 3: The 'Gears' (Year 5 and beyond)
I knew about Gear 2. Blood acceleration. By using my legs as pumps, I could speed up my blood flow, giving me superhuman speed and strength. But I was nine. If I tried that now, my heart would probably explode. My vascular system was rubber, yes, but it wasn't strong rubber yet. It was like a bicycle tire trying to hold the pressure of a jet engine. I had to wait. I had to build the "walls" of my heart and veins through years of cardiovascular torture.
The next morning, I started "The Grapple."
I went to the scrapyard on the outskirts of the city. It was a labyrinth of rusted metal and forgotten dreams. Perfect for someone who didn't want to be seen.
I stood before a tall crane, its rusted arm reaching toward the sky. I took a breath, centered myself, and threw my right hand upward.
"Gommu Gommu no... Rocket!"
My hand snagged a railing thirty feet up. I felt the familiar pull, the sensation of my shoulder socket extending. I didn't wait. I threw my weight forward, letting the elasticity of my arm do the work.
I soared.
For a second, it was glorious. I was flying. The wind rushed past my face, and the ground fell away. But then, the physics kicked in. I hadn't accounted for the "Swing Arc." Instead of flying up to the railing, the tension pulled me in a straight line toward the base of the crane.
"Oh, crap—!"
BOING.
I slammed into the massive steel base of the crane. Because I was rubber, I didn't break any bones. Instead, I bounced off the steel like a pinball, hit a stack of old tires, and tumbled into a pile of plastic scraps.
I lay there, staring at the gray sky, my head spinning.
"Note to self," I wheezed, my chest expanding and contracting rhythmically. "Gravity is a jerk. And I need to learn how to steer."
I spent the next six months in that scrapyard. I became a ghost among the metal. I learned that my rubber body had a "sweet spot"—a specific amount of tension that allowed for maximum control. If I stretched too little, I had no power. If I stretched too much, I lost all directional stability.
I also learned about the "Heat."
When I used my Quirk intensely, my body temperature rose. It made sense—kinetic energy was being converted into thermal energy within my fibers. If I got too hot, my rubber became softer, more pliable, but less "snappy." I had to learn how to pace myself, to keep my "internal engine" from overheating.
By the time I turned ten, I could navigate the scrapyard without touching the ground. I could "Rocket" from one pile to another, using my legs to absorb the landings and immediately transition into another jump. I was starting to move like him. Not perfectly, but the "flow" was there.
But then, the world reminded me that I wasn't the only one getting stronger.
I was walking back to the orphanage one evening, taking a shortcut through a narrow alleyway, when I heard it. A rhythmic, wet thud.
I stopped, my rubbery ears twitching. I peered around a dumpster and saw a group of older teenagers—maybe fourteen or fifteen. They were surrounding a smaller kid.
"Come on, show us your Quirk again!" one of the teens laughed. He had skin that looked like cracked rock. "Make the little sparks!"
The kid on the ground was trembling. He looked like he'd been beaten.
"I... I can't," the boy sobbed. "It hurts."
"Everything hurts in the real world, kid," the rock-skinned teen said, raising a heavy, stony fist.
I felt a surge of cold anger. It was a familiar scene. The strong preying on the weak. It was the very thing that made this "Hero Society" so fragile. Without a hero standing right there, the world was just a playground for bullies.
I didn't think. I didn't plan. I just felt the tension in my legs build up as I crouched.
"Hey!" I shouted, stepping out of the shadows.
the teens turned. They looked at me—a ten-year-old with a baggy t-shirt and a slightly wobbling stance.
"Buzz off, brat," the rock-skinned leader said. "This doesn't concern you."
"I think it does," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I felt the kinetic energy humming in my shoulders. "Leave him alone."
"Or what? You're gonna bounce at me?" The teens laughed. They'd seen kids like me before. "You look like a walking balloon."
I didn't answer. I focused on the "Pistol" mechanics. The swing. The tension. The simultaneous release.
"Gommu Gommu no..."
I threw my arm back, the limb extending ten feet behind me, invisible in the darkness of the alley.
"...PISTOL!"
The rock-skinned teen didn't even have time to blink. My fist caught him square in the chest. The impact wasn't a "boing." It was a thud that echoed off the alley walls. He was lifted off his feet, his stony chest cracking under the concentrated force of the retraction, and he was slammed into the brick wall behind him.
He slumped to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the pavement.
The other two teens stared at their leader, then at me. Their eyes went wide.
"What the hell? His arm... it stretched!"
"Beat it," I said, my arm snapping back into place with a sharp clack. "Before I do the other one."
They didn't need to be told twice. They grabbed their leader by the arms and hauled him away, disappearing into the streetlights.
I walked over to the boy on the ground and held out a hand. He looked at me with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"You... you're a hero," he whispered.
"No," I said, pulling him to his feet. My hand felt hot, the "Heat" from the punch still radiating through my skin. "I'm just a guy who's tired of seeing people get crushed."
As I walked him back to the main road, I realized something. That was my first real fight. And while I had won, my arm was shaking. The "Heat" was intense, and I could feel a dull ache in my shoulder.
I was ten years old. I had just knocked out a teenager with a hardening Quirk. But in the grand scheme of the MHA world, I was still nothing. If that had been a real villain—someone like Muscular or even a low-level thug with a blade—I would have been in trouble.
I needed more than just a punch. I needed a style. I needed to turn this rubber body into something that didn't just snap back, but something that could endure.
"Five years," I whispered to the night air. "Five years until UA. I'm going to be ready. I won't be a statistic again."
I went back to the library the next day. I didn't look for physics books this time. I looked for anatomy. If I was going to use Gear 2 one day, I needed to know exactly how much pressure a human—no, a rubber human—heart could take.