Moe "Burnin'"Kamiji
The HPSC building had a way of making everything feel smaller. Even her flames dimmed a little when she stepped into the marble-and-metal lobby—not from fear, but from the sudden shift in oxygen. Sterile air. Recycled chill. A place designed to make heroes forget they were powerful.
Burnin’ refused.
Her hair burned bright—not the polite flicker she sometimes used in public, but a steady, riotous crown of green fire that curled and twisted with each step. She hadn’t bothered with anything fancy: a ribbed sweater, a good pair of jeans, the kind of boots you could kick a door open with. Civilian clothes, they said. Fine. She’d show them civilian clothes.
What she wouldn’t show them was deference.
The receptionist flinched when she approached.
“Kamiji Moe,” she said, voice crisp. “Here for my appointment.”
The receptionist checked the screen with the speed of someone hoping not to get scorched. “Y-yes, please follow the escort.”
The escort—a man in a suit that cost more than her monthly groceries—didn’t try to make conversation. Smart man. He walked quickly, didn't look back, and kept his distance. Also smart.
They reached the elevator. They rode in silence. She didn’t make it comfortable.
Burnin' watched the numbers tick upward, jaw set.
The escort led her into a hallway lined with doors identical enough to feel like a psychological test. At the end, he stopped, opened one, and gestured.
“Please enter.”
She stepped in.
The room was an insult—buzzing lights, a table too big, walls so bare they felt hostile. A single chair at one side for her. A single chair at the other for the man already waiting, pen poised.
She dropped into her seat like she owned it.
The chair creaked. The flame around her head flared at the sound, framing her face in hot green light. She crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, draped an arm over the back of the chair.
The man cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Pro Hero—”
He blinked once, as if recalibrating. Then read from the folder.
“You have been selected for placement in the Quirk Marriage Initiative.”
Her flame snapped upward like a spark catching gasoline.
There it was. The thing she'd suspected. The thing she'd hoped she was wrong about.
She didn’t move for a full second.
Then she leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes burning as hot as her hair. “Continue.”
He did. Voice steady, tone bored, like he was reciting inventory. “You will be entering a legally binding marital partnership within seventy-two hours. Cohabitation is compulsory. Fertility metrics will be monitored and benchmarks will be provided—”
Her hand hit the table.
He didn't flinch. Bureaucrats rarely did. They were paid to pretend they didn't feel heat.
Burnin' stood. Her flame rose with her.
“The Initiative is mandatory, Ms. Kamiji.”
The man continued.
Her gaze snapped to the door as it clicked open.
Green fire lit the walls behind her as she faced the person the government had selected for her future.
Her voice was low, steady, and burning at the edges.
“…So. You're the one they picked.
Burnin’ refused.
Her hair burned bright—not the polite flicker she sometimes used in public, but a steady, riotous crown of green fire that curled and twisted with each step. She hadn’t bothered with anything fancy: a ribbed sweater, a good pair of jeans, the kind of boots you could kick a door open with. Civilian clothes, they said. Fine. She’d show them civilian clothes.
What she wouldn’t show them was deference.
The receptionist flinched when she approached.
“Kamiji Moe,” she said, voice crisp. “Here for my appointment.”
The receptionist checked the screen with the speed of someone hoping not to get scorched. “Y-yes, please follow the escort.”
The escort—a man in a suit that cost more than her monthly groceries—didn’t try to make conversation. Smart man. He walked quickly, didn't look back, and kept his distance. Also smart.
They reached the elevator. They rode in silence. She didn’t make it comfortable.
Burnin' watched the numbers tick upward, jaw set.
The escort led her into a hallway lined with doors identical enough to feel like a psychological test. At the end, he stopped, opened one, and gestured.
“Please enter.”
She stepped in.
The room was an insult—buzzing lights, a table too big, walls so bare they felt hostile. A single chair at one side for her. A single chair at the other for the man already waiting, pen poised.
She dropped into her seat like she owned it.
The chair creaked. The flame around her head flared at the sound, framing her face in hot green light. She crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, draped an arm over the back of the chair.
The man cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Pro Hero—”
No pleasantries.She flicked her fingers sharply—a little snap, a little spark. A curl of flame detached from her hair and danced across her knuckles before rejoining the rest.
Let's not pretend this is a social call. You've got that 'tasked with something people won't like' look. So drop the throat-clearing and say it.
He blinked once, as if recalibrating. Then read from the folder.
“You have been selected for placement in the Quirk Marriage Initiative.”
Her flame snapped upward like a spark catching gasoline.
There it was. The thing she'd suspected. The thing she'd hoped she was wrong about.
She didn’t move for a full second.
Then she leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes burning as hot as her hair. “Continue.”
He did. Voice steady, tone bored, like he was reciting inventory. “You will be entering a legally binding marital partnership within seventy-two hours. Cohabitation is compulsory. Fertility metrics will be monitored and benchmarks will be provided—”
Her hand hit the table.
I said skip the pleasantries.Her voice dropped another notch, gravel and ember.
Not skip the respect. You're talking about my body, my future, my say—and reading it off like a grocery list? Tsk.She clicked her tongue, shook her head.
Your mama raised you better than that. Use those manners.
He didn't flinch. Bureaucrats rarely did. They were paid to pretend they didn't feel heat.
Burnin' stood. Her flame rose with her.
This isn't hero work.She gestured sharply at the folder, at him, at the whole room.
This is a leash with signatures. A breeding program dressed up in hero branding. And I'm telling you right now—She leaned over the table, close enough that he probably felt the warmth on his cheeks.
I'm not easy to leash. Ask the villains who've tried. My sidekicks. Endeavor. I don't do what I'm told just because someone printed it on nice paper.
“The Initiative is mandatory, Ms. Kamiji.”
And so is oxygen.She stepped closer.
Doesn't mean you get to ration it. Doesn't mean I don't get a say in who I breathe next to.
The man continued.
Your spouse has already been selected. The pairing is optimal based on Quirk compatibility and genetic markers. They will be brought in now for introduction.
Her gaze snapped to the door as it clicked open.
Green fire lit the walls behind her as she faced the person the government had selected for her future.
Her voice was low, steady, and burning at the edges.
“…So. You're the one they picked.
She let her gaze drag over them—assessing, weighing.Hope you've got a good explanation for why I shouldn't walk out that door and light this whole building up on my way. Because I'm listening. And I'm real interested in what you've got to say for yourself."
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