Chapter 2: Physics is a Suggestion, and Neighbors are a Curse
[A/N:You can all thank my girlfriend for this update! She's been tirelessly bugging me to write the next chapter, and I finally gave in. Enjoy!]
(Inko Midoriya POV)
The doctors told me that having twins was a blessing. They told me that motherhood was a journey. They did not tell me that one of my sons would be a literal safety hazard to the laws of thermodynamics.
We were still in the hospital when the first "incident" happened. Most babies cry when they're hungry. Izuku, my sweet, green-haired angel, gave a soft, rhythmic wimper that pulled at my heartstrings. Sunny, on the other hand?
AHOOO-GA!
The sound of a vintage steamship horn blasted through the maternity ward. I nearly leapt out of my bed, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs. The nurse, a kind woman with a minor levitation quirk, dropped her clipboard. It didn't hit the floor; it hit Sunny, who had somehow inflated his head to the size of a beach ball to let out that noise.
"Oh dear," the nurse whispered, her eyes wide. "Is... is that his quirk? Already?"
"I... I don't know," I stammered, reaching out to touch Sunny's cheek. My finger didn't meet skin; it felt like I was poking a very high-quality stress ball. He looked at me, his eyes huge and expressive, and his face suddenly shifted—his nose turned into a literal black button and he let out a tiny, muffled SQUEAK.
"Well," the doctor said, peering over his glasses while scribbling furiously. "He's certainly... flexible. We'll call it a 'Transformative Emitter' type for now. Just... try not to let him near anything sharp?"
Easier said than done.
By the time we got home, Sunny was one month old and had already decided that "crawling" was for amateurs. I walked into the nursery to find Izuku sitting in his playpen, chewing on a rubber ring like a civilized infant. Sunny was nowhere to be seen.
"Sunny? Sweetie?" I called out, panic rising.
I looked up. There he was. He was suction-cupped to the ceiling like a gecko, wearing a miniature tuxedo that I definitely hadn't bought him. He looked down at me, waved a four-fingered hand, and then—with a sound like a wet plunger being pulled from a sink (PLOP!)—he dropped.
I screamed, lunging forward to catch him, imagining the worst. But instead of a thud, there was a BOING. Sunny hit the carpet, flattened into a two-dimensional pancake for a split second, and then snapped back into his plump baby shape, giggling like a maniac.
My heart was in my throat, but strangely... I wasn't shaking. Usually, I'm a nervous wreck. But as Sunny looked at me and his ears suddenly grew six inches long and flopped over, I felt a wave of... peace? No, it was more like my brain had simply reached its capacity for "worry" and decided to shut down that department entirely. If the world was going to be a cartoon, I suppose I just had to be the audience.
Then came the two-month mark.
I was feeding Izuku some mashed peas. He was being such a good boy, opening his mouth wide. Sunny was sitting in his high chair, staring intensely at a carrot. I turned to get a spoon for him, and that's when I heard it. A voice. A deep, smooth, charismatic baritone that had no business coming from a ten-pound infant.
"Pardon me, Mother, but I find the texture of these legumes to be rather pedestrian. Might we pivot to the orange root vegetables? They have more... snap."
I dropped the jar of peas. SHATTER.
I spun around. Sunny was leaning back in his high chair, his legs crossed, looking at me with an expression of pure, casual confidence.
"Sunny?" I gasped. "You... you can talk?"
He shrugged, his shoulders moving in a way that suggested he didn't have a collarbone. "Eh, what's up, Mom? Took me a bit to find the right frequency. The green one over there is still working on 'Goo-goo,' but I figured we should skip the formalities. By the way, the diaper is a bit snug. Could we look into something with more breathability? Maybe silk?"
I sat down on the kitchen floor. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just stared at my two-month-old son who was currently using a cocktail toothpick—where did he get a toothpick?!—to clean his gums.
