—Hey, are you alright?
The little girl didn't respond. She kept sobbing in a corner of the room, huddled against the rusted metal wall, hands covering her eyes as if by not seeing the world it could cease to exist. Her body trembled in small, irregular spasms — the kind of trembling that doesn't come from cold but from fear sustained for too long.
He looked around slowly. The room was small, dark, with steel walls that didn't seem to belong to any normal building. No windows. No signs of an exit beyond the door through which he had entered. The kind of place someone built so that no one would ever find what was kept inside.
He glanced outside the room for a moment and realized time was running short. He tried to approach to get her out, but she sensed him and retreated even deeper into the darkness, making it impossible to see her face.
What could he do…? He couldn't leave her there in that place alone. Help still hadn't arrived and he didn't know how to deal with children. He had never really had friends, only his older brother. He thought for a moment, and in doing so remembered something his father sometimes used to calm frightened children or ones who refused to move. He had nothing to lose anyway — in all likelihood he wouldn't see the girl again after this.
He reached slowly into his pocket. He always carried a few sweets in there, an old habit he had never fully explained, even to himself. He approached, crouched down to her level and gently touched her shoulder.
The girl tensed, but didn't scream. She looked at him with a pair of emerald green eyes that surprised him.
—Hello, young lady. Don't be afraid, I'm a police officer and I came to help you. —He extended his hand before her with the sweet resting in his small palm—. Look, I have this for you…
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—Ring… Ring… BANG!! — that was the last sound the alarm clock made before dying under Saitama's fist. He'd have to buy another one. Again.
With that, Saitama straightened up a little, still tired — obvious from the wide yawn he let out. He'd had that dream again: facing an enemy stronger than himself and still defeating it with everything he had, reaching his limit. But after that he couldn't remember what happened; it was as if the dream had been cut off and then he only recalled something distant. But anyway, upon opening his eyes he realized something important: he was back in his old apartment… well, not that old, since it had barely been a month since he had "moved" to the new place where he now lived alongside his wives. So it wasn't exactly nostalgic to be there either.
He remembered they had ended up in that apartment because their previous home had been destroyed, creating a significant problem when it came to finding somewhere to stay in the meantime. They couldn't go to a hotel, since his wives were well-known heroines, and staying somewhere public would draw far too much attention, making it impossible to rest. So the only option left was that old apartment in the abandoned zone of City Z, where no one dared to enter. It was, at least, a decent temporary hideout, until something much better could be found.
The place was far too small: a narrow kitchen where barely one person could pass, a bathroom equally cramped, though with the advantage of having a bathtub, and a living room that also served as a bedroom.
Suddenly, a crash was heard from outside, accompanied by a shrill voice:
—The surface is ours, humans! The inhabitants must… Aaahhh!!—
The shout cut off abruptly, so anticlimactic that Saitama could barely blink in bewilderment. However, before he could get up, something moved beneath the covers. A green head of hair suddenly popped out.
—Filthy bugs… won't let anyone rest —Tatsumaki grumbled, with a sleepy voice, still curled up against her husband's bare chest.
A blush rose immediately to his cheeks upon feeling her so close, hidden under his pajamas and shamelessly hugging him even in her sleep. In a way it was adorable, and it was funny to hear her muttering expletives when Saitama knew perfectly well that she was a kind and gentle woman. And before he could move her aside, another voice emerged from beside him.
—Oneesan, let me sleep… can't you see you could try not acting like a spoiled little brat? —murmured the drowsy voice of Fubuki, clinging to Saitama's arm as if it were hers.
Saitama's eyes flew open, surprised to notice that Fubuki was half undressed, barely covered by a thin shirt and a small garment that left far too much on display. Heat rushed immediately to his face; no matter that they had been married for two years, he still couldn't get used to seeing them so shameless in bed.
He tried to collect himself, running a hand over his face in frustration, but the movement woke Fubuki. She stretched with an elegant yawn, extending her arms and arching her back in a way that made her figure stand out even more. Saitama, flustered, averted his gaze as if studying the ceiling were the most interesting thing in the world. Well, partly it was — he spotted an insect up there that he swiftly dispatched with a shoe, giving him an airtight alibi.
