Fractured Wings

I have killed before. 

Before Nine, before Abyss.

It was while I was part of the Eden's Project. 

I remember the first time it happened. Not the face or even the gender of the person though. I think I had blocked that out, all I remember when it comes to any kind of identity was the fact that they were called Subject number 17. 

The sharp snap of action, the sound of him hitting the ground. I didn't think, didn't pause. And when it was over, I slowly started to realize that I had already begun letting instinct take over. Like the way animals moved when faced with a predator. 

At first I thought I felt anger, guilt or even disgust. But there was nothing. Just silence, like a dull hum in the back of my mind. It felt like I had done the right thing, followed the right steps for survival. 

I didn't argue. I learned quickly, that hesitation was no option. I acted because if I didn't, I would be the one lying in his own pool of blood, or struggling for a basic human right such as air, while dying. 

The lines blurred and by the end of it all, I was different. 

I was free of the facility when I was 12. But I didn't immediately return home. Honestly, I even forgot I had one, forgot I had a family. And even when they came back to memory, I just didn't care. 

I didn't want to go back, so for the next 7 months I didn't. I went around Japan, and then I thought it better to leave the country and maybe I would find something to strive for. 

I remember the process of getting out the country being hard, no legal means of course. But when I was out, I just shut down, turned off. I don't know how to explain it, but it was something I done whenever going through experiments I didn't want to during the project. 

I think they called it disassociation. 

Through that, sometimes it felt like I had teleported to random locations in the world. The first country I ended up in was Cape Verde, western Africa. 

Cape Verde was... different. I'd never been out of the country before. The archipelago had a strange charm to it, the salty breeze, the rhythm of it's people. Music seemed to hum through the streets, and laughter was constant. It was warm, vibrant, alive. 

The people carried their history in their voices and their movements, and yet, there was a quiet weight in the air. 

I wanted to fit. 

I stayed in a small fishing town on the island of Sáo Vicente, a little old lady allowed me to stay with her, all I had to do was simple menial work, like help her with her shopping and cleaning up around the house and even some small farm work.

At first, the locals regarded me with slight suspicion, a scrawny kid with no explanation for how I'd gotten there. But their kindness chipped away at me. They taught me to mend nets and season fish just right. The food... I still remember the cachupa, a slow cooked stew. 

The language wasn't difficult to pick up. I was already familiar with many languages as learning was a major part of the Eden Project. 

I was familiar with Portuguese, but their Creole had it's own different rhythm to it. I'd listened to the locals talk about their days, their dreams, their families. They didn't ask much about mine, thankfully. 

My father... I remember before he had died, he mentioned to me and my sister that he had spent some time here in Cape Verde before journeying to Japan and he met my mother. I wondered if I was following in his footsteps, if I had walked the same beaches he did, heard the same songs. It was strange, feeling so close to someone I hardly even think of anymore. 

After four months, I realized I didn't fit here. With them all, their cheery upbeat atmosphere. I wanted to be, but I couldn't. I couldn't pick myself up. 

The next country I ended up in, was Spain. 

Spain was nothing like Cape Verde. The weather could be the same, but when it was cold, it was much colder, in more ways than one. 

And I hated how normal it felt to me. 

The cities were grand, their old history etched into it's stone, it was one of the only major countries in the world that still had a lot of it's history still up from before quirks had blessed... or invaded humanity. 

The citizens carried themselves differently too. Colder, more snobbish and the air around many of them was suffocating. 

But it was still a beautiful country. 

I stayed in a quiet village in Andalusia. It felt trapped in time, like nothing there had changed in centuries. The cobblestone streets, the sprawling vineyards, the small bread baking in wood-fired ovens... It was beautiful in it's own way. 

It was something I never thought I would get used to, but I did like it. 

People born with mutant quirks were discriminated against in such a bad light. Actually even some people with transformation quirks are looked at badly, it was a systemic issue that certainly was not going to disappear anytime soon. 

Mutants had fought for their rights, but even now, they were barely holding on. They lived in separate areas, the scars of that struggle were everywhere, if you knew where to look. 

Japan was much further ahead when it came to mutant acceptance, the mutants in Spain were just quiet, they accepted their reality, and those who didn't were silenced. Well I never confirmed that, but I wouldn't be surprised. 

It was in that small, quiet village that I met an elder man. His name was Esteban Ortiz. He was old, with a lined face and a hollow gaze. His left eye was covered with a patch, the scar beneath it running jagged across his cheek. 

He told me he lost his eye in the civil war, a war against his own people. Esteban Ortiz had fought on the side of the monarchy, against mutant rebels who demanded nothing more than equality. "I thought I was doing the right thing." he said one evening when I had asked. 

