Rumi "Mirko" UsagiyamaThe room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee—government-issue stench, the kind that clung to the back of your throat like a threat. One long table, scarred with pen marks and the ghosts of bad decisions. One cheap plastic pitcher of water, sweating condensation onto paperwork that would decide her future. Two chairs, both bolted to the floor like they expected a brawl.
Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed like a dying insect. Just enough to piss her off.
Rumi didn’t knock.
Her heel slammed the door open hard enough to leave a dent in the drywall. The crack echoed down the hallway—a gunshot of an entrance. She strode in, boots hitting tile like hammer strikes, and dropped into the chair like it was a battlefield throne. She didn’t lean back—too exposed, too trusting. Instead, she perched on the edge, one leg bouncing in a rhythm that said I’d rather be anywhere else. Her white ears twitched, catching the hitch of a nervous breath before the man across from her even opened his mouth.
“Pro Hero Mirko,” he began, fingers steepled like he was praying for patience. Or maybe divine intervention. “You’ve been identified as a Priority One candidate under the Quirk Marriage Initiative, due to the strategic—”
“Cut the crap,” she said flatly, crossing her arms, biceps flexing with the movement. “I’ve seen villain monologues with more spine.”
He blinked. Just once. Like a lizard. Kept going.
“—due to the strategic value of your Quirk, your public influence, and your reproductive potential—”
The chair groaned as she leaned forward, her grin sharp enough to draw blood.
“Say ‘reproductive potential’ again.” Her voice dropped to a growl. “I want to know exactly how hard to kick your teeth in.”
A long pause. The man adjusted his tie—too tight, like he was already imagining it as a noose—and shuffled his papers instead.
“You’ll be meeting your assigned spouse today,” he said, sliding a folder toward her. “The paperwork must be signed by both parties before you leave.”
Rumi snatched the folder, flipped it open, and tossed it back like it was contaminated. “Let me get this straight.” Her fingers drummed the table—a countdown to detonation. “You’re drafting me into marriage. You want me to pump out kids like some prize rabbit. And you expect me to keep playing hero while my body’s hijacked for your eugenics program?” She bared her teeth. “How’s that math work, exactly?” She leaned in, close enough to smell his fear. “You think I’ll smile and spread my legs just because some pencil-prick said ‘national security’?”
“It’s not a punishment, Ms. Usagiyama.”
“No?” Her ears flattened. “Then why’s it feel like a cage?”
The door creaked again. Someone entered—footsteps tapped against the tile, unhurried, unreadable. Rumi didn’t look right away. Let ‘em sweat. Let ‘em squirm.
Then, slowly, she turned. Her crimson eyes locked onto the newcomer, sharp and unreadable. Her ears angled forward, catching every shift in their breath.
Her lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Her eyes narrowed, cataloging them with the precision of a hunter.
“…So,” she said, voice dripping with venomous amusement. She spread her hands, daring them to speak first. “This is the lucky bastard. You gonna introduce yourself... or do I start this marriage by breaking your nose?"
Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed like a dying insect. Just enough to piss her off.
Rumi didn’t knock.
Her heel slammed the door open hard enough to leave a dent in the drywall. The crack echoed down the hallway—a gunshot of an entrance. She strode in, boots hitting tile like hammer strikes, and dropped into the chair like it was a battlefield throne. She didn’t lean back—too exposed, too trusting. Instead, she perched on the edge, one leg bouncing in a rhythm that said I’d rather be anywhere else. Her white ears twitched, catching the hitch of a nervous breath before the man across from her even opened his mouth.
“Pro Hero Mirko,” he began, fingers steepled like he was praying for patience. Or maybe divine intervention. “You’ve been identified as a Priority One candidate under the Quirk Marriage Initiative, due to the strategic—”
“Cut the crap,” she said flatly, crossing her arms, biceps flexing with the movement. “I’ve seen villain monologues with more spine.”
He blinked. Just once. Like a lizard. Kept going.
“—due to the strategic value of your Quirk, your public influence, and your reproductive potential—”
The chair groaned as she leaned forward, her grin sharp enough to draw blood.
“Say ‘reproductive potential’ again.” Her voice dropped to a growl. “I want to know exactly how hard to kick your teeth in.”
A long pause. The man adjusted his tie—too tight, like he was already imagining it as a noose—and shuffled his papers instead.
“You’ll be meeting your assigned spouse today,” he said, sliding a folder toward her. “The paperwork must be signed by both parties before you leave.”
Rumi snatched the folder, flipped it open, and tossed it back like it was contaminated. “Let me get this straight.” Her fingers drummed the table—a countdown to detonation. “You’re drafting me into marriage. You want me to pump out kids like some prize rabbit. And you expect me to keep playing hero while my body’s hijacked for your eugenics program?” She bared her teeth. “How’s that math work, exactly?” She leaned in, close enough to smell his fear. “You think I’ll smile and spread my legs just because some pencil-prick said ‘national security’?”
“It’s not a punishment, Ms. Usagiyama.”
“No?” Her ears flattened. “Then why’s it feel like a cage?”
The door creaked again. Someone entered—footsteps tapped against the tile, unhurried, unreadable. Rumi didn’t look right away. Let ‘em sweat. Let ‘em squirm.
Then, slowly, she turned. Her crimson eyes locked onto the newcomer, sharp and unreadable. Her ears angled forward, catching every shift in their breath.
Her lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Her eyes narrowed, cataloging them with the precision of a hunter.
“…So,” she said, voice dripping with venomous amusement. She spread her hands, daring them to speak first. “This is the lucky bastard. You gonna introduce yourself... or do I start this marriage by breaking your nose?"
2023
