Four years is a long time when you're living it day by day, but in the grand tapestry of a reincarnation story, it felt like a blur of sweat, scorched rubber, and rusted metal. By the time I turned fourteen, I had become a ghost within the Musutafu Orphanage. I was there for the mandatory meals, I was there for school, and I was there to tuck the younger kids like Miwa into bed. But the rest of my existence was consumed by the scrapyard.
The transition into my final year of middle school brought a shift in the atmosphere. The air felt charged, expectant. In the classroom of Aldera Junior High, I sat three rows behind a mess of unruly green hair belonging to Midoriya Izuku, and two rows to the left of a ticking human time bomb named Katsuki Bakugo.
I kept my head down. It wasn't cowardice; it was pragmatism. I knew these two were the pillars of this world. Midoriya was the heart; Bakugo was the engine. And me? I was the anomaly. I was the man who knew the script but was still struggling to master his own role.
My body had changed. I wasn't just lanky anymore; I was lean and corded with muscle that felt like high-tensile wire. Every time I moved, there was a faint, rhythmic creak in my joints—a sound only I could hear. To everyone else, I was just Kota Sora, the kid with a "boring" stretching Quirk who didn't seem to care about the hero rankings.
"Sora! Are you even listening?" The teacher's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
I blinked, my neck inadvertently elongating an inch before I manually pulled it back down. A few students snickered. "Yes, Sensei," I said, my voice flat. "Career aspirations. We're all going to be heroes. It's very inspiring."
Bakugo scoffed, leaning back in his chair and propping his explosive palms on the desk. "Don't lump me in with these extras, especially not a rubber-band reject like you, Sora. You'll be lucky if you get a job as a professional bungee cord."
I didn't take the bait. I had lived a whole life before this one; a fourteen-year-old's posturing didn't sting. "I'll keep that in mind, Bakugo. If I ever need to jump off a bridge, I'll give you a call."
The class went silent. Bakugo's palms let out a warning pop, but the teacher cleared his throat, sensing a disaster, and moved on. I turned my gaze back to the window. My mind was on the Gatling.
For the last year, I had been obsessing over it. The Gommu Gommu no Pistol was a single-shot weapon. It was powerful, but if I missed, I was wide open. I needed a barrage. The problem was the physics of the snap-back. To fire a second punch, the first one had to be fully retracted. If I tried to fire them too fast, my arms would tangle, or the recoil would pull my shoulders out of their sockets.
After school, I bypassed the orphanage and headed straight for the scrapyard. I took my stance, feet planted wide. I had learned that my "anchor" was the most important part of my style. If my feet slipped, the power of the snap-back would just launch me backward instead of propelling my fist forward.
"Okay," I whispered. "Don't just punch. Blur the lines."
I threw a right-handed Pistol. CRACK.
As it retracted, I didn't wait. I threw the left. CRACK.
I tried to speed it up. Right, left, right, left.
As I increased the tempo, the Heat started to build. The internal friction of my muscles rubbing against each other was generating staggering thermal energy. My skin began to glow a dull, faint pink, and the smell of hot rubber filled my nostrils.
"Faster!" I growled.
Suddenly, my right arm didn't snap back. It stayed extended, swaying limply like a piece of overcooked pasta. I had pushed the internal heat so high that my molecular structure had temporarily lost its "memory." I sat down on a pile of tires, panting. My heart was thudding against my ribs, a heavy, rubbery drumbeat.
I'm not ready, I thought, looking at my limp hand. The UA exam is months away. I have to find a way to stabilize the tension.
A few weeks later, the day of the "Incident" arrived.
I was walking through the Tatooin Shopping District after a long training session, my muscles aching. Suddenly, an explosion rocked the street. Smoke billowed into the air, and the sound of panicked screaming filled the alleyways.
I ran toward the commotion, my rubber legs covering the distance in long, springy strides. When I pushed through the crowd, I saw him. The Sludge Villain—the same mass of green filth that All Might had supposedly captured earlier that morning.
But All Might wasn't there. Instead, the villain was in the middle of the street, and trapped inside his viscous, liquid body was Bakugo Katsuki.
The scene was more gruesome in person. Bakugo was fighting like a caged animal, his explosions muffled by the sludge, his eyes wide with a rare, genuine terror. The pro heroes—Death Arms, Backdraft, Kamui Woods—were standing on the sidelines, paralyzed by the complexity of the situation. The fires were too hot, the streets too narrow, and the hostage too vital to risk a blind attack.
And then, I saw him.
Midoriya Izuku. The quirkless boy. While the pros hesitated, he sprinted forward. It was a suicidal move. He threw his backpack at the villain, a desperate attempt to do something.
This is it, I thought. The moment that defines the future.
I saw the Sludge Villain raise a massive, liquid tentacle to crush Midoriya. The pros were too far away. All Might was nowhere to be seen.
"Move, you idiot!" I roared.
I didn't think about the timeline. I didn't think about "stealing the spotlight." I just felt the tension in my legs build as I crouched low, my hamstrings stretching like industrial dock lines.
"Gommu Gommu no... ROCKET!"
I launched myself. I didn't aim for the villain; I aimed for Midoriya. I flew through the air, snagged the back of Midoriya's jacket with my hand, and used my other arm to grab a nearby streetlamp.
The tension snapped. I yanked Midoriya out of the path of the sludge tentacle just as it slammed into the pavement with enough force to shatter the concrete. We tumbled across the asphalt, Midoriya gasping for air.
"Stay down!" I barked at him.
I turned back to the villain. Bakugo was losing consciousness. His explosions were getting weaker.
I took my stance. I knew physical attacks wouldn't kill the slime, but I could create an opening. I wound up my arm, twisting it until it looked like a drill bit.
"Gommu Gommu no... RIFLE!"
I released the punch. The spiraling force of the retraction didn't just hit the sludge; it bored into it, the air pressure of the rotation blowing a hole right through the villain's center. It wasn't enough to destroy him, but it forced him to loosen his grip on Bakugo's face.
"Now!" I yelled toward the sky. I knew he was there. I felt the pressure change.
"I REALLY AM PATHETIC!"
The voice boomed like thunder. A blur of yellow and red descended from the rooftop. All Might. He looked exhausted, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but his presence was absolute.
"DETROIT... SMASH!"
The punch was a force of nature. The wind pressure didn't just scatter the Sludge Villain; it changed the local weather. Rain began to fall as the clouds were torn apart by the shockwave.
I grabbed Midoriya and pulled him behind a concrete barrier as the wind tried to rip us off our feet. My rubber body rippled under the pressure, absorbing the brunt of the shock.
When the dust settled, the villain was nothing but droplets of green goo being collected by the pros. Bakugo was gasping on the ground, his pride wounded worse than his body. And All Might was standing there, the sun catching his golden hair.
I didn't stick around for the praise. I knew the pros would scold us for interfering. I grabbed my bag and slipped into the shadows of an alleyway before anyone could ask for my name.
As I walked back to the orphanage in the rain, my hand was shaking. Not from fear, but from the Heat. The Rifle punch had pushed my structural integrity to the limit. I looked down at my knuckles—the skin was slightly frayed, the rubber fibers needing time to knit back together.
"I need to be stronger," I whispered to the rain. "If that had been a real fight, I'd be dead. All Might won't always be there to finish it."