Time in this tiny body is a cruel joke. Days melt into nights like wax under a flame, and before I know it, I'm not just flailing anymore—I'm crawling, then pulling myself up on furniture legs that wobble under my grip. The world sharpens around me: the soft tatami mats under my knees, the faint scent of rice cooking in the kitchen, the way sunlight filters through shoji screens, casting patterns that dance like cursed spirits I half-remember from dreams. But those dreams... they're getting weirder. Not just MHA flashbacks—All Might's grin, Deku's tears—but flashes of red, of slashes cutting through air, a malevolent laughter that echoes in my skull. I shake it off, focusing on the now. Survival first, fantasies later.
Aiko—Mom, I guess I should start calling her that in my head—hovers like a guardian angel with her weak telekinesis. She floats toys to me when I fuss, little plastic heroes bobbing in the air, their capes flapping uselessly. "Look, Satoru! It's All Might!" she coos, making the figure zoom around my head. I reach for it, my chubby fingers grasping, but inside I'm analyzing. Her quirk: it's like a gentle push, nothing combat-worthy. Useful for housework, though. I've seen her stir pots from across the room or lift laundry baskets without straining her back. Pregnancy's hitting her hard now—her belly swells like a balloon, and she tires easily, sinking into the couch with a sigh that makes my tiny heart ache. Wait, ache? Since when do I care this much? Old me was a lone wolf, buried in spreadsheets. This reincarnation crap is messing with my emotions.
Hiroshi—Dad—comes home later each day, his hero suit rumpled, golden barriers flickering off as he steps through the door. "Another day keeping the streets safe," he says, scooping me up with a grin that crinkles his beard. His hands smell of ozone, like fresh rain after a storm, and I feel that hum inside me react, tingling in response. Is it his quirk? Or mine sensing something? With my eyes— these Six Eyes, if that's what they are—I pick up flows of energy around him, golden threads weaving tight. Unbreakable, he says. I test it once, when he's not looking: focus that inner spark, push a tiny pulse toward his arm while he holds me. It bounces off harmlessly, like hitting a wall. *Heh, fitting name, Absolute Wall. But can it stop what I'm brewing?*
Language is coming together, piece by piece. At first, it's fragments: "mama," "papa," "eat." I mimic them during playtime, earning claps and kisses. But comprehension lags— their conversations are still a mush of sounds, context clues filling the gaps. I know "quirk" means power, "hero" means Dad's job, "baby" means the bump on Mom's stomach. Excitement builds when they talk about it, hands on her belly, laughing. "Soon, Satoru, you'll have a sibling to play with!" Hiroshi says, ruffling my white hair. It sticks up wildly, no matter how Aiko combs it, earning me nicknames like "little snowflake" or "porcupine." I don't mind; it matches the image in my head from that other series. Gojo Satoru. If I've got his looks, maybe his powers too. But why the red flashes? Why do I dream of four arms and a throne of skulls? Shake it off, self. One mystery at a time.
Training becomes my secret ritual. In the crib at night, when the house quiets, I experiment. That inner energy—cursed energy, it feels right to call it— is still weak, a flickering candle in a storm. But Six Eyes help; they let me see it, optimize it, like a HUD overlay in a video game. I focus on my palm, willing a barrier. Nothing visible, but I feel space warp slightly, Infinity kicking in. Drop a pacifier toward my hand—it slows, stops an inch away, then falls aside. *Yes! Baby steps, literally.* Exhaustion hits like a truck—ironic—and I crash, sweating in my onesie. Reserves are pitiful; I need to build them. Food helps, sleep too, but pushing limits is key. By what I count as 18 months, I can hold Infinity for a minute without passing out. Progress.
One afternoon, Aiko sits with me on the floor, her telekinesis floating a ball between us. "Catch!" she says, sending it my way slowly. I grab it, but experiment: infuse a tiny bit of energy, push back. The ball wobbles mid-air, defying her quirk for a second before dropping. She blinks, surprised. "Oh? Did you do that, Satoru?" I babble innocently, wide-eyed. *Close call. Can't reveal too much.* But her smile warms me. "Maybe your quirk's coming early. Our little prodigy." Prodigy? If only she knew. Meta-knowledge simmers: in MHA, quirks manifest around 4. Mine's not a quirk—it's something else, untouchable. Good. Keeps it safe from thieves like All For One.
