I'm sixteen years old, and according to every official metric that matters in this society, I'm already behind
My name is Ken. Ken Walker Aizawa I took my mother's last name officially, though my father's name still sits in the middle like a quiet reminder of where I come from. My father is Japanese. My mother is American. I was born here, raised here, and like most people my age, I grew up watching heroes on the screen and wondering where I'd fit among them.
This is a world where having a quirk is normal. Having a good one is what makes the difference.
Mine is… complicated.
A year from now, students my age will start testing into hero courses, chasing their shot at U.A. High School, the place everyone knows even if they pretend they don't care. For as long as I can remember, that's where I've wanted to go. Not because it's famous, but because it represents something simple: the idea that power can be used responsibly, publicly, and for the sake of others.
That idea didn't come from nowhere.
My grandfather—everyone calls him Grandpa Max—used to be a hero back in the United States. He's retired now. Older, slower, happier. These days he talks more about fishing spots than villains, but when I was younger, he used to tell stories. Not about winning fights, but about showing up when people needed help. About staying calm when things went wrong. About choosing to act when it would've been easier not to.
All Might feels like that idea made flesh. Bigger, louder, more symbolic—but the same spirit. Seeing him didn't make me want fame. It made me want to measure up.
Outside, the city moves like it always does.
Trains pass overhead. Sidewalks fill and empty. Billboards cycle through hero advertisements and safety notices. Quirks flash in small, everyday ways—heated hands warming drinks, reinforced skin shrugging off minor impacts, people adapting to the world they were born into. This is normal. This is life.
Somewhere in this noise, I exist as just another teenager walking home, school bag slung over one shoulder, the weight of expectations sitting heavier than the fabric.
The thing on my wrist looks like a watch.
It always has.
The face is circular, thicker than most modern designs, with markings that don't really resemble numbers. It doesn't tick. It doesn't need charging. No matter how much I've tried to break it, scratch it, or take it apart, it's always there when I wake up the next morning, perfectly intact
I call my quirk Omnitrix.
The name came from Grandpa Max. He said it sounded cool. I was six at the time, and that was enough for me. Even now, I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's stuck. At this point, changing it would feel wrong
My parents' quirks are straightforward enough on paper.
My mother's quirk is Adaptation—temporary and reactive. Her body adjusts to immediate threats, but only briefly. Heat resistance fades when the danger passes. Reinforced muscles weaken once the strain is gone. Useful, but not permanent.
My father's quirk is Material Shift. He can transform his body into the properties of a material he's touching. Stone, steel, wood—but only one at a time, and only while maintaining contact. Strong, but limited.
Mine sits somewhere between them, warped into something neither of them fully understands.
For the first six years of my life, I thought I was quirkless.
The doctors said my joints suggested otherwise. No extra toe bone. No obvious mutation. They told my parents it might manifest late, or express itself in a non-physical way. Telekinesis. Energy projection. Something subtle. They were half right. It happened when I fell. I don't remember all the details clearly—just the wind, the sudden tilt, the sickening drop. I'd been climbing a ladder. Why, I don't remember. Curiosity, probably. I always liked climbing things.
The ground rushed up.
And then it didn't. Instead, fire wrapped around me. When I hit the ground, I wasn't human anymore. I was smaller than I am now—maybe four and a half feet tall—but heavier, denser. My body looked like living rock, cracked and glowing from within, magma pulsing through dark stone plates. Heat rolled off me in waves. At the center of my chest was a symbol I'd never seen before: a watch-like emblem embedded into my body, glowing faintly. Later, I'd name that form Heatblast. At the time, I was just screaming
That was the first transformation. Since then, I've unlocked ten. Each one different. Each one powerful in its own way. Strength. Speed. Fire. Crystals. Extra limbs. Abilities that would qualify as full quirks on their own if they belonged to someone else.
Transforming takes energy. Using their abilities takes more. I eat a lot. That's never really been a problem.
Control is the problem.
