Chapter 2: A Purple Storm in the Dark
Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a series of jagged, disconnected sensations.
First, the sound. A rhythmic, hollow plink… plink… plink… of water dripping from a great height, echoing in a space far too large.
Second, the smell. A thick, oppressive cocktail of damp earth, rusting metal, and dry rot. It clung to the back of his throat, a taste of decay.
Third, the feeling. A coarse, scratchy fabric covered his head, robbing him of sight and making every breath a dusty chore. His jaw ached. Rough, fibrous ropes bit into the skin of his wrists and ankles, binding him tightly to the hard, unyielding wood of a chair. He tried to shift, to test the bonds, but they were cinched with brutal efficiency. There was no give.
Denki Kaminari was adrift in a sensory prison. The memory of the orange sunset felt like a dream from another lifetime. Panic, cold and slick, tried to rise in his chest, but a dull, throbbing pain in his head beat it back down, leaving only a profound and terrifying confusion.
Then, he heard voices. Muted and low, filtered through the burlap hood.
"How much longer?" one voice grumbled, thick with impatience. "We've been sitting on this brat for two days. He's starting to smell."
"He'll be here when he's here," a second, calmer voice replied. It was laced with a chilling authority. "The boss doesn't operate on our schedule. Your payment is guaranteed, so shut your mouth and wait."
"I'm just bored," a third voice whined. "There's nothing to do but watch him breathe."
The first voice spoke again. "Are you sure his Quirk is worth all this trouble? He's just a kid. What we saw in that alley… it was just a little static shock."
The calm voice cut in, sharp as broken glass. "You're an idiot, Ren. You see a spark; I see potential. Pure, high-output potential without any of the messy mutations. That's rare. That's valuable. We watched him for weeks. We know what he can do. The Man wants a Quirk exactly like this to add to the collection. Once he takes it from the kid, he'll transfer a copy to us. An upgraded one. Imagine what we could do with that kind of power."
A cold dread washed over Kaminari, colder than the damp air. Takes it from the kid. They weren't holding him for ransom. They were harvesting him. They had been watching him. The fight in the alley… it wasn't a secret. It was an audition he never knew he was taking.
The one named Ren still sounded unconvinced. "And what about the kid afterward?"
There was a short, stark silence before the leader spoke. "There is no 'afterward.' No witnesses. No loose ends. We get our power, and the trash gets taken out. Now, are there any more stupid questions?"
The whining voice piped up again. "I'm still bored. Can we have some fun with him?"
A heavy sigh. Then, footsteps approaching. Kaminari tensed, his muscles screaming against the ropes. A large hand grabbed the back of the burlap sack, and with a single, violent rip, it was torn from his head.
Light, dim and yellow from a single bulb swinging lazily from a high ceiling, stabbed at his eyes. He squeezed them shut, groaning. When he blinked them open, the world swam into a blurry focus. He was in the center of a vast, cavernous warehouse. Rusted shelves lined the walls, empty save for cobwebs and layers of grime. The dripping sound came from a leaking pipe far above.
Five men stood in a loose semi-circle around him. They were rough, with the kind of faces that showed a life of bad decisions. The one who had pulled off the hood, presumably the leader, had cold, dead eyes and a thin scar that cut through his left eyebrow.
"There," the leader said, tossing the hood aside. "Happy now, Kaito?"
The whiner, Kaito, grinned. It was a cruel, unpleasant sight. He stepped forward, crouching so his face was level with Kaminari's. "Look at the little hero now. Not so tough when you're all tied up, are you? Where's that clever smile?"
Kaminari stared back, his fear a hard knot in his stomach. He said nothing.
The leader stepped forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I'm going to tell you what's going to happen, kid, because it doesn't matter if you know. Soon, a very powerful man is going to come here. He's going to take that special little gift of yours. After that, we have our orders. We take you somewhere quiet, and no one ever finds you. You'll just be another face on a missing person poster that people forget about after a week."
He delivered the death sentence with the same emotional weight as ordering a meal. Kaminari's heart hammered against his ribs. He had to do something. He had to get out.
"Come on, hero," Kaito taunted, poking his cheek. "Aren't you going to do something? Fry us? Show us that big, scary power?"
Fueled by a surge of desperate adrenaline, Kaminari closed his eyes and focused. He called on his Quirk, pulling at the familiar energy within him. He felt the static build, the low hum in his veins. He pushed it out, directing it toward his hands, toward the ropes. A pathetic fizz of yellow sparks danced around his wrists, then died with a sad little crackle.
The men laughed. A wave of ugly, mocking laughter that filled the warehouse.
