The undercity of Musutafu wasn't drawn on any official maps. What had once been storm drains and emergency evacuation tunnels now sprawled in forgotten arteries beneath the streets, a network of concrete capillaries that the Hero Commission never spoke of. Some led to old fallout shelters, others to shuttered metro lines. One led to the place he was looking for.
Jetsling Beroba walked in silence.
No armor. No helmet. Just the soft rubber soles of his boots on water-slick stone. The air was thick with mildew and iron. Rats scattered in his wake, and the sound of trickling water echoed like whispers in a cathedral. The lights on his belt pulsed softly with blue photon energy, guiding him through the dark.
This world rots just like the last one.
He didn't speak it aloud. The thought lingered, as natural to him now as breathing. Corruption wasn't unique to one timeline or another. In every system, in every shining spire of law and order, there was a basement where the blood pooled. He hadn't been hunting anomalies. He had been following the stench.
And now he stood before it.
A steel door, marked only with a worn label: Project 92 - Closed Indefinitely. Bolted. Reinforced. But not secure.
Jetsling lifted the Delta Phone. A click. A whine. The transformation didn't come with theatrics anymore. The moment the jamming field activated, the world went silent.
No cameras. No Wi-Fi. No transmissions.
No witnesses.
He pressed his palm against the lock. Metal hissed. The door opened inward with a groan, exhaling decades of sterile rot into the corridor.
---
Inside was red.
Not fresh blood. Not violence. Just blinking red lights, automated emergency systems still pulsing after all this time. The walls were lined with surgical stations, glass observation windows, scattered charts yellowed with age.
And restraints.
So many restraints.
Jetsling moved like smoke. Not a step wasted. His body remembered these patterns. Surgical hellholes like this existed in his world too. They called it science. Progress. Evolution. Here, they called it quirk enhancement.
A lie by any other name.
He passed one room. An IV labeled "Specimen 34" hung beside a steel cradle. The data file pinned to it said, "Quirk graft incompatible. Termination approved."
His fingers twitched.
Don't use the miracle. Not here. Not now. This isn't rage. This is judgment.
Two doors down, his helmet's optics flickered. Life signs.
Room C-7. Cryostasis. Two capsules.
Children.
Girls, maybe eleven or twelve. One had burn scars on her neck. The other's arms were wired with synthetic tendons. They were sedated, slowed down to near stasis, but alive.
Jetsling knelt. His fingers danced over the control panel, disabling the inhibitors. One at a time, he lifted them from their prisons, cradling their weight like fragile glass.
They didn't stir. Their breathing was shallow. But they were alive.
He said nothing. Just turned, and began the long walk back through the red light.
---
Above, on a nearby rooftop, Tensei Iida watched through a scoped visor. The rain hadn't come yet, but the clouds were curdled and low. Thunder rumbled in the distance like a warning.
Delta.
He hadn't known what he expected. A massacre? A bomb? A message carved in blood?
But instead, he saw a figure in black carrying two unconscious children through the shadows.
And no one else.
Tensei narrowed his eyes. His fingers tapped against the comm unit strapped to his forearm, though it remained off. Protocol said he should report this.
But protocol didn't see what he saw.
Why would he go in unarmed? Why would he come out alone?
He waited until the figure vanished into the old utility tunnels before leaping down silently. His boots landed with barely a splash.
He had to see for himself.
---
The hospital's inside felt like a wound.
Tensei stepped carefully, every footfall echoing too loud in the silence. His visor recorded, but even it flickered. Something was interfering with his systems. Not enough to shut him out, but enough to say: You are not welcome here.
The smell was wrong. Not just mildew or rust. Something older. Something chemical.
He moved down the same hall Delta had taken. The restraints on the walls, the surgical notes, the medical photos. He passed them all with growing dread.
He paused in front of the crib labeled Specimen 34. The cradle was empty.
He crouched, lifting the file with gloved fingers.
"Termination approved."
His stomach churned.
He reached the cryo room. It was empty. No capsules. Just slowly dripping tubes and the lingering fog of nitrogen. Jetsling had taken them. He had known what to look for.
Why?
Why spare them? Why not destroy this place entirely?
Because he wants people to see it.
That thought landed hard.
Tensei walked deeper, until he found it: the photo wall. Framed by flickering halogen light, the wall was covered with polaroids. Kids. Teens. Smiling. Some with visible mutations, others seemingly normal.
Each photo had a stamp.
"Terminated."
"Failed."
"Incompatible."
Not a single one said "Released."
Tensei felt something tighten in his throat.
He looked down. Something glinted under the surgical table. A small sneaker. Blue. Cartoon rabbit sticker on the toe. Untouched by dust.
He couldn't breathe for a moment.
He reached out, fingers trembling, and picked it up. Small. Worn. Loved.
What did we ignore?
The system had signed off on this place. Buried it. Silenced it. Let it fester.
And now Delta had pulled it into the light. Not with fire. Not with vengeance.
But with a whisper of truth.
Tensei turned to the wall again. Slowly, he placed his hand against it.
It was cold.
Just his own heartbeat echoed back at him.