I don't choose what I turn into—not reliably. Sometimes I aim for Heatblast and get something else entirely. Diamond instead of fire. Muscle instead of speed. The watch responds, but not always how I want it to. It feels like it's reacting to something I can't see yet.
Still, even with the randomness, I know one thing for sure. This quirk is strong.
Strong enough that if I learn to use it properly—if I master these forms instead of fighting them—I can become a hero. Not the loudest. Not the strongest. But someone reliable. Someone adaptable. Someone who shows up
I don't know everything about my quirk yet. There are rules I've noticed. Patterns I don't understand. Reactions that feel automatic, almost defensive. I'm sure there's more buried in it than I've seen so far.
But I've got time.
One year, to be exact.
The walk to school is familiar enough that I barely have to think about it. My uniform itches slightly at the collar as I move, black jacket hanging loose over my shoulders, the morning air cool but not uncomfortable. I pass storefronts just opening for the day, a convenience store clerk sweeping the sidewalk, a couple of commuters already glued to their phones. Quirks show up in small ways—someone warming their hands with a flicker of heat, another stretching unnaturally far to grab something off a shelf.
Normal stuff. I catch my reflection in a window as I pass. Brown hair, a little messy no matter how much I try to tame it. Green eyes—my mother's, apparently. I stand just under five-foot-nine. Not tall, not short. Comfortable. Still growing, I hope I'm built like someone who hasn't committed to the gym yet.
Skinny, a little lanky, more endurance than strength. It's something I've been thinking about more lately. If I'm serious about U.A.—and I am—then relying on my quirk alone isn't enough. Every hero worth remembering trains their body as much as their power.
Maybe I'll bring it up with my parents tonight.
There are a few months left before graduation, and after that, a stretch of free time before the entrance exams. That window matters. If I start now, even a little progress could mean the difference between passing and watching from the sidelines.
The school gates come into view, already crowded.
My high school isn't anything special. Concrete buildings, wide halls, functional classrooms. No hero course, no flashy training grounds. Just a general education school like thousands of others across the country. Still, quirks are everywhere. You can't avoid them, even when they're not the focus.
As I step inside, the noise rises—lockers slamming, conversations overlapping, footsteps echoing off the floors. Posters line the walls, some advertising school events, others reminding students about quirk safety regulations. Standard stuff.
I spot a few familiar figures down the hall.
A blonde guy laughing too loud, electricity crackling faintly around his fingertips—Kaminari Denki, if I remember right. His quirk generates electricity, but from what I've heard, it comes with a drawback when he overuses it. High output, low recovery. Dangerous if mishandled.
Nearby, a girl I can't actually see, but whose presence is obvious by the way people subtly avoid bumping into her—Hagakure. Invisibility. Always thought that one would be disorienting to live with
Further down, a tall figure with a bird-like head walks quietly, a shadow stretching unnaturally behind him despite the indoor lighting. Tokoyami. His quirk manifests as a sentient shadow. Powerful, but moody, from what I've gathered.
They're not in my class. Same grade, different sections. Still, it's hard not to notice people like that. I've always paid attention to quirks—how they work, what they cost, what they enable. Maybe that curiosity comes from growing up unsure what mine even was.
I head into my classroom and take my usual seat near the window.
The room settles slowly as students file in, conversations fading into background noise. Desks scrape against the floor. Someone yawns loudly. Outside, clouds drift lazily across the sky.
Classes pass without much incident.
Notes. Lectures. The usual mental balancing act between paying attention and letting my thoughts wander. Somewhere between math problems and historical hero case studies, my mind drifts back to training. To control. To the watch on my wrist, hidden beneath my sleeve.
By the time the final bell rings, I'm already mentally halfway home.
The walk back feels shorter. Maybe that's just impatience.
Our house sits in a quiet neighborhood, modest but comfortable. A small yard out front, a fence I never bothered repainting. The door opens before I can knock
"Ken!" Gwen's voice hits me like a projectile.
She's shorter than me, younger by a few years, with the same brown hair but tied back in a loose ponytail. Her eyes are sharp, always curious, always analyzing something. She barrels into me without hesitation.
"You're late," she says.