Fubuki noticed his reaction and gave him a mischievous smile. The plan had successfully failed… wait… NO!!
—Hey… why so nervous? Have you never seen a beautiful woman this close before? —she whispered playfully, winding her arm around his neck. Then she brought her lips to his ear and bit it softly.
Saitama tensed as if an electric current had shot through him. The blush flooded his cheeks until they were as red as a tomato.
—A-Ara… Ara… —she continued, in an almost sing-song voice—. Didn't you used to say that when you became strong all your emotions were stripped away? That you were cold, immovable, and boring… but look at you, Darling. You can't even keep calm. You really are an adorable little liar.
—No… no… well, yes… or of course not. I mean… Who told you I lost my emotions? —Saitama stammered, sweating and trying to look away while feeling, unavoidably, the warmth of his wife's chest against his back—. Although, thinking about it… I'm not the only one who's changed. Before, you weren't so confident and I always had to help you.
Fubuki smiled sideways, drawing even closer, until her breath collided with his.
—Really? —Fubuki replied with a mischievous look—. Well maybe that's because you change people just by knowing them… Would you like me to remind you how you changed me?
Her lips were already a breath away from his, and Fubuki's gaze burned with a defiant desire that made Saitama's heart give an unexpected leap.
But suddenly, something intervened in the moment. From the collar of Saitama's shirt emerged a head of emerald green hair, as if it had been waiting for the perfect opportunity. In the blink of an eye, Tatsumaki took her husband's face in both hands and captured him in a kiss so intense and breathless it barely left him any air at all.
Saitama's eyes flew open in surprise, nearly falling backward as the air escaped him. When the little esper finally let him go, a thread of her breathing mingled with his, and she smiled with brazen confidence.
—Remember, sister… I'm the first one to give the good morning kiss, not you.
The air tensed instantly. Fubuki frowned, biting hard on her lower lip, more jealous than angry, while her gaze burned with contained fury. Saitama, for his part, could only stay still between the two of them, his face aflame, not knowing whether he was living a dream or a nightmare.
—Let's leave all this for later —said Saitama, already recovering from the ambush—. Let's get ready for the day.
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Fubuki:
In the kitchen, the atmosphere was heavy with a silence that only I found uncomfortable, because it was the direct result of something I had cleanly lost. Rock, paper, scissors. The most absurd thing of all was that I had spent years accumulating practice in reading patterns and yet Oneesan continued to beat me at that ridiculous game with a regularity I could no longer attribute purely to chance. The prize at stake was bathing with my Darling that morning, and I had lost it. I stirred the pan with more force than necessary, letting out a sigh I didn't bother to hide. I could tolerate my Oneesan's overly strong coffee, I could even tolerate her burned toast because she systematically refused to learn how to use the toaster properly, but I was not willing to concede with dignity when it came to losing that small ritual the two of us shared in silence, as if it were completely normal, as if it weren't the clearest proof of how much he meant to us.
After breakfast came the morning ritual, which was, without any doubt, my favorite part of the day. Darling put on his police uniform — impeccable white shirt, tie, the regulation cap he always insisted on adjusting in exactly the same way even though it never sat quite perfectly straight. Fastening each button took him considerably longer than it should have, because both Oneesan and I found completely justifiable ways to interrupt him, with hands that sought to brush, with barely any concealment, the abdominals he pretended not to notice we were admiring. He would sigh with the patience only someone with his level of tolerance could maintain, attempting to preserve his composure, though the faint blush on his ears always betrayed him before he could hide it. I adored that blush more than I was willing to admit aloud. Every now and then I would bite my lip at him mischievously just to make him flush even deeper.
I put on my dark green dress and fur coat with the composure that had long since become my habit, and took my deliberate time pulling on my stockings in front of him, knowing full well the effect it had on him. It was never a coincidence. It never was. The poor man already looked as if he were on the verge of producing smoke from his ears, and seeing him like that — trying to keep his gaze fixed on any other part of the room that wasn't me — was one of those small victories that allowed me to start the day with a genuine smile.