Raising them was a challenge, but not the kind the parenting books warned me about. They warned about sleepless nights; they didn't warn about your son turning into a literal vacuum cleaner to help "sweep" the rug, only to accidentally suck up the family cat (poor Mitten was fine, just a bit dizzy and shaped like a cylinder for an hour).
The most terrifying moment, however, happened when they were nearly a year old.
I was hanging laundry on the balcony of our apartment. I had set the boys down on a blanket. For one second—one single second!—I turned my back to pin a shirt.
"Mom! Look! I'm an airplane!"
I whirled around. My blood turned to ice.
Sunny had somehow used a bicycle pump (again, where did these items come from?!) to inflate Izuku's diaper until it was the size of a weather balloon. Izuku was giggling, floating ten feet off the balcony, clutching Sunny's hand. Sunny was wearing a leather pilot's cap and goggles.
"Sunny! Izuku!" I shrieked, reaching for them, but a gust of wind caught the "diaper-balloon."
They drifted out, higher and higher, over the concrete pavement three stories below. My heart gave a violent 'thump'—the kind that usually precedes a hospital visit. "NO!"
"Don't worry, Ma! We've got a scheduled landing!" Sunny yelled back.
Suddenly, the diaper POPPED with the sound of a confetti cannon.
They plummeted. My world went into slow motion. I screamed, my hands reaching out, my Quirk—my weak, pathetic little attraction Quirk—straining to pull them back. But they were too far. They were falling, falling toward the ground—
WHIIIIIIIRRRRRR.
In mid-air, Sunny's torso elongated like a piece of saltwater taffy. His legs stayed together, spinning at a thousand miles per hour like a helicopter blade. He grabbed Izuku by the scruff of his onesie, and the two of them descended slowly, gently, like a dandelion seed.
They touched down on the grass. Sunny snapped back into his normal shape, wiped imaginary sweat from his brow, and checked a giant gold pocket watch.
"Right on time for a nap," he remarked.
I ran down the stairs so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. I scooped them both up, sobbing and laughing at the same time. I should have been traumatized. I should have been calling a child psychologist. But as Sunny patted my cheek with a hand that felt like warm marshmallow, all the stress just... vanished.
I noticed something then. I looked in the hallway mirror as I carried them back inside. I hadn't gained any weight. In fact, I looked healthier than I had in years. Most mothers of twins are haggard and worn thin, but Sunny... Sunny was my laughter. Every time he did something impossible, it was like he was vacuuming the cortisol right out of my system.
How could I be stressed when my son was currently turning himself into a living rocking chair so I could sit down and rest?
"You're a good boy, Sunny," I whispered, kissing his forehead.
"I'm a gag character, Mom," he replied, closing his eyes. "We don't do 'stress.' It ruins the timing."
The First Birthday
It was supposed to be a small affair. Just me, the boys, and a very large strawberry cake.
"Izuku, honey, don't touch the frosting yet," I said, setting the camera up on the tripod.
Izuku, ever the obedient soul, sat perfectly still, his eyes wide with wonder at the single candle. He was the picture of innocence.
Sunny, however, was looking at the cake like it was a challenge.
"Alright, Izu-chan," Sunny whispered—I could hear him because he had literally detached his ear and held it closer to his brother. "When she hits the 'Happy Birthday' high note, we go for the gold. On three."
"One... two... three!" I sang. "Happy birthday to you!"
K-POW!
I don't know how it happened. I truly don't. One moment, the cake was on the table. The next, Sunny had produced a giant wooden mallet from behind his back. He hit the table with such force that the cake launched into the stratosphere.
"Sunny!" I cried.
"Wait for it..." Sunny said, holding up a finger.
The cake didn't just fall back down. It split into three perfect slices in mid-air—don't ask me how—and landed precisely on three plates that hadn't been there a second ago. One for me, one for Izuku, and one for Sunny.
Izuku looked at his plate, then at Sunny, and then—for the first time—he let out a laugh that sounded like a tiny silver bell. He picked up a handful of cake and shoved it into his face.
Sunny didn't use his hands. He opened his mouth—wider than his entire body—and the cake slice simply flew inside like it was being pulled by a tractor beam. GULP.