"I'm on time," I reply, stepping inside.
The house smells like dinner already cooking.
My mother—Emily Walker—stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, calm as ever. She glances over her shoulder and smiles. "School okay?"
"Same as usual."
My father, Hiroshi Aizawa, sits at the table, reading. He looks up briefly, nods once, and goes back to his page. That's his version of a greeting.
The living room feels grounded. Safe. Familiar.
I pet the dog on my way past—Rusty, old and lazy, tail thumping against the floor. The cat—Ember, ironically—barely acknowledges my existence from her perch.
I drop my bag by the stairs and pause.
This is it. The moment I've been circling all day.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual. "I was thinking… after graduation, before the U.A. exams… maybe I could start training more seriously. Like a gym. Proper conditioning."
My parents exchange a glance.
Gwen leans forward, eyes lighting up
I wait
My mom is the first one to speak.
She doesn't sound surprised. If anything, she sounds relieved.
"That's not a bad idea," she says, turning back to the stove. "You've been talking about U.A. for years now. If you're serious, starting early makes sense."
My dad looks up from the table, considering it for a moment before nodding. "Training your body will help your control. No matter what your quirk does, stamina and discipline matter."
That… goes smoother than I expected.
I glance between them. "So—yes?"
My mom smiles, but there's a look in her eyes I recognize. The condition look.
"Yes," she says, "with rules."
Of course.
She turns fully toward me now, arms crossed. "You and your dad can go look at gyms together. He knows what to look for. Equipment, atmosphere, safety. But this only works if you stay consistent."
I open my mouth, then close it.
She doesn't give me a chance to interrupt
"Football," she continues, counting on her fingers. "Two months. Badminton? Two weeks. Swimming lessons? You begged for those, and then quit the moment it got difficult."
"I was busy," I protest weakly.
She raises an eyebrow. "You were twelve."
Dad snorts quietly into his tea.
"This isn't a phase project," she says, softer now. "If you're doing this because you want to be a hero, then you finish it. No dropping out halfway."
She pauses, then adds with a small smile, "Heroes don't quit because they get bored."
The jab lands, but it's gentle.
"I get it," I say. "I'll stick with it."
Gwen, who's been listening with far too much interest, suddenly lights up.
"I wanna join too!"
Both my parents speak at once.
"No."
She pouts instantly. "That's not fair!"
Dad leans back in his chair. "You're still growing. Focus on school for now."
"I'm growing too," I say.
He looks me up and down once, expression perfectly neutral. "You're not getting any taller."
I scowl. "You're not six foot either."
Gwen giggles.
Mom sighs, shaking her head. "Dinner's ready. Sit down before this turns into a competition."
The conversation shifts after that—small talk, school updates, Gwen rambling about something she learned that day. The food's good. Comforting. Normal. For a moment, the weight of everything else eases.
After dinner, I help clear the table, take my plate to the sink, and head upstairs before anyone can stop me
My room is exactly what you'd expect from a sixteen-year-old who never quite figured out when to let things go.
Posters line the walls—heroes, athletes, a couple of old games I don't even play anymore. There's a small desk shoved against the wall with a PC setup that's seen better days, wires just barely organized enough to pass as intentional. A shelf above it holds old trophies from things I never finished: a football plaque, a badminton medal, a participation award that still annoys me when I look at it.
A few boxes sit in the corner. Old toys. Stuff I used to care about. I tell myself I'll throw them out someday. I never do.
I shut the door behind me and let out a slow breath.
The watch rests against my wrist, warm in that familiar, unreadable way.
Up close, it looks less like technology and more like something grown rather than built. The band isn't metal or plastic—it's smooth, organic, almost like reinforced skin fused seamlessly around my arm. The face is circular, slightly raised, with a black-and-white hourglass symbol set into a green-lit core. No numbers. No buttons. Just a dial recessed into the surface, faintly glowing.
The design reminds me of something sleeker than the older hero tech you see on TV. Clean. Purposeful. Like it knows exactly what it's doing even if I don't.
