(Third Person POV: A lot of context will be missing from this scene. Mainly because I don't want to build up stuff I won't use. And I'm going to be skipping a lot because I want to get this done Quickly.)
The delivery room at the Tokyo General Hero Hospital was a fortress of reinforced concrete and hushed anxiety. Outside, the world media was on a frenzy, jostling for the first glimpse of All Might's child. Inside, however, the focus was entirely on Clara Yagi.
Toshinori Yagi, still in his muscle form, held his wife's hand, his smile a mask of strained optimism. He was a symbol of peace, yet here, he was just a terrified father. Clara, the former Hero known as Quietus, a disciplined hero who faced down super-villains with a calculating mind, was purely human, riding the waves of pain.
After what felt like an eternity—a cacophony of monitoring beeps, Clara's fierce breathing, and the desperate pushes—it happened. A small, silent life was brought into the world.
The room held its breath. The nurses, trained for the expected sharp, furious cry of a newborn, exchanged nervous glances. There was only silence.
The fear, heavy and cold, gripped the room. Clara's amethyst eyes, moments ago filled with a warrior's resolve, began to well up. Toshinori's face crumpled, the muscle form faltering. It was only a fraction of a second, but for them, it was an eternity of grief.
Then, a miracle of physics and fate: the infant opened her eyes. They were a vivid, startling purple, a perfect match for her mother's, yet imbued with an intense, analytical gaze.
The silence didn't break. The child didn't cry. Instead, Mirai Yagi simply looked around, her new senses taking in the white, sterile room.
(Mirai POV)
The silence was a thick, pristine blanket. It was the first sensation that truly registered, an absence of the expected cacophony of birth. Instead, my surroundings filtered in with a disturbing, high-definition clarity.
Fluorescent light—harsh, clinical, and too bright—scorched my retinas. The rhythmic beep... beep... beep... of a monitoring machine registered not just as sound, but as pressure waves against my skin. The scent of disinfectant, latex, and human sweat was an overwhelming, chemical symphony. I took a breath, the air burning my tiny lungs, a visceral shock that immediately triggered a cascade of philosophical panic.
I am alive.
The thought was a perfectly formed sentence, an adult conclusion delivered with the analytical detachment of a seasoned academic. It was also an impossibility.
My awareness, my consciousness, had been Kiyomi Kurayami. I had been inside a white, sterile room, focused entirely on the sterile logic of survival and victory. Then, nothing. A gap, not of darkness, but of pure, unfeeling nullity. And now... this.
Reincarnation. The concept was a staple of religious texts and fantasy fiction, a comforting, often saccharine notion designed to ease the fear of absolute cessation.
From a purely logical, scientific standpoint, it was a non-starter. Consciousness, as understood by any credible branch of neuroscience, was an emergent property of the brain. It was the result of incredibly complex electrical and chemical signals within a physical structure. Once that structure failed, the consciousness—the self—should dissolve, no more transmittable than the vapor of a popped soap bubble. There was no known energy carrier, no measurable soul-substance that could bridge the gap between biological death and a new biological beginning.
Yet, here I was.
The body was foreign, tiny, and weak, lacking the perfect, toned musculature of my previous form. But the mind was intact. My intellect, my memories, my brutal pragmatism—all were present, crammed uncomfortably into this miniature vessel.
The logic grid was shattered. My previous core belief—that only the tangible, the measurable, and the provable existed—was collapsing under the weight of this impossible experience.
Reincarnation shouldn't be possible, and yet, I was looking directly at the face of a man who was the living embodiment of an anime star, his massive, gold-coifed head currently crumpling in a terrifying display of raw human grief.
Toshinori Yagi. All Might.
A new set of data points rushed in, overriding the philosophical crisis. The purple-eyed woman whose face was etched with exhaustion and relief... she was my mother now.
The sterile room, the monitoring equipment, the specific gravity of the air. This wasn't some generic rebirth; this was My Hero Academia. This was a world defined by the "impossible," where powers were the norm and had scientific explanations behind their existence.
But obviously this was an AU, because All Might wouldn't be here for a random child's birth. A fact confirmed when I overheard the words...
"Mirai Yagi, that is her name." Relief flooded the purple eyed woman's words but I focused on the confirmation.
I was All Might's daughter. And I had just been born.
Still, I went over my new thoughts.
Perhaps, in a world of Quirks, the very fabric of reality was more pliable. Perhaps the Quirk Factor, the genetic anomaly that allowed for these abilities, somehow granted a loophole, an unclassified mechanism for the transmission of residual self-information.
I didn't cry. Crying was an involuntary physical reaction to discomfort, fear, or profound emotion. I was uncomfortable, certainly, but my default state was emotionlessness. I didn't feel a thing. Tears would serve no tactical purpose. They would simply expend energy and signal distress.