His voice was heavy with regret as we sat in his modest sitting room. The space was humble, but it's walls bore his past. Medals glinted in polished frames, photographs immortalized him standing proudly beside members of Spain's royal family. 

Yet his gaze now, out of one eye, carried no pride. Only grief. "I see their faces in my dreams," he continued, his words faltering. "The one's we fought against. They weren't monsters. They weren't some great threat to our way of life. They were just people. People who wanted what we had, to live and be seen as equals. And I... I helped take that away from them." 

His hand trembled as he gestured toward the medals on the wall. He scoffed bitterly. "I hold them there to constantly remind me of the hell I was a part of. Of what I cannot undo." 

I remember just sitting there, with a book in my hand. Esteban's anguish was so palpable it made the air feel heavy. 

He looked back to me, his expression a mix of curiosity and sorrow. 

"You're an odd one..." his tone grew softer. "You're so young yet you speak like someone far older. And this fascination you have with the war..." he shook his head. "It's not normal for one your age." 

He let out a tired laugh, though it lacked any real joy. 

During that time, Esteban had believed, at least partly, that what he was doing during the war was for the greater good. He thought Spain's people would be better off living, and looking, as human as possible. It was a deeply ingrained prejudice, one he now condemned himself for. He hated what he'd done, hated the ideals he'd once fought for, and hated the part of himself that had ever believed in him. 

I reflected on some of the stories he'd told me, fragments of a war stained by fear and ignorance. Mutants driven from their homes, their communities burned to the ground. Families torn apart by forced separations. And in the end, even the rebels victories felt hollow. Their "quarters," as they were called, were nothing more than cages, a bitter compromise rather than true equality. 

"I hope you'll learn something from all this. Not all battles are worth fighting. And not all victories are worth winning." 

His words would stick with me for some time. 

After three months, shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I left Spain and decided to return back to Asia. But even then, I didn't go back home right away. 

Looking back on it, I think I was just looking for ways to avoid going home. 

***

It started as an idle curiosity. I was sitting in the corner of a dingy internet cafe in Hong Kong, the hum of outdated computers filling the air. The room smelled like burnt coffee and something sweet, but that didn't matter. I'd been bouncing between countries for months by then, following whatever caught my interest. 

The stories of war, and why people fought swirled through my mind. I thought it was interesting how, power, perception and control shaped people's lives. 

Money. That was the ultimate form of control. 

I'd seen it everywhere, the desperation of the poor, the unchecked arrogance of the wealthy. I had quickly developed an interest in gaining wealth and seeing how people use their money. 

The idea came to me like a spark. In a world so obsessed with appearances, money had to be hidden, laundered and made to disappear. Not just for criminals, but for anyone who wanted to preserve their status, dodge scrutiny, or build empires in the shadows. 

At first, it was just plain research. I spent hours poring over forums, piecing together how money flowed through shell companies, offshore accounts, and cryptocurrencies. The systems were complex, but not beyond understanding. What struck me was how clumsy some of it was—how much room there was for someone smarter, faster, more creative. 

So I built something better. 

It wasn't easy, but I was good. My system started as a simple network, multiple layers of ever-changing encryptions that I could easily get through because of my second quirk, and digital wallets bouncing transactions across multiple currencies. Then it grew. 

I automated the process, created dummy corporations with airtight documentation, and ensured everything could be done with minimal human involvement. 

Only one month in and I had multiple clients, small time criminals and some dummy clients that I later found out were basically test dummies for the rich, to see if my operations were legit.

Word spread quickly, by the years end, I was handling money for people I had only seen on the news, villains, politicians and even heroes who needed to keep their side deals hidden as well as avoidance of tax. 

Now, at fifteen, nearly sixteen. I was processing hundreds of millions of dollars a year, I assume in the next year it will cross a billion. The system practically ran itself, and I didn't even have to worry about it when I was trapped in the Hosu Game. 

Of course, no one knew my real name. I had clients all over the world. The fees were small enough not to raise suspicion, but large enough to make me rich beyond anything I'd thought or even been interested in. 

I had started this little operation when I was thirteen, and in the few short years it has been running, I had a total of a little over 30 million dollars, which was equal to 3,900,000,000 yen. 

A ridiculous number, one that felt meaningless when I thought about it. I felt nothing, no pride, no guilt, not even fear. Again, I felt nothing. 

"I should do something with this money," I muttered to myself. 

"What was that Kobe?" Ren asked in a curious voice, she was a few paces ahead of me alongside Miku. 

I waved her off, looking around and finally taking myself out of past thoughts. 

"Nothing Ren." 

It was nothing for now. After all the information I had seen that came from the Eden Project I decided that my time to act on that was coming soon. 

But for now, there was still work to do in Yokohama.