Chapter 2: The Silent Watch and the Four-Year Countdown
For a man who had spent his previous life managing databases and arguing with strangers on the internet about fictional power-scaling, being a toddler was the ultimate test of patience. The green screen I had seen in my final moments—the promise of the Omnimatrix—was the only thing that kept me from descending into a total existential crisis as I sat in a high chair, being fed mashed sweet potatoes.
I was two and a half years old. In the world of My Hero Academia, this was the "Pre-Quirk Era." Most kids were just beginning to show the faintest signs of their genetic destiny. A girl at my daycare had started sneezing out tiny bubbles; a boy in the park had fingers that could stretch like rubber bands.
I, on the other hand, had nothing but a bare left wrist and an adult-sized case of anxiety.
Every morning, the routine was the same. I would wake up in my race-car bed, the sunlight filtering through the curtains of our modest Mustafu apartment, and the first thing I would do was check my arm. I'd rub the skin, pressing down where the heavy metal of the Omnitrix should have been. I'd squeeze my wrist, hoping to trigger a hidden sensor or a holographic interface.
Nothing. Just soft, chubby toddler skin.
"Kenji-chan! Breakfast is ready!" my mother, Emiko, called from the kitchen.
I rolled out of bed, my small feet hitting the carpet with a soft thud. I was "The Little Shadow" of the house. I didn't cry, I didn't throw tantrums, and I didn't babble. I walked with a purpose that often unnerved my father, Hiroshi.
Walking into the kitchen, I saw the daily display of "average" quirks. My mother was humming a tune, her skin glowing a warm, sunny yellow that lit up the breakfast nook better than any LED bulb. My father was frantically "Flash-Stepping" back and forth between the toaster and the coffee machine. Each "step" was only about four inches long, accompanied by a faint pop sound, making him look like a glitching video game character.
"Good morning, our little genius!" Hiroshi chirped, nearly tripping over his own feet as he landed a plate of eggs on the table. "Look at you, up early again. Thinking about the mysteries of the universe?"
I gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. I'm thinking about why a cosmic god-tier device hasn't manifested on my arm yet, Dad. "Eggs," I said simply. I had to keep the vocabulary limited. If I started explaining the socioeconomic impact of Hero Agencies on urban development, they'd probably turn me over to a government research facility before I ever got the chance to turn into a Pyronite.
The Troublemaker Phase
As I moved closer to my third birthday, the boredom became a physical weight. Imagine having a brain that remembers the plot of every movie, the lyrics to every song, and the complex mechanics of fictional universes, but having to spend your day stacking wooden blocks.
So, I became a "troublemaker." Not the kind who breaks things—I was far too efficient for that. I was a psychological troublemaker.
It started with "The Great Silent Migration."
One afternoon, while my mom was focused on her digital art, her skin glowing a focused, neon green, I decided to test the structural integrity of the living room. I didn't just play with my blocks; I used my adult knowledge of physics and weight distribution. I spent three hours moving every single piece of lightweight furniture—stools, cushions, small tables—and built a sprawling, multi-tiered obstacle course that led from my bedroom door to the top of the refrigerator.
When my mom finally stood up to stretch, she found her two-year-old son sitting on top of the fridge, calmly eating a juice box while surveying the room like a king.
"Hiroshi!" she shrieked, her skin flashing a panicked, strobing red. "He's on the fridge! How did he get on the fridge?! He can't even reach the counter!"
My dad rushed in, did a three-inch flash-step, and stared at the bridge of cushions and stools I'd constructed. "It's... it's structurally sound," he whispered, poking a cushion. "He didn't use a Quirk. He used... civil engineering."
"He's too smart, Hiroshi! It's not normal!"
I just sucked on my straw and swung my legs. I needed them to stay on their toes. If they thought I was a genius, they'd be less likely to freak out when I eventually turned into a ten-foot-tall dinosaur.
The Anxiety of the Third Year
The year between three and four was the hardest. In this society, four is the expiration date for "normalcy." If your Quirk hasn't manifested by then, the world starts looking at you with pity.
I spent my days at the local park, sitting on a bench and watching the other kids. I saw a boy who could make his hair stand up like needles. I saw a girl who could change the color of her eyes. Every time I saw a Quirk, I felt a pang of jealousy that was almost painful.
I saved a kid, I'd tell the universe, staring at the blue sky. I died for this. Where is the payoff?
The lack of an interface was the worst part. In the stories I'd read, there was always a voice, a "System," or a "Status Window." Here, I had nothing but silence. I began to wonder if the green screen I saw while I was dying was just a final hallucination—a trick of a dying brain trying to comfort itself with its favorite show.
Maybe I wasn't the Hero of 1,000 Faces. Maybe I was just Kenji, a kid with a weirdly high IQ and a very disappointing birthday coming up.