Instead, I focused my new, ridiculously powerful infant eyes on the man's face, on my new father. Toshinori's muscle form was now flickering, threatening to retreat to his skeletal, post-injury state. I analyzed the flicker, the strain, the sheer weight of his sorrow.
I am not dead. Therefore, you do not need to grieve.
The message was clear in my silent, steady gaze. The man gasped, the breath rushing back into his enormous chest cavity, and a sound of sheer, unadulterated relief escaped him. He didn't understand the complex logic I was processing, but he understood the fact of my living presence.
My name, my consciousness, my self: Kiyomi Kurayami was gone. I was now Mirai Yagi, daughter of the Symbol of Peace. I was a blank slate overlaid with the architecture of a former machine.
My curiosity, boundless and insatiable, immediately took over. The philosophical dilemma was shelved—it was resolved by empirical data. The only remaining question was: What does this new reality have to teach me?
(Three Years Later)
Three years had passed in a blur of forced domesticity, constant observation, and strategic learning. For Clara Yagi, the years were a study in escalating paranoia. Her daughter, Mirai, was not a normal child.
Mirai didn't have tantrums; she conducted experiments. She didn't play with toys; she dismantled and reassembled them, testing material resistance and structural integrity. Her sentences were perfectly formed, her logic impeccable. She had already mastered basic reading and arithmetic, and her amethyst eyes possessed a preternatural focus that could unnerve even a veteran hero.
The former Hero had installed child-proof locks, reinforced windows, and soft padding, but her anxiety focused on the core issue: the silence. Mirai had only cried once, as an infant, a sharp, single gasp of air when a nurse administered a shot, and never again. Her default state was a quiet, emotionless pursuit of knowledge.
Today, the scene was a small, well-manicured park—chosen for its low population density and proximity to an emergency hospital. Toshinori, in his civilian form, was buying juice from a vendor, trying to blend in. Clara was a few feet away, disguised in civilian clothes, watching her three-year-old.
Mirai wasn't playing. She was training. She was running a timed circuit around the perimeter of the playground, her small body executing perfect biomechanical form. She had to get used to her new body.
s Clara watched, her heart hammered a nervous rhythm against her ribs. Mirai was attempting a maneuver she'd seen her mother practice in old training videos: the "Stutter Step," a rapid series of minute course corrections designed to throw off an opponent's timing. For a three-year-old, it was absurd.
Mirai was running at a speed that was already far too fast for a normal toddler, her golden blonde hair bouncing behind her. She moved with an eerie, almost professional grace, her movements economical and precise.
Then, the air cracked.
It wasn't a sound one heard; it was a physical shockwave one felt.
One moment, Mirai was moving at a fast clip; the next, she was a barely visible streak of purple and blue. Her speed hadn't just doubled—it had undergone a geometric progression. It was a jump into the incomprehensible, a transformation from fast to Supernatural Speed.
The tiny streak of energy, utterly unable to process this sudden, violent increase in velocity, couldn't execute the next Stutter Step. Instead, she rocketed straight toward the nearest large obstacle: a centuries-old oak tree.
"MIRAI!" Clara's cry was swallowed by the sudden, intense rush of wind. She activated her Lockdown Quirk instinctively, her hand reaching out, ready to make contact and suppress whatever enhancement she was witnessing, but her daughter was already past her.
The impact was not the fleshy thud of a child hitting wood. It was the sound of a high-velocity shell striking reinforced steel.
The oak tree shuddered, its trunk splitting open in a massive, star-shaped fissure. Leaves rained down as if hit by a sudden, localized typhoon.
Mirai, however, did not fall. She bounced.
She recoiled from the massive tree trunk, landing lightly on her feet, a meter away. Her eyes, still the calm, analytical purple, blinked once, processing the sudden stop.
Clara was there in an instant, her heart threatening to burst through her chest. She knelt, her hands flying over Mirai's small body, checking for the inevitable catastrophic injuries. A broken neck. A fractured skull. Compound fractures in her legs. The list of possibilities was a terrifying catalogue of tragedy.
There was nothing.
Not a scrape. Not a bruise. Not even a slight reddening of the skin where the sheer kinetic force of a near-light-speed collision should have turned her into a smear.
Mirai simply looked up at her mother, her face devoid of pain, shock, or fear.
"My speed has been logarithmically enhanced, Mother," Mirai stated in her unnervingly precise, emotionless tone. "The immediate spike suggests an emergent factor, likely the activation of my Quirk."
Toshinori, now rushing over, looked from the fissured tree to his perfectly fine daughter, his mouth agape. "C-Clara, what... what was that?"
Clara, the pragmatic hero who faced villains with calculating certainty, felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. This wasn't a Quirk; it was an act of nature. It was an anomaly. And the fact that Mirai had been hurt, even momentarily, shattered her resolve.