Nights bring more dreams. Vivid ones. I'm not me—I'm taller, tattooed, laughing as I cleave through crowds. Blood sprays, visceral and hot, the copper tang filling my nose even in sleep. I wake crying, not from fear, but rage? No, excitement. It fades fast, leaving me confused. *What the hell was that? Not Gojo's style.* I push it down, focus on family. Hiroshi tells stories at bedtime, voice rumbling like thunder. "Once, I stopped a villain with acid spit—blocked it with my wall, saved a whole bus!" His eyes sparkle, and I listen rapt, piecing together the world. Hero society: flashy, but rotten underneath. I know the cracks— Stain's ideology, the League's rise, All For One's shadow. I'll fix it. Dismantle it. If not for society than for my family at least *Cocky much? You're still in diapers, dude.*
The pregnancy advances. Aiko's checkups reveal it's a boy— they announce it over dinner, Hiroshi whooping, lifting me high. "A little brother, Satoru! You'll be the big bro!" Names float: Kenji, they decide after days of debate. Kenji Gojo. It clicks in my head like a puzzle piece. *Kenji. Yeah, that fits.* No foreknowledge; just feels right. I "celebrate" by babbling louder, earning laughs. Inside, protectiveness surges. *Two lives without family, now this? I'll guard you with everything, kid.*
Birth day comes chaotic. I'm two now—toddling unsteadily, words forming clearer. "Mama okay?" I ask, or try to, as Hiroshi paces, phone in hand. Neighbors watch me while they rush to the hospital. Hours later, he returns beaming, scooping me up. "He's here! Kenji's perfect." We visit: Aiko exhausted but glowing, tiny bundle in her arms. White hair like mine, but softer, eyes a normal brown. No blue glow. I reach out, touch his hand. Tiny fingers curl around mine, and something cracks inside me— that lone wolf shell. *Family. Real family.* But that red dream energy stirs faintly, possessive. I squash it.
Home life shifts. Kenji cries a lot—colic, they say. I "help" by sitting nearby, practicing control. Float a rattle with cursed energy when no one's looking— invisible to them, but Kenji quiets, staring. Does he sense it? His quirk will be slashes, nerfed. I know from... wait, how? Meta-knowledge doesn't cover OCs. Intuition? Whatever. I'll train him too, subtly.
Language blooms. By two-and-a-half, sentences form: "Want milk," "Play outside." Comprehension nears full— I understand 90%, faking the rest. Conversations reveal more: Hiroshi's rank slipped to 52, overworked. "Villains bolder these days," he mutters. Aiko worries, her telekinesis absentmindedly stirring tea. I listen, plotting. *Villains. Soon, I'll hunt the bad ones.* But patience. Energy reserves grow—now I can hold Infinity for five minutes, even reinforce my body slightly, making falls painless.
One incident tests me. Playing in the yard, a stray dog wanders in— mangy, growling. I freeze; it's bigger than me. Instinct kicks: energy surges, barrier up. It lunges—bounces off, yelping. Hiroshi rushes out, shooing it with a golden wall. "You okay, son?" I nod, wide-eyed. *Too close. But it worked.* Inside: *Heh, dog's lucky. If I had more power...* That red twist again, urging dismantle. I ignore it.
Family outings start. Park visits, where kids show quirks: one floats bubbles, another sparks tiny fires. I watch, Six Eyes dissecting energies. Quirks are flashy, but cursed energy's deeper, hidden. Mine's superior. Arrogance? Maybe. But true.
Kenji grows fast—crawling by six months, babbling. I "teach" him, pushing toys with invisible force. He giggles, reaching. Bond forms: he quiets when I hold him, like sensing safety. Aiko notices. "You two are inseperable already." Inseparable. Yeah.
But shadows lurk. Dreams intensify: I'm Sukuna, king, devouring. I wake up sweating, energy roiling red. *Not yet,* I hold it. Age three approaches—I understand the full language then. And something awakens soon. I feel it building, violent.
For now, warmth. Hiroshi tucks us in, story of heroes. "One day, you boys might join me." I smile inwardly. *Oh, Dad. You have no idea the throne I'm claiming.*