To cope, I doubled down on my "Quirk Research." I started stealing my dad's laptop. I'd wait until they were asleep, then I'd navigate to hero forums and quirk-registry databases. I wanted to see if anyone else had a "Watch-type" quirk.
I found plenty of "Tool-type" quirks—people with built-in compasses or literal clocks in their chests—but nothing that resembled the Omnitrix. The more I researched, the more isolated I felt.
My parents noticed the change. I stopped building block towers. I stopped the pranks. I spent most of my time staring at my left wrist, my thumb tracing circles over the skin.
"He's worried about his Quirk," I heard Emiko whisper to Hiroshi one night. They were standing in the hallway, thinking I was asleep. "He sees the other kids at the park. He knows he's different."
"He's so smart, Emiko," Hiroshi replied, his voice heavy. "Maybe his brain is his quirk. But the world is cruel to people who don't have something... flashy. Especially in a city like this."
I rolled over in bed, clenching my fist. It's coming, I told myself. It has to.
The Eve of the Fourth
The night before my fourth birthday, the Mustafu air was thick and humid. A storm was rolling in from the coast, the distant rumble of thunder echoing the heartbeat in my chest.
I couldn't sleep. My left wrist was itching. Not a normal itch, but a deep, internal heat, like the bone itself was vibrating. I sat up in bed, my breath coming in short gasps.
"Is this it?" I whispered.
I looked at my wrist. For a split second, I thought I saw a faint, emerald-green glow beneath the skin—a vein of light that pulsed once, twice, and then vanished.
I stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the streetlights flickered as the wind picked up. I looked at the clock on my wall. 11:58 PM. Two minutes until I was officially four years old. Two minutes until the deadline.
The heat in my arm intensified. It started to hurt—a dull, throbbing ache that felt like metal was being fused to my soul. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. I didn't want to wake my parents yet. Not until I knew for sure.
11:59 PM.
I gripped my wrist with my right hand. The skin felt hot to the touch. The air in the room seemed to hum. The "static" I had felt for years was reaching a crescendo. It felt like a mountain of data was trying to squeeze through a needle's eye.
Come on, I pleaded. Don't let me be quirkless. Don't let this all be for nothing.
The clock clicked. 12:00 AM.
For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence. Even the thunder stopped.
Then, a shockwave of green energy exploded from my wrist. It wasn't fire, and it wasn't light—it was pure information made manifest. It threw me backward, my small body hitting the wall with a thud.
The room was bathed in a blinding, neon emerald. I looked down at my arm, and my heart nearly stopped.
A thick, black-and-white gauntlet was slowly materializing out of the air, wrapping itself around my forearm. I could hear the mechanical whir and click of gears locking into place. The weight was immense, pulling my arm down.
In the center of the device, a circular faceplate rose up. A glowing green hourglass symbol flickered to life, casting a shadow of the DNA icon against the ceiling.
"Finally," I breathed, my voice trembling.
But something was wrong.
The watch began to beep—a rapid, aggressive red-alert sound. The green light turned a violent, warning crimson. The faceplate didn't show a silhouette of an alien. It showed a scrolling list of errors.
[ERROR: QUIRK-SYSTEM INTERFERENCE DETECTED.]
[BIOLOGICAL INCOMPATIBILITY: 44%.]
[DNA SAMPLES LOCKED.]
[USER VITALITY: CRITICAL.]
My vision blurred. The "Watch" wasn't just sitting on my arm; it was sinking into it. I felt a searing pain as the device attempted to synchronize with my Quirk-gene—a gene I wasn't supposed to have.
Suddenly, the door to my room burst open. My parents stood there, bathed in the red light of the malfunctioning Omnitrix.
"Kenji?!" my dad screamed, his skin flashing a frantic, jagged white.
I tried to reach out to them, but the watch let out a high-pitched, piercing shriek. A burst of red energy threw my parents back into the hallway, and the floor beneath me began to crack.
I looked at the faceplate one last time before the world turned black. The red light shifted back to green for a fraction of a second, and a single name scrolled across the display:
[EMERGENCY PROTOCOL: FEEDBACK INITIALIZED.]
My body felt like it was being pulled apart into a billion atoms, and the last thing I heard was the sound of my own voice—deeper, crackling with electricity—screaming a word I hadn't used in two lifetimes.
"H-HE... HELP!"
Author's Note: Hey everyone! Thanks for sticking with the slow-burn start. I really wanted to emphasize the weight of the wait. In this world, the Omnitrix isn't just a "magic item"—it's a piece of advanced technology trying to exist in a world governed by biological Quirks. That "glitch" we just saw? That's going to be the foundation for how Kenji's powers work compared to the original Ben 10. Stay tuned for the next chapter where we see the aftermath of the "Big Bang
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