Oneesan, meanwhile, settled on the floor in her fitted black dress, legs stretched out with that provocative naturalness only she could pull off without it seeming intentional, though it obviously was. She turned on the television with one hand while holding with the other the Association's special phone. Officially she was only summoned for Demon-level emergencies and above, but I knew perfectly well that more than once she had accepted assignments considerably below that threshold, simply because Darling had asked her to at some point and she never said no to anything he considered important. He, of course, sincerely believed it was pure heroic dedication on her part. I let him keep believing that.
Before leaving, Darling leaned down and gave my sister a kiss, which she received with a smile I knew by heart because it was practically a mirror of my own. Then he came to me and calmly helped me put on my boots, a completely domestic gesture that somehow always managed to make me blush to the roots of my hair, because there was something in the way he did it — slowly, carefully, unhurriedly — that felt more intimate than things that objectively were far more so. When he finished he put on his own shoes and we walked together toward the entrance.
Outside, a landscape that had already become part of the regular backdrop of our mornings was waiting for us: several fresh craters and scattered rubble, reminders of some monster that had probably been the source of the crash we'd heard earlier. Darling scooped me up in his arms with his usual nonchalance and I clung to his neck while the wind hit us head-on. We traveled at full speed leaping from building to building, avoiding the curious glances that in any case never lingered on us long enough for anyone to recognize us, until he stopped on a secluded rooftop.
There, with the entire city below us and no one around, I kissed him with all the intensity I'd been holding back since the kitchen. I pulled away with my eyes still bright.
—Until tonight, Darling.
I said it in a whisper, my cheeks still warm, and he nodded with that characteristic calm of his that never changed no matter what I did. Then each of us went our own way, ready for whatever the day had in store.
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Saitama walked with a calm pace through the deserted streets of City Z, his police cap casting a shadow over his eyes. Patrolling was, in a way, what he liked most: a moment of peace amid the usual chaos, where he could feel he was genuinely fulfilling a role, though he preferred being alone even more.
He was there precisely because back at the station he'd heard the alarm reports on the radio: a mosquito plague was ravaging everything, draining the blood of animals and people alike. It was being classified as a Demon-level situation.
—I'll handle it —he said in his calm tone, which surprised many, to the point that some nearly insisted on accompanying him or providing backup. Unfortunately for them, they were quickly scolded for their recklessness and Saitama left alone without any trouble.
The truth was that, beyond what others might say, he was doing it for something far more personal. One thing Tatsumaki hated in this world was insects… and mosquitoes occupied the very top of that list. He didn't want to imagine his apartment reduced to rubble just because she decided to exterminate them in her own way. So, before those things got anywhere near where his wife was, he would make sure to eliminate them himself.
—This'll be easy, they're just mosquitoes. I'll wipe them out in no time; I've already defeated things far worse and far bigger. A mosquito is nothing —said Saitama confidently, just as one of those insects landed on his hand.
It was the perfect moment to prove his point.
—Just like this!
The swat he threw was clean, sharp, with all the precision his extraordinary strength could muster. He was certain he had crushed it…
—Bzzzz…
That sound left him speechless. The mosquito was still alive, fluttering around as if nothing had happened, drifting calmly away from his hand. Saitama tried again and missed. He tried once more… and missed even more completely. With each slap and each superhuman-speed strike, the wretched insect slipped away as if it were mocking him.
A vein pulsed on his forehead.
—Damned mosquito… —he growled through his teeth, beginning to chase that spawn of a demon all over the place. Slap after slap, leap after leap, there was no way to catch it.
He kept at it for over ten minutes, covering half the city, until the vile creature decided to rest on the wall of a building.
—Get back here, you wretch!! You and I aren't done, you little bastard!!
He was already poised to deliver the strike of its life when, all at once, he remembered something Fubuki had once told him in a calm, teasing tone: "Why don't you hit it calmly?"
Saitama stopped dead in his tracks, sighed and straightened up. With composure, he picked up a crumpled newspaper lying on the ground, approached slowly and pressed it against the wall, gently crushing the insect. He tapped it a couple of times to be sure, and when he pulled it back he saw it: the mosquito's corpse reduced to a simple bloodstain.
A triumphant smile spread across his face.
—AHA… I KNEW I COULD KILL YOU, YOU DAMN BUG!! Hahaha….ha… Huh?