He patted his stomach, which momentarily took the shape of a square cake, before settling back to normal. "A bit heavy on the baking soda, Mom, but the crumb is excellent. Ten out of ten stars."
I just sat there, covered in a light dusting of flour that had somehow appeared out of thin air, and laughed until my sides ached. It was a disaster. It was a miracle. It was the Midoriya household.
(Sunny Midoriya POV)
Two years old. A venerable age. I've mastered the art of the "double-take," I can produce a frying pan out of thin air in under 0.4 seconds, and I've successfully convinced Izuku that gravity is merely a polite suggestion that he doesn't have to follow if he's wearing the right socks.
But today, the vibe of the neighborhood changed.
I was sitting on the porch, working on a very complex blueprint for a self-peeling carrot machine, when a moving truck pulled up next door. It was a standard truck, but it felt... heavy. Like it was carrying something that defied common sense even more than I did.
A family stepped out. A man, a woman, and a little girl with hair the color of a summer sky and eyes that looked like they were permanently leaking tears.
"New neighbors," I muttered, tucking my pencil behind an ear that I had grown specifically for that purpose. "Hope they're not the 'quiet' type. I tend to break the sound barrier when I sneeze."
Mom went over to greet them, dragging a confused Izuku along. I followed, hopping down the stairs with a rhythmic BOING-BOING-BOING.
"Welcome to the neighborhood!" Mom said, her voice bright. "I'm Inko Midoriya, and these are my sons, Izuku and Sunny."
The woman, who looked remarkably like the little girl, smiled nervously. "Oh, hello! We're the Satos. This is our daughter, Aqua."
The little girl—Aqua—was currently clutching a staff that looked far too expensive for a toddler. She looked at Izuku. Nothing. She looked at my Mom. Nothing.
Then, she looked at me.
I gave her a casual wave. "Yo. Nice hair. Is that 'Cerulean' or 'I-Cry-Every-Ten-Minutes' Blue?"
Aqua's eyes widened. She stared at me—really stared. She looked at my four-fingered hands. She looked at the way my shadow was currently playing a saxophone instead of mimicking my posture.
Something clicked in her tiny, divine, and incredibly empty brain.
"YOU!" she shrieked, pointing a finger at me. "I KNOW THAT ENERGY! YOU'RE AN ANOMALY! A GAG! A BLIGHT UPON THE NATURAL ORDER!"
"Guilty as charged, sister," I said, leaning against the air as if it were a solid wall. "What are you gonna do about it? Cry?"
"I am a GODDESS!" she wailed, and suddenly, the air around her began to shimmer with a blue light. "NATURE'S BEAUTY!"
SPLOSH.
A literal tidal wave erupted from her tiny palms. It wasn't a quirk. It didn't feel like a quirk. It felt like the universe had suddenly decided that the Midoriya front lawn was now the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
The water slammed into our house, flooding the entryway, soaking the moving boxes, and sending my Mom and Izuku floating toward the roof.
"Aqua! No!" her mother screamed, but it was too late. The girl was already on the ground, kicking her legs and throwing a tantrum because a "lowly gag character" had insulted her.
I stood there, underwater. I didn't drown, obviously. I just pulled out a snorkel from my pocket and took a deep breath. Through the water, I saw Izuku looking terrified, his little arms flailing.
"Great," I thought. "First day and she's already trying to sink the ship. Typical support characters."
I reached into my "pocket"—which was more of a dimensional rift located in my hip—and pulled out a giant, oversized red plug. I swam over to the center of the yard, cleared away some grass, and slammed the plug into the earth.
SHLORP!
With a sound like a giant bathtub draining, the thousands of gallons of water vanished into the hole I'd just made. In seconds, the yard was bone-dry. Not just dry—the grass was actually manicured and smelled like lemons.
I snapped my fingers, and a maid's outfit momentarily flickered over my body before I shook it off. I walked over to the now-sobbing Aqua, who was face-down in the dirt.