"We're going to the doctor now." Clara whispered, her voice rough.
(Later)
A frantic forty-eight hours later, Mirai, now bundled in a violet sweater, sat quietly on an examination table in the office of Dr. Tsubasa, a licensed Quirk specialist with high-end, advanced diagnostic technology. Toshinori Yagi sat beside her, within his muscle form, his anxiety palpable. Clara Yagi stood opposite, her arms crossed, every fiber of her retired-hero discipline strained by a fierce, maternal worry.
"Well, this is certainly an unusual spike, Toshinori, Clara," Dr. Tsubasa said, adjusting his glasses. He was a small, kind-looking man with a few feathery mutations on his head—a common sight in a world of Quirks. "But don't worry. The trauma she endured simply confirms her Supernatural Durability. Let's try to analyze the source of the speed, shall we?"
He wheeled over a device that looked like a cross between a medical scanner and a piece of high-end particle physics equipment. It hummed to life, projecting a vibrant blue field around Mirai. This was the newest generation of Quirk analysis gear, capable of mapping the Quirk Factor's complex genetic expression and energy output.
The scanner began its job. Numbers flashed across the screen, escalating rapidly as the device attempted to measure Mirai's output.
450...900...1,500...
The doctor's brow furrowed. The readings were exponentially higher than anything the device was rated for, spiking past the threshold for even the most powerful Emitter or Mutation Quirks.
5,000...10,000...
Then, with a sound like a wet cough and a sudden shower of sparks, the device went dark. A thin plume of acrid smoke curled from the main vent.
"Oh, dear," Dr. Tsubasa muttered, removing his glasses. "It appears the power output, or perhaps the sheer complexity of the factor, overloaded the sensor array. A shame; that unit was only three months old. And given the equipment failure, I suppose we'll have to use the backup method."
Clara's amethyst eyes narrowed slightly. "Backup?"
Dr. Tsubasa produced a laminated card from his pocket, showing a special governmental seal. "As a certified Quirk Registrar, I have special authorization to use my personal Quirk for analysis when the machinery is unavailable or when the case is deemed... unprecedented."
He gave a meaningful look toward the broken machine. "My Quirk is Data-Touch. By making direct contact, I can gather information on the biological and metaphysical composition of an individual's Quirk Factor. It's usually reserved for emergency processing or high-priority cases."
"Use it," Clara commanded, her voice sharp and uncompromising.
The doctor nodded, flipping a small plaque on his wall that confirmed his unique Quirk authorization, a waiver granted for situations exactly like this. He approached Mirai, his hand extended.
"Now, Mirai," he said gently. "I just need to touch your head for a second. It will give me a better reading than any machine, all right?"
Mirai's purple eyes, which had been observing the failed machine with detached curiosity, now focused entirely on the doctor's approaching hand.
"Understood," she replied, her voice still unnervingly steady.
Dr. Tsubasa's fingertips made contact with the crown of Mirai's golden-blonde hair.
The moment of contact should have been accompanied by a rush of sensory data—a vivid, almost spiritual blueprint of the child's Quirk Factor flooding the doctor's mind. His Quirk had never failed. It could analyze and break down the genetics of any known ability.
But there was nothing. No blueprint. No surge of information. Only a profound, unnatural silence.
The doctor's eyes went wide with shock. He pulled his hand back as if burned.
Usually, the information would flood his mind—a stream of genetic markers, energy type, potential limitations, and classification. It was never a flash of insight; it was always a slow, steady influx of data.
But now, there was only silence. Not the pristine, analytical silence Mirai experienced, but a genuine nothingness.
He pulled his hand back, shaking it slightly. "It... it didn't work."
"Didn't work, Doctor?" Toshinori asked, the tremor in his voice returning.
"No. It's like... touching a wall. A smooth, seamless barrier," Dr. Tsubasa explained, baffled. "The Quirk Factor is definitely there, I can feel the biological presence of it. But my Quirk is unable to read it. It's completely nullified.
He looked at Mirai, a faint, nervous sweat breaking out on his face. "In my thirty years of using my Quirk to help out, I've never encountered a Quirk—Emitter, Mutation, Transformation or Hybrid otherwise that could negate my analysis ability."
Clara stood up, her posture radiating controlled intensity. This confirmed her deepest fear: Mirai's ability was not just enhanced; it was extralogical.
"Toshinori," she said, her voice low and steady. "We're going to UA. Now."
Mirai, meanwhile, blinked. An entirely new set of data had just rushed into her consciousness.
The Doctor's Quirk has been nullified.
She had expected the Supernatural Physicals; the speed and durability were already evident, and she could literally tell she was stronger. Plus her enhanced senses were becoming a bit... annoying. But the total, instantaneous suppression of an active, Emitter-type Quirk on contact was a revelation.
It provided a powerful, undeniable clue as to the ultimate nature of her abilities.
