Why?
The question echoed in Mateo's mind as he slumped against the filthy brick wall of the alleyway, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The last time he had asked himself that simple yet profound question was on that faithful day when his brother died—the day that had torn his life apart.
Why was it happening again?
His chest heaved with labored breaths as he stared at the hulking figure approaching him, the twisted metal axe gleaming even in the dim light of the alleyway. The thug's face was contorted in a sadistic grin, revealing yellowed teeth beneath cracked lips.
Why was he about to die again? Why did people go around, trying to kill others for no good reason?
And where are the heroes? Why are they never there when you need them the most?
"Nowhere to run now, kid," Brett sneered, his voice grating like metal on stone. "Should've minded your own business." The man adjusted his grip on the axe, the weapon's edge catching what little light filtered into the alley. Behind him, his Razor and Bones watched with cruel anticipation.
Mateo struggled to stand up, his muscles screaming in protest. He wanted to at least do something in the face of his incoming death, but he had done everything he could. His knuckles were bruised and bloody from the punches he'd thrown. His ribs ached from the blows he'd received. Every technique he'd learned, every maneuver he'd practiced during sleepless nights—all of it had proven useless.
He had foolishly thought he could win, but obviously that was a delusion.
All he had wanted to do was go to the Arcade, make some money, buy that Admission ticket to Atlas. But Arx, who was honestly his only friend, had been right all along.
"You're just prolonging the inevitable, kid," the thug said, taking another step forward, metal boots clanking against the concrete. "I almost respect your persistence."
If he couldn't even beat up this common thug in front of him, how did he expect to win against an actual villain? The realization crashed down on him like a physical weight.
No amount of sleepless nights training or specialized routines from the Atlas Academy could make him strong enough to fight a real villain. He simply had a limit as a normal human. It was physically impossible to surpass that threshold. It was a reality he had been running from, but now it cornered him alongside his imminent death.
A harsh laugh escaped his lips, causing the thug to pause momentarily.
He had never even discovered the identity of the villain that had caused the explosion and taken his brother and mom away from him. He had sworn he would kill every villain he came across until he found them, but he could see now how hopelessly naive that plan had been.
He would die, and wouldn't be able to make his brother proud.
He would die, and wouldn't be able to avenge his brother's death.
He would die, pathetically in a dirty alleyway, because he was nothing more than a wannabe hero without a—
Wrong.
The thought stopped him cold. No, all of those statements were right, but that half of the last statement, that part was wrong.
He had a quirk. It was a quirk he was ashamed of, one he had buried so deep he almost convinced himself it didn't exist, but it was his final lifeline.
Besides, it had saved him on that day—the day the explosion had taken everything from him except his own miserable life.
"Say your prayers, kid," the thug growled, raising his axe high overhead. "This will only hurt for a second."
Mateo slowly raised his trembling arm, and the thug that was about to kill him didn't even notice because of his bloodlust. The man's eyes were fixed on Mateo's face, savoring the fear he expected to see there.
Dammit. The curse resonated through Mateo's mind as he gave up, relenting to his quirk, as a gigantic mass of dark green slime erupted from his forearm.
"Hmph?" The thug grunted in confusion as his axe froze mid-swing. His face contorted in shock as it was engulfed in the viscous goo, sending him staggering backward before crashing to the ground. His muffled cries and desperate clawing at the slime only made Mateo's resolve strengthen.
Mateo stepped back, letting his quirk work on overtime. Gallons of green, thick slime sprouted from his forearm uncontrollably, drowning his opponent. It poured forth in waves, defying gravity and seeming to have a mind of its own as it sought out the thug.
Soon the man's torso was completely covered, then his entire body collapsed under the weight of the goopy substance. The thug tried hacking at it with his twisted axe, but every cut he managed only closed back up instantly, replaced by pounds more of slime until he couldn't even move his arm at all.
"What the hell?" one of the other thugs gasped, backing away. "The kid's a freak!"
Mateo had never liked his quirk. When he had first discovered it at age five, he almost never used it again after his brother had laughed at it, even when he later apologized that he didn't mean it in 'that' way. The memory stung even now—his brother's initial reaction of disgust, followed by forced encouragement that never felt genuine.
"Wow, Mateo... that's... um... unique! You can make... slime. That's cool, I guess."
His quirk had saved him from the explosion that took his family, shielding him with an instinctive cocoon of slime, and he resented it for that. Why had it saved him but not them? So even afterward, he swore never to use it and to rely solely on his hard-won combat skills.
But now? On the brink of death? He embraced it without even knowing how to control it.
He had never produced massive amounts of slime like this before. The power surged through him, hot and cold at the same time, making his skin prickle with goosebumps. But now that he had the upper hand, he would exploit the hell out of it.
The slime didn't just stop the thug from moving; it began to crush him. The weight of slime pouring over him soon exceeded the amount of pressure a normal human could sustain, even with metal plates for protection.
Mateo could see the man's eyes bulging out through the semi-transparent green mass. He could see his face turning purple as the pressure increased. He could hear bones cracking beneath the suffocating weight and watched as the man involuntarily wet himself through the slime.
The other thugs tried stepping in, brandishing their own crude weapons, but Mateo shot them a look so cold and merciless that they froze in place. The message was clear: if they didn't leave, they would be next. The slime at his feet rippled menacingly, as if eager for more prey.
They ran away with their tails between their legs, their footsteps echoing down the alley until they faded into silence. Stupid.
What was it the thug had said at the beginning of the fight?
"Come and beat up this villain," he had taunted, thinking Mateo was just another helpless victim.
Yes. Mateo would beat him. And then he'd kill him.
The slime kept on pouring, showing no sign of stopping. It spread across the alley floor, climbing up the walls in tendrils that seemed to move with a sinister intelligence.
Just a few more gallons, and I'll crush you like an egg, since you're nothing more than a pathetic villain!
His mouth formed those words, tasting the bitter satisfaction of revenge, but in his mind, he saw something else. He saw the fear in the thug's eyes, the raw pain, the primal horror. The same emotions his brother must have felt in his final moments.
I can't.
And just like that, without his conscious decision, the slime onslaught stopped. Half of the alleyway had been filled up with green, viscous goo that bubbled softly in the quiet that followed.
Mateo suddenly fell to his knees, an overwhelming exhaustion washing over him like a tidal wave. Every muscle in his body trembled, and his vision blurred around the edges. He knew, academically, that quirks had all sorts of weaknesses, recoils, and limits so as not to overwhelm the user. He had never experienced it before because of his stubborn refusal to use his own power. Now he witnessed the full brunt of it.
Besides, who would want to see a kid spew slime from his fingers? He thought drowsily as the strength left him. The quirk that had saved his life was also disgusting, messy, and unimpressive compared to the flashy abilities that actual heroes possessed. He just wanted to fall asleep, to let the darkness take him...
No.
He forced himself to stand up, legs shaking beneath him. The thug was still under the bed of slime, but at least the man was breathing. He was just unconscious, not dead. Mateo hadn't crossed that line, at least not today.
Throughout their whole fight, no one else had stepped in to stop it. People rarely did anyway in this part of the city. Why risk your life unnecessarily on something that doesn't concern you? That was the unspoken rule of these streets.
He pushed himself back to work, his mind already calculating his next move. No one could link this to him and bring more trouble. He had to get out of here. Fast.
As he staggered out of the alleyway, wiping the sweat from his brow, his thoughts turned once again to his goal.
Besides, he needed to make some more money for the admission ticket.