I sit down on the edge of my bed and roll my sleeve up Alright," I mutter. "Let's do this properly." My thumb presses into the center of the watch.
The face depresses slightly, responding to the pressure, and the green glow intensifies. With a practiced motion, I twist the dial. Silhouettes flicker beneath the surface—brief, half-formed shapes sliding past one another like shadows behind glass.
I stop
This one. I've always had a bad habit of slamming it.
I bring my palm down. The watch flashes.
Green light spills outward, sharp and vivid, filling my room in an instant. The air hums—not loudly, but insistently, like a machine spinning up somewhere deep inside me.
My body reacts immediately.
My center of gravity drops. The floor rushes up as my perspective lowers, the room stretching taller around me. Bones compress. Muscles tighten, then rearrange. It's not painful—but it's invasive, like my body is being rewritten from the inside out.
My thoughts blur for a split second.
Then the fog clears.
Not all at once. It peels back in layers.
It feels like someone has taken a weight off my mind that I never realized was there. Concepts I normally have to reach for settle neatly into place. Connections form faster than I can consciously track, not branching wildly, but aligning—clean, efficient, precise.
My vision sharpen
Details pop. Dust in the air. Microfractures in the desk surface. The faint electrical hum of my PC, suddenly distinguishable from the ambient noise of the house.
I leap instinctively, catching the edge of my desk as my transformation finishes mid-motion. I land smoothly, fingers gripping the wood with ease.
When the light fades, I'm no longer standing on the floor.
I'm standing on my desk.
Five inches tall.
My body is small, compact, built for efficiency rather than strength. Skin smooth and grey, limbs slender but precise. Large eyes dominate my face, taking in far more information than they ever should. The Omnitrix symbol is embedded into my upper back, faintly glowing, the same green hourglass pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
Grey Matter.
I take a breath—and immediately notice the difference
Airflow patterns shift around me. Temperature gradients register without effort. The world doesn't feel louder or faster—it feels clearer. Like static has been removed from every sense at once.
Thoughts come in sequence, not chaos.
One line of reasoning at a time—but each one deep, layered, and complete.
I look at my desk, and without trying, I understand its construction. The weak points. The way the screws were over-tightened. The exact angle I'd need to apply force to dismantle it without damaging the surface.
I blink.
Right. Focus.
This isn't about showing off.
I walk across the desk, each step measured, controlled. Balance comes naturally. My smaller body doesn't feel limiting—it feels optimized. Less waste. Less distraction.
I climb onto a stack of notebooks and peer down at the floor below. The drop looks enormous now, distances exaggerated by my size. Still, there's no fear—just calculation.
I crouch
Jump trajectory. Air resistance. Impact tolerance.
I shake my head slightly, forcing myself to stop before I disappear down a mental rabbit hole.
That's the thing about this form.
It doesn't flood my mind with ideas. It refines them. One problem at a time, taken apart and solved properly. Slowly, thoroughly, relentlessly.
I sit down, legs dangling over the edge of the notebook, and look back at my human-sized room.
Same place. Same life.
Different angle.
The watch pulses once against my back, steady and patient.
I don't know how long I stay like that—thinking, observing, letting the clarity settle in—but eventually, I know I can't stay transformed much longer. Energy drains faster in this form, not physically, but mentally. Sustained focus takes its toll.
I press the symbol.
Green light flashes again.
The world stretches upward
A moment later, I'm human, sitting on my bed, heart racing.
I exhale slowly.
Ten forms.
Ten different ways of seeing the world.
And I'm only just beginning to understand what that really means
so I'll tell you why I actually transformed to Grey matter it was to get a idea of what's my next step and what we do in When I start doing gym as this was one of my smartest forms, I had much better than my normal self
And there was another site to do it. I just wanted to transform It's always fun to transform getting perspective from another life entirely and each form thinks differently. Priorities are different the way my body reacts. Maybe I'm a fight junkie but there's no fight actually happening but it makes the blood pumping or whatever you would say for heat blast or Diamondhead but now I have a idea of what I'm gonna do in the gym or at least what's my plan going forward