'OFA left an ember behind, fusing with Mom's... lockdown. Resulting in this Quirk. It's a Mutation type certainly that grants, Supernatural Strength, Speed, Reflexes, Durability, Stamina, and Endurance whilst also making all 5 of my base senses Supernatural... added onto that is the power to Negate and outright destroy Quirks. Is that why it cannot be analysed? It's so complex that... it's Unknown.' Mirai had solved the puzzle herself, but kept the thoughts to herself.
She was certain Nezu would piece it together.
(Even Later)
The journey to U.A. High School was conducted with utmost secrecy, a necessary precaution given the nature of Toshinori Yagi's civilian form and the unsettling mystery of his daughter's Quirk. They were ushered into a private, heavily shielded laboratory deep within the U.A. complex, where only a few top scientists and Principal Nezu himself were authorized.
Principal Nezu, the brilliant, unsettlingly perceptive animal with a Quirk that granted him Super-Intelligence, sat perched on a reinforced chair. He greeted them with a polite, almost amused smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Clara-san, Toshinori-kun. Thank you for coming," Nezu chirped. "I've heard quite the fascinating report from Dr. Tsubasa. A complete nullification of his Data-Touch Quirk. Highly unusual. Please, place young Mirai on the analysis platform."
This platform was leagues beyond the civilian equipment. It was designed to withstand the raw power of even top-tier Pro Heroes, boasting sensors capable of measuring the output of pure energy Quirks like Hellflame or the sheer force of a fully powered Detroit Smash.
Mirai was set down on the platform. She didn't squirm or fuss. Instead, her purple eyes were fixed on Nezu, analyzing his every micro-expression, a detached respect blooming in her mind. 'This creature possesses a level of intellect that demands attention. A genuine curiosity.'
The new equipment hummed, a softer, deeper sound than the one that had accompanied the previous, doomed machine. A green laser grid enveloped Mirai, attempting to map the very structure of her Quirk Factor, a process that should have taken seconds.
Instead, the green grid flickered, wavered, and then simply dissolved, as if the space around Mirai had no information for it to read.
A specialist in the corner swore under his breath. Nezu merely took a sip of tea.
"Well," the principal mused, setting his cup down. "It seems the issue isn't hardware related. It's... metaphysical. The Quirk Factor is rejecting all attempts at classification and measurement."
Clara watched, her arms still tightly crossed, her voice clipped. "We need to know what it is, Nezu. It awakened with catastrophic speed and zero control. She could level a city block without meaning to."
Toshinori, now leaning against a wall, looked down at his skeletal hands. "We just need a name. A category. Something to work with."
Mirai, ever analytical, spoke for the first time, her voice a calm, perfectly modulated instrument. "The designation 'Unknown' appears to be the most accurate categorization, given the empirical data."
Nezu turned his attention fully to the child, his small head tilted. "A fine assessment, Mirai-chan. But 'Unknown' is merely a lack of information. I prefer to deduce the source of the lack of information."
He stepped closer to the platform, his gaze intense. "Clara-san, your Quirk is Lockdown, an Emitter that seals or suppresses another's Quirk through contact. Toshinori-kun, your Quirk, One For All, is an inherited stockpile of power and Quirk Factors."
He tapped a tiny, polished fingernail on the analysis platform.
"The physical manifestations—the incomprehensible speed and durability—are self-evident. But the nullification of Dr. Tsubasa's Quirk... that is the Rosetta Stone here. It is an act of total Quirk rejection. Not a gentle 'sealing,' but an instantaneous, absolute negation."
He looked directly at Clara and then at Toshinori, his tone shifting from academic curiosity to profound realization.
"It seems that during Mirai-chan's conception, a spark of the colossal energy and accumulated Quirk Factor that is One For All was passed on—not the Quirk itself, but a singular, embryonic ember of its raw, limitless potential. This ember did not inherit the ability to be passed on, nor did it contain the memory of its predecessors. Instead, it fused with the Quirk Factor she was meant to inherit from Clara-san's lineage."
He gestured to the deactivated equipment.
"The resulting Quirk is a Mutation that grants limitless physical superiority. Crucially, the fusion of your suppression Quirk, Clara-san, with the raw, unstable power of the OFA ember, has created an ability to negate and destroy other Quirks on contact, a feature of power so absolute it literally interferes with the laws of physics and the ability of our machines to categorize it. It is a force of nature, a contradiction that defies the current classification system."
Mirai tilted her head slightly, her internal thought process aligning perfectly with the Principal's deduction. Her hypothesis had been confirmed. The complex, overwhelming nature of the ability was the very reason for its unclassifiable status.
The silence in the room was not the blank emptiness of the doctor's nullified Quirk, but a loaded, heavy realization. The daughter of the Symbol of Peace was, quite literally, the world's most powerful anomaly.