It takes her two hours to stop. Two hours of my body being cut apart.
I understand my purpose now. I understand what she wants me for. She needs a live dummy. I heal. How fitting.
A thousand cuts. I live through a thousand cuts that sever my limbs, organs, and bones. I can't even fight back. The onslaught is so fast and powerful I can't react.
When my healing slows down, when I beg for blood, she kindly offers me some of her own. She smiles when I regain my healing ability with a few drops of her blood. I really am a devil.
She doesn't stop. I can't do anything except thug it out. It frays the edges of my mind, but I keep myself conscious so I can remember.
I'll remember this pain, I'll keep it close and safe, and, when I'm not a little kid anymore, when I master my powers, I'll kill her. I'll burn her alive. I'll blow her up until she's nothing but a charred corpse.
That's my resolve.
Finally, she stops. My transformation drops, my body returning to normal. My wounds close half way, leaving small cuts across my body.
"You did good," she says, ruffling my hair. "You see, my quirk works differently on flesh than it does on inanimate objects. With people as weak as your father, it doesn't really matter, but it takes a lot more effort to cut through organic matter."
I can barely find my voice. When I do, it's a whisper. "The fuck do I care?"
She smirks. "As you can imagine, it's difficult to practice that part of my ability. If I go up against a reinforcement type quirk, or, hah, heaven forbid, All Might, I'm practically done for."
I look into her eyes, her sky blue eyes that seem to glimmer. What a sugary mask.
My anger is muted and distant. I can't even muster the energy to get furious. All I can manage is apathy. "Then run into All Might and die."
She laughs and pats my head. "I'm signing your praises! Where else could I find such a good training dummy? You're perfect! Don't ever leave me. I'll kill you if you do!"
She blows me a kiss.
Crazy bitch.
*
I step out of the shower and look at myself in the mirror. After weeks of being a dummy, my body is marred by tiny scars that didn't heal right. I'm still seven years old in this body, but that doesn't seem to trouble her. She pushes me harder and harder each time. I think she's getting stronger too. Her slashes cut me easier now.
She's pushing herself harder too. She takes more missions. I can only imagine how many people she must've killed by now. How many more she's able to kill because of me. Because I make her stronger.
I can't leave. If I leave, I die. I'm stuck. My best bet is probably contacting a hero, maybe they can help me. Maybe All Might. She's strong, but I know All Might. She can't beat him.
My dark purple hair is getting longer now. I should cut it soon. My green eyes are sullen, and I know I would've broken a thousand times had it not been for my unique circumstances. If I was actually a child, if I wasn't used to misery, if I didn't know this was a fictional world, I can only imagine.
That reincarnation officer, she sent me here. That was what the 'Death' card represented. The worst possible start in life.
Born the useless son of an international criminal and being hated and absconded by my own parents. Being kidnapped by a psycho assassin and forced to be a live dummy.
Truly, unless the pits of hell open up and swallow me whole, I can't think of a worse situation to be in. Well, maybe I can. It's still pretty bad though. At least I have my mind with me.
Later that night, as I'm sitting on the couch next to her reading one of the books from her shelf, she looks at me. "You can read that?" She asks, sitting up. Her eyes widen slightly.
I scoff. "Dunno, can you? This was collecting dust on your shelf."
I let her look at the cover. Anna Karenina. It still exists in this world.
"Stop being such an asshole." She flops back down. "It was a gift from my friend. She said it could help me become more like a human being. Whatever that means. Sounds lame."
I can probably guess what she meant. Fucking psycho.
"Wait, you have friends?" I ask, incredulous to believe such a person could develop normal relationships.
"Well, there's the people I sometimes go on missions with."
I snort. "You mean co-workers?"
"Potato potato." She rolls her eyes. "So you can read? You're pretty smart then."
"Smarter than your average kid, that's for sure," I say. "But you don't seem to care that a kid can talk in full sentences."
"I don't know much about kids," she admits. "Anyway, can you take a look at something for me?"
I give her a weary glance, but nod anyway.
It takes her five minutes to find a large shoe box and plop it on the table. I gently slide the top off, and my mouth instantly waters.
In the middle of the table, just below a nasty sulfur lightbulb that stains everything a piss yellow, lies a shoebox filled to the brim with ten thousand yen notes.
"Holy shit," I say, drooling at the sight of stacks upon stacks of bills. "How much is that?"