"Listen, Bluey," I said, poking her with a gloved finger. "Next time you want to show off 'Nature's Beauty,' try a fountain. Flooding the neighbors is a bad look for the brand."
She looked up at me, snot running down her nose. "You... you're mean! I'm a goddess! Treat me with respect!"
"I'll treat you with a carrot if you shut up," I countered. "Now, come on. Izuku wants to play in the sandbox, and I need someone to be the 'damsel in distress' so I can practice my heroic rescues."
She sniffled, wiped her eyes, and looked at Izuku, who was offering her a soggy cracker. Her eyes brightened. "He... he recognizes my divinity?"
"He's a cinnamon roll, Aqua. He recognizes everyone's divinity," I sighed. "Welcome to the team. Try not to drown us tomorrow."
Two Years Later (Age 4)
The playground was our kingdom.
Izuku was currently trying to climb the jungle gym, his little face set in a mask of grim determination. He didn't have a quirk yet—the doctor's visit was coming up—but he had heart. Enough heart for ten people.
Aqua was sitting in the sandbox, using her "divine powers" to create elaborate water sculptures that immediately collapsed because she had the attention span of a goldfish.
"It's not fair, Sunny!" she whined, splashing a puddle. "Why do I have to live in this world? The air is too dry, the followers are non-existent, and the snacks are mediocre at best!"
I was currently suspended upside down from a swing set, but I wasn't using the chains. I was just... sticking to the air. I was reading a comic book and eating a sandwich that was three times the size of my head.
"Look on the bright side, Aqua," I said, my voice muffled by ham and rye. "In this world, people actually appreciate a good show. Back where you came from, you were just a debt-generator. Here? You're a 'medical mystery' with a water quirk. That's an upgrade."
"I am NOT a medical mystery!" she huffed, crossing her arms. "I am a high-spec goddess! Izuku! Tell him I'm high-spec!"
Izuku looked down from the top of the slide, sweating. "You're... you're really good at making puddles, Aqua-chan!"
"See?!" she beamed.
I rolled my eyes so hard they actually did a full 360-degree rotation inside my skull. CLICK-CLACK. "He's four, Aqua. He thinks a shiny rock is high-spec. Don't let it go to your head."
"You're just jealous because you're made of rubber and bad jokes!"
"And you're made of 90% salt water and 10% entitlement," I shot back, dropping from the air and landing perfectly on my feet with a SQUISH. "But hey, that's why we're friends. You provide the drama, I provide the punchlines, and Izuku provides the moral compass that keeps us from being arrested."
Suddenly, the atmosphere of the playground changed. The birds stopped chirping. The wind picked up.
A group of kids marched toward the sandbox. In the lead was a boy with spiky ash-blonde hair and an expression that said he had personally invented the concept of "winning."
Katsuki Bakugo. The "Boom Boom Boy."
He stepped into the sandbox, his palms crackling with tiny, orange sparks. POP. FIZZ.
"Move it, Extras," he growled, looking at Aqua's water sculptures. "This spot is for the 'King' of the playground. And I don't see any kings here—just a nerd, a crybaby, and a kid who looks like he walked out of a Sunday morning cartoon."
I tucked my comic book into my back pocket. "Oh boy. Here we go. The 'Early-Onset Ego' arc has officially begun."
Izuku scrambled down the slide, his face pale. "K-Kacchan! We were just playing..."
Bakugo didn't listen. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. "You. Sunny. You think you're funny with your weird tricks? Let's see how funny you are when I blow that stupid grin off your face."
I looked at Aqua. She was already hiding behind me, using my cape (I had grown a cape for the occasion) as a shield.
"I don't know, Kacchan," I said, my voice dropping into that classic, casual drawl. "I've been told my grin is my best feature. But if you want to play 'Firecracker,' I should warn you..."
I reached behind my back and pulled out a giant, cartoonish wooden shield with a bullseye painted on the front.
"I'm a very big fan of 'Explosive Comedy.'"