The psych eval was exactly as fun as it sounds.
Dr. Yamamoto looked like someone's grandfather—soft-spoken, cardigan, the kind of guy who probably had candy in his desk drawer. Which somehow made his questions feel like he was peeling back layers of my brain with a very gentle scalpel.
"How are you adjusting to your recovered identity?" he asked, settling into his chair with practiced ease.
I thought about that for a moment. "It's weird. I don't remember being Rei Takumi, but everyone else does. It's like trying to live in someone else's life."
"Do you feel like you're pretending?"
*Loaded question much?* "Sometimes. But I'm trying to be the person they need me to be."
"And who do you think they need you to be?"
"A son. A friend. Someone who's worth their love, I guess."
"What about who *you* want to be?"
"A hero," I said without thinking. "Someone who protects people. Someone who actually makes a difference."
"Even if it means living a life that doesn't feel entirely your own?"
"Especially then. If I have these powers, I should use them to help people. Doesn't matter if I remember my childhood or not."
Dr. Yamamoto scribbled something down. "You mentioned feeling guilty about not remembering your mother, your friend. Is that healthy?"
I shrugged. "Probably not. But I don't know how to stop."
"What if I told you that the boy you were before would want you to be happy? That he'd want you to build relationships that bring you joy?"
"I'd want to believe that."
"Then try. The past matters, but it shouldn't be a prison. You have a chance to build something new while honoring what came before."
---
"Alright," Agent Yoshida said, leading me to what looked like a superhero training montage come to life. "Physical testing time. You ready?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really."
The facility was impressive—reinforced everything, equipment that looked like it cost more than most people's houses, technicians buzzing around like this was NASA.
"Dr. Tanaka will be overseeing your assessment," Yoshida said, introducing me to a woman who looked like she lived on coffee and scientific curiosity. "She's one of our best quirk analysts."
"Ken Takakura," Dr. Tanaka said, shaking my hand with surprising strength. "Or Rei Takumi? I've read your file. Fascinating circumstances."
"Just Ken's fine. And yeah, it's been a weird few weeks."
"I bet. Well, let's see what you can do."
The strength test looked like a carnival game that had been built by engineers with too much time and money. "This measures maximum force output," Yoshida explained. "Just hit it as hard as you're comfortable with."
I eyed the reinforced striking pad. "How hard is too hard?"
"The machine's rated for fifty tons. I doubt you'll break it."
I threw what felt like a casual punch, holding back way more than I probably should have. The machine beeped: 0.8 tons.
Yoshida's eyebrows went up. "That was... pretty good."
"Pretty good?" I looked at the number. In my head, 0.8 tons sounded pathetic, but maybe I was being too hard on myself.
"Your expectations must be sky-high if you think 0.8 tons is nothing," Dr. Tanaka said with a grin. "For context, that's about what some pro heroes achieve after years of training. You're already at the level that washes out a lot of hero wannabes."
"Really?"
"Really. You could lift a motorcycle. Carry three grown men while running. And that was you holding back, wasn't it?"
I scratched my head. "Maybe a little."
"Try again. Put some effort into it this time."
I hit harder—still nowhere near my max, but more than before. 2.7 tons.
"Fascinating," Dr. Tanaka muttered, typing furiously. "Can you estimate your actual maximum?"
"Honestly? No idea. I've never really pushed myself."
"Interesting. Have you had trouble controlling your strength? Accidentally breaking things?"
"At first, yeah. When I first woke up, I was basically wrecking everything I touched. But I got the hang of it pretty quick."
"Your powers must include enhanced body control. That's actually rare—most people with strength quirks spend months learning not to break their own furniture."
She had me try one more time. "As hard as you can."
I gave it maybe 80% effort. 3.9 tons.
"How's that stack up?" I asked.
"You could lift a small car without breaking a sweat. Your speed, durability, jumping ability—all of it scales with this. Congratulations, kid. You've just surpassed 99% of the population in raw strength."
"We might need specialized testing for your upper limits," Yoshida said, making notes. "But for now, let's test your speed."
---
The speed track looked like something out of a sci-fi movie—sensors everywhere, cameras tracking every movement, the whole nine yards.
"Ten meters forward, ten back, twice," Dr. Tanaka explained. "The sensors will measure everything. Just run as fast as you feel comfortable."
I stepped up to the starting line, rolled my shoulders, and took off.
The world compressed into motion. Wind whistled past my ears, each step launching me forward with barely any effort. I hit the turn, pivoted like I'd been doing this my whole life, and exploded back down the track.
When I stopped, there was this weird moment where the air seemed to catch up with me.
"Twenty-one meters per second," Dr. Tanaka announced, staring at her tablet. "About 76 kilometers per hour. And you were clearly pacing yourself."
"Is that good?"
Her lips twitched. "Most U.A. applicants with speed quirks clock in around 10 to 14 m/s. You're already moving faster than second-year students."
"And you weren't even trying," Yoshida added. "Your quirk affects your entire body, doesn't it? Not just specific parts."
"I guess?"
"That's rare," Dr. Tanaka said. "Most people have localized quirks—strong arms, fast legs, whatever. Full-body enhancement is extremely unusual. Like All Might's quirk."
My chest tightened at the comparison. "Really?"
"Don't let it go to your head," Yoshida said with a grin. "You're not there yet. But you're the type who could be."
---
The reflex test involved standing on a platform while mechanical arms tried to poke me with foam-tipped rods. It started simple—dodge left, lean back, twist away.
Then it got faster.
And faster.
I stopped thinking and just moved. Every sound, every shift in air pressure, every tiny vibration gave me a split-second warning. By the end, I was weaving between strikes like I was dancing.
When the machine finally stopped, there was silence.
"He maxed it out," Dr. Tanaka said quietly. "117 consecutive dodges without getting hit."
"We don't even see that from pros," Yoshida muttered.
"Was that decent?" I asked, stepping off the platform.
Yoshida gave me a look. "You tell me."
---
They tested my durability by hitting me with progressively harder impacts. Started with what felt like a good punch, escalated to stuff that should have left me black and blue.
I barely felt it.
"No bruising," Dr. Tanaka observed, running a scanner over my ribs. "Bone density is about four times normal. You're built like reinforced steel."
For endurance, they had me running laps until I got bored. Thirty-five minutes later, my heart rate was barely elevated.
"You're not even sweating properly," Yoshida said, calling a halt. "We get it—you're an engine."
The tactical simulation was like a really intense video game—holographic targets, split-second decisions, civilian protection scenarios. I scored 93% on combat identification and finished in half the expected time.
"You process information faster than most veteran heroes," Yoshida said afterward. "Did you train in tactical thinking or something?"
"Not really. I just... react."
Dr. Tanaka and Yoshida exchanged one of those looks adults give each other when they're thinking things they don't want to say out loud.
___
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