"What was that?" Ren sneered. "Did you see it? I think I saw a little flicker!"
The leader crossed his arms, an unimpressed look on his face. "Did you really think we'd use metal chains? These ropes are made of a special polymer fiber. Highly durable, and a complete electrical insulator. I told you," he said, his gaze sweeping over his bored subordinates, "it's no use. You can drain yourself completely, and all you'll do is make yourself tired."
He turned back to Kaminari and, without warning, his open palm cracked across Kaminari's face. The boy's head snapped to the side, his cheek stinging, a coppery taste filling his mouth.
"That's for being boring," the leader said calmly.
Kaito cackled with glee. "My turn!" He stepped up and delivered a hard punch to Kaminari's stomach. The air rushed out of his lungs in a pained gasp. He choked, slumping forward as much as the ropes would allow.
The others joined in. It was a game to them. A way to pass the time. A slap here, a punch there. The impacts sent jolts of pain through his small frame. Their laughter became a distorted, ringing noise in his ears. His vision started to blur. The single yellow lightbulb smeared into a long, wavering streak.
He tried to use his Quirk again, and again, but it was useless. The ropes just drank the pathetic sparks, leaving him weaker, more hopeless. The pain began to fade into a dull, throbbing background noise. His mind, unable to process the trauma, started to shut down. The warehouse, the men, the pain—it all began to recede, dissolving into a great, empty whiteness. His thoughts frayed. His fear dissolved. There was nothing. A blank, silent void.
And in that void, a single image sparked to life.
His mother's smile as she placed a slice of cheesecake in front of him.
Another spark. Kirishima, giving him a grateful, manly nod in the alleyway.
Another. His father's hand on his shoulder, his voice steady and warm. True strength is in the heart that wields it.
These weren't just memories. They were anchors. They were everything warm and bright and good in his world. And these men, these monsters, were going to extinguish that world. A new feeling began to bubble up from the depths of the white void. It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It was rage. A pure, cold, seismic rage that he had never felt before. A rage that screamed that this was wrong. A rage that demanded to protect.
In the center of his mind, a tiny spark ignited. But this spark wasn't yellow.
It was a deep, incandescent purple.
Outside, in the real world, the leader was raising his hand to strike Kaminari again. But he froze. All the men froze.
A low, guttural hum was emanating from the boy. It wasn't the familiar crackle of his Quirk; it was a deep, resonant thrum, like a power station coming online. A strange, ethereal light began to leak from beneath Kaminari's eyelids.
He lifted his head.
His eyes were wide open, but they were no longer the familiar gold-brown. They were blazing pools of violet energy. His blond hair began to lift, each strand crackling, and as the energy surged, its color shifted, washed out by an overwhelming purple luminescence. He looked alien. Divine. Terrifying.
"What… what is that?" Kaito stammered, taking a step back.
Before anyone could answer, the energy exploded.
It was not a spark. It was a detonation. Violent, untamed arcs of purple lightning erupted from Kaminari's body. They were thicker, more jagged, more alive than his normal electricity. With a sound like tearing thunder, the purple energy struck the polymer ropes. The special, insulating fibers that had so easily absorbed his yellow sparks were instantly incinerated, turning to black ash that scattered in the charged air.
Freed, Kaminari didn't move from the chair. The storm was not finished. The arcs of purple lightning lashed out, striking all five men simultaneously. Their bodies seized in violent, unnatural convulsions. Their screams were cut short as the raw power overloaded their nervous systems. Muscles locked, jaws clenched, and white foam frothed at their lips. One by one, they collapsed to the dusty floor in a heap of twitching limbs, their eyes rolled back in their heads.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased.
The purple glow faded from Kaminari's hair and eyes, the color bleeding away to leave his familiar yellow. The oppressive hum vanished, leaving a silence so profound it was almost deafening. The only sound was the steady plink… plink… plink… of the dripping pipe. The air was thick with the sharp, clean scent of ozone.
Kaminari gasped, his chest heaving as if he had just surfaced from a deep dive. He stared, wide-eyed, at the five unconscious men sprawled on the floor. He looked down at his own trembling hands, half-expecting to see them glowing. They were just his hands.
He pushed himself up from the chair, his legs shaking. He stumbled over to a shallow puddle of grimy water on the floor. He looked down.
A boy with blond hair and terrified eyes stared back.
What had just happened? What was that power? It wasn't his. It couldn't be. But the fallen men and the lingering smell of ozone were undeniable proof. A wave of nausea, fear, and a terrifying, exhilarating awe washed over him. He was free. But a small, frightened voice in the back of his mind asked a chilling question: What have I become?