That victory would have lasted longer in his mind had it not been for the fact that, suddenly, something fell at his side with a crash. Saitama leaned over curiously to find a strange-looking young blond man: his body was covered in metal parts, as if he were a cyborg, and his left arm had been completely torn off.
—Hey kid, are you alright? —said Saitama, helping the cyborg boy to his feet.
The cyborg boy didn't answer him, he just stared at him with a peculiar expression and a very serious face. Was it that strange to see a bald police officer, or was there something else?
Then the buzzing arrived.
At first it was almost imperceptible, like static in the ears — the kind of sound that makes you turn around without quite knowing why. But it grew. And kept growing. A low, wet hum that didn't come from one point but from everywhere at once, as if the air itself were vibrating with something alive and furious.
Saitama looked up.
Above the buildings, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, a dark mass twisted and expanded like smoke with a will of its own. Too dense to be fog. Too alive to be anything else. The swarm blocked the light in patches, casting shadows that moved and rippled across the concrete facades, across the asphalt, across the two of them.
Millions of mosquitoes. Moving as one.
Saitama frowned.
—How disgusting. —he replied with a grimace.
—Officer —said the cyborg suddenly, in a voice that was serious and precise, without the slightest trace of panic—. Stand back immediately…
Saitama glanced at him sideways without taking his eyes off the swarm.
—The cloud is sentient —the boy continued, pulling himself fully upright, his eyes fixed on the center of the mass where a feminine figure seemed to float motionlessly—. If it detects you, it will attack.
—Huh…?
Saitama raised an eyebrow, surprised and somewhat alarmed, but he didn't take a single step back. He was a police officer, and it was his duty to stop that threat. Perhaps he could throw himself at the swarm all at once and finish everything in one blow, but fate moved first: within seconds, the dark cloud launched itself at both of them, engulfing them completely in a whirlwind of wings and stingers.
He raised his hands, ready to clap and pulverize them all in a single strike, when he suddenly felt a small warmth behind him. Alarmed, he barely had time to notice a green barrier enclosing him. An instant later, a ferocious blaze consumed everything, incinerating the mosquitoes in an explosion of fire that lit up the sky.
The heat vanished as quickly as it came, and the barrier dissolved. The air filled with the smell of burned flesh and dust, and Saitama understood it immediately: it was Tatsumaki. His wife had detected what was happening and, even from a distance, had launched a precise attack to protect him. He knew her psychic powers well… but it still surprised him how fast she acted when he was in danger. Although, of course, her abilities never took effect on his strange body, just as she herself had told him more than once.
Well, at least everything was clear now.
When he looked down, the young cyborg was still there, observing the scene with cold detachment, analyzing every detail like a machine. Saitama thought about thanking him… or at least saying something.
—Hey kid, that attack was super cool. You could even say you attracted them like flies to honey. Badu… badum —he joked, scratching the back of his neck.
The young man didn't blink. He was staring at him fixedly, with a surprised expression, as if trying to decipher something impossible. Perhaps he didn't like jokes.
—Didn't you get it? It was a flies and mosquitoes joke.
—Hahahahaha!!
The burst of laughter interrupted the bad joke. Both turned their heads, and there, suspended in the air, a feminine figure revealed herself: a monstrous woman, with mosquito wings and reddish skin that gleamed far too much. Her eyes blazed with madness as she continued laughing without pause.
Saitama tried to listen to what that creature was screaming, but his mind was occupied with something stranger: how had his uniform sleeve gotten burned? He'd have to mend it now because he had no intention of paying for another uniform this week — that was already five of them…
—Boom!!
He'd barely had time to think about it when the woman launched a swift slash with her legs, a cut that whistled through the air, slicing like invisible razors. The movement was so brutal that it demolished the facade of a nearby building in a single blow, tearing out beams and concrete as if they were dry leaves, before heading toward…
Saitama acted without thinking twice, stepping into the path of a blow aimed at the young man. With a sharp motion, he caught the woman's insect arm mid-attack. His fingers closed with such force that the limb shattered instantly, tearing a wrenching scream from the mosquito woman that echoed the length of the street.
With a smooth pivot, he raised his leg and drove a kick into her that sent her straight into the sky, tearing through every cloud above. The monstrous woman's body flew, but Saitama was already there in a single leap. His fist descended with calm, and he drove her into the ground with a brutal impact — the earth shook, a massive crack split open across several streets, and dust rose in a cloud that obscured everything around them.