"Fifty million Yen. I have ten more."
"And what do you want from me?"
"How do I spend it?"
I do the calculation in my head in an instant. "Nooo…Dude, that's way over three million dollars. You've just been sitting on this? On this? While living in this shithole and eating frozen nuggets?"
She slaps the back of my head. "I like this place. And yes, I have been sitting on it. My handler said I can't spend too much at once or it's suspicious."
"Yea but that's… what are your monthly expenses?" I rub the spot she hit me, looking up at her.
"One hundred fifty thousand, I think."
I stare. Just stare, a blank expression on my face. Fuck it. New conviction, I'm killing this bitch and taking her money. Jackpot. She obviously doesn't need it.
"Your handler is right," I say, covering the money up. "Well, technically. Yes you shouldn't spend too much. Do you know why?"
She laughs, pinching my cheeks. "Alright little man, you think I don't know about taxes? You're so cute when you act like you're smarter than me."
I break out of her grip. "Have you ever even filed taxes?"
"Uhh…"
"Man, how are you even alive?"
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" She pinches my ear.
"Ow ow ow. Ok. Fuck. Look," I say, wincing. "To actually use this money, you need to clean it. That's what you wanted my opinion on, right? How to use the money?"
She shrugs.
I sigh. "Anyway, you need to inject your dirty money, in this case, money you earn from killing people, into a legitimate cash flow. Fudge the numbers. Buy a laundromat and report more sales than you actually got, then just inject dirty money to match that fake activity, then pay taxes on it."
"Hah," she laughs. "Like I have time for all that. I'd need an accountant. And who the hell would help me?"
She caught on quicker than I thought she would. Well, that's not bad, I suppose.
"You have one right here. I'll just need your name and signature and for you to make appearances when I need you to make acquisitions," I say.
"But you're only seven."
"Oh so I'm too young to launder money, but I'm old enough to be tortured every day?"
She laughs. "Yea pretty much."
"Do you want my help or not?" I say, frustration boiling over. No. Breathe. Stay calm. This bitch will kill me. Jesus. What a landmine. "I'm good at this. I'm a genius. Look, ask me about the Riemann hypothesis or Hegel."
"Name dropping isn't impressive, kid. Explain eminent critique, then we'll talk," she says. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find out she's only joking by the way she can't help but crack up. "Fine. You can help. As long as you don't slack off on your dummy duties."
"About that," I start. She's listening. That's good. "I was thinking. How about in exchange for helping you with this, you let me train my quirk too?"
It's perfect, really. I wasn't expecting an opportunity like this, wasn't expecting that my experience with financial fraud from my past life would be useful this early on. Not only will I be able to control her finances, but also train for the eventual double whammy murder-theft I'll commit.
Granted, she has to accept. Please accept.
She rubs at her chin, obviously debating it. "Hmmm…" She closes her eyes. "Hmmm… But your quirk is catastrophically powerful. If I train you, won't there come a time where you'll be able to kill me?"
There's a great rising tide of bile crawling up my throat. I swallow it down. "Why would I want to kill you?"
She's usually so playful, so carefree that it sometimes makes me forget who exactly I'm dealing with. Even while she tortures me, she smiles and tells me I'm doing great, even when she talks about her missions and how she kills people, she can't help but joke and laugh with me.
But then, sometimes, there's these moments. Small, quiet, subtle, where I remember who she is. No. I won't act like this is a conscious effort on my part. It's not a realization I craft myself. No. She reminds me.
Her smile drops, her crystalline blue eyes, the same eyes that are usually clear like the sky on a hot summer day, darken as if conquered by stormclouds. I can't find my voice. My hand instinctively moves up to my neck, fingers reaching for the pin.
She crouches down to meet me at eye level. There's nothing I can say. I have nothing to defuse her. She's never like this.
"I think you got the wrong idea," she says. "I'm not your master, not your mother, not your sister. I am your nothing. You are my puppet. Tell me again how you don't hate me. Tell me you don't want to kill me."
"I-"
"Lie to me and I'll mince you."
I swallow down my words. I'd like to think I'm a good liar. But here? Now? I know when to pick my battles.
"I can help you," I say so quietly it's nearly a whisper. "Not just with the money. My quirk is strong, I can help you with your work."
There's a long moment of silence that stretches on until I begin imagining my head falling off my shoulders. I expect pain. I brace for it.
It never comes.