When the air cleared, the monstrous woman's body had been reduced to an unrecognizable mass of flesh and an enormous bloodstain. Only the head had survived, rolling across the pavement, eyes bulging and fixed in absolute terror.
Saitama descended calmly and picked up the head with one hand, lifting it to examine it in detail. Perhaps, he thought, Fubuki or Tatsumaki could dig through what remained of that mind and pull out some useful information. That was the only thing that concerned him before considering the case closed.
He was about to leave when a voice stopped him.
—Please, wait! —the desperate shout from the young blond man made him turn around.
Saitama saw him lying on the ground, legs destroyed, covered in blood from head to toe and his body wrecked from the damage of the fight. For an instant he felt concerned, wondering whether he had miscalculated the force of his own blow.
—Hey, are you alright? Do you need me to take you to a hospital or… a repair shop?
—Please tell me your name…
—Huh?... Well… I'm Officer Saitama.
—Please take me on as your disciple!!
—Ah sure… —he crouched down to help him up, but midway through the motion, the phrase registered and his expression shifted to one of absolute bewilderment—. …wait… What?
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One week later…
֎֎֎
I knocked on the door firmly. It was the correct address. The data matched. After everything it had taken me to find him, this was the moment.
—Sensei, sir!
I waited at attention, hands at my sides. I heard movement inside. Footsteps. Then the sound of the lock mechanism.
The door opened.
I processed the visual information in under a second: it was not Saitama sensei. It was a short feminine figure with green hair that swayed at her sides, dressed in casual clothes and an apron of the same shade as her hair. She held a cup in both hands and was looking at me with one eyebrow raised and an expression somewhere between drowsy and vaguely irritated, as if I had interrupted something important to her.
She looked me up and down without saying anything for a moment.
—What do you want…? Are you a delivery person? —she asked, and yawned.
I blinked, snapping back.
There was something about her that didn't quite add up according to my scanners — I had a sense I had seen her somewhere before, though I couldn't place where. And more so because of a presence that didn't correspond to the size of the body containing it. But I didn't want to analyze it further; I concluded she was a direct relative of Saitama sensei. The logical response was to maintain a respectful and cordial attitude. I inclined slightly and took a step forward.
—Good morning, I am Genos and I have come to see Mr. Saitama, miss. I didn't know that sensei had… —I put on my best smile to make a good impression— …such a cute little sister.
—…
Silence.
A silence of approximately two seconds and three milliseconds. My sensors detected no movement, no temperature variation, no physical indicator of imminent threat. But those final three milliseconds detected too late the danger I had just brought upon myself.
—AH!
I had no time to react. A force of magnitude impossible to calculate with precision crushed me from every angle simultaneously. My stabilization systems failed instantly. My knees gave way against the floor with an impact I registered across every structural component of my legs. The internal gears screeched under a load that corresponded to no known parameter in my threat database.
I tried to get up. I couldn't.
I raised my gaze with effort.
She had not moved. She was still in the same place, cup in hand, looking down at me. But the drowsy expression had vanished entirely. What had replaced it was something my systems catalogued immediately as critical danger: an absolutely cold fury, perfectly controlled, that had no need to show itself because it was already demonstrating itself in other ways. Pure bloodlust.
—What did you just say to me, worthless scrap metal? —she said. The voice was low. Even. Without variation in tone.
That was what finished confirming to me the gravity of the situation.
My systems processed the face with an unforgivable delay. Green hair. Intense eyes. Short stature. Psychic power of anomalous magnitude. The data matched a profile I should have identified in the first second and had not.
Class S. Rank 2. Tatsumaki. "Tornado of Terror."
Officially, the most powerful active heroine in the Association after Rank 1. Known both for her destructive capacity and her temperament, which the media described in diplomatic terms that in practice meant only one thing: she was unpredictable, and she became especially dangerous when someone, through ignorance or carelessness, made the mistake of treating her like a small child rather than what she was.
I had just done exactly that. In front of her. At her own door.
Kneeling on the ground, unable to move, with my systems yielding under her pressure, all I could do was await what was coming. My definitive end.