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I am Saitama - Chapter 5: Mosquito Girl
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 21:00:07 +0000 UTCThe midday news droned on in the background of the cramped apartment, filling the silence with the awkward monotone of a studio program.
“What could be the cause of the massive mosquito outbreak this year?” the reporter asked.
“We ask Mr. Kafetch, a mosquito expert who has written several books on the subject.”
“Thank you for having me. Well, let me come right to the point. These mosquitoes belong to an entirely new species. Therefore, I know nothing about them.”
What the hell kind of expert admits that on live TV?
Saitama muttered under his breath, standing shirtless in his slippers, watering a tiny patch of plants on his balcony with a pink elephant-shaped watering can. A strange, calm routine considering everything that had happened over the past couple of days.
Still, if my memory’s right… this is where the Mosquito Chick shows up. That freaky dominatrix like bug girl that makes Genos blow up half the neighborhood just to land one hit.
He stared off toward the horizon. The sky was bright, but if he squinted, he could almost make out faint specks drifting in the wind—dark shapes, too small to be birds.
Great. That means Genos should appear soon too. Man, I hope he doesn’t vaporize my damn apartment by accident.
He returned inside, setting down the watering can, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His thoughts shifted back to the events from earlier.
Did that guy from the Hero Association report me already? What was his name again… Jinzuren or something? He seemed like the clipboard-type. Probably already called a dozen meetings about me.
He was about to sit down when he heard it—knock knock.
Saitama paused.
Huh. Weird, no one should know that I am living here.
He walked up to the door, unlocked it, and opened it just enough to see outside. But there was no one. Only a faint echo of footsteps vanishing down the stairs. He looked down.
A letter had been slid through the slot. Plain envelope, white. But the moment he bent to pick it up, his eyes caught something unusual: a symbol, pressed like a wax seal over the fold—a sleek black eagle surrounded by a laurel.
The Hero Association…
He blinked.
They actually sent me a letter.
Now slightly more curious than usual, he stepped back into the apartment, ripped the envelope open, and pulled out a thick folded letter accompanied by what looked like… an ID card?
He sat on the floor, back against the wall, and began reading the letter aloud.
“Dear Mr. Saitama,”
Following the exceptional events in A-City and D-City, and upon review of the verified drone footage obtained by our tactical surveillance systems, we at the Hero Association have formally recognized your involvement in the swift and total elimination of two confirmed Dragon-level threats.
Your feats, both recorded and witnessed, surpass the expectations of any existing class or ranking evaluation. After an emergency board meeting and unanimous executive vote, we are pleased to inform you of your immediate provisional enrollment into the Hero Association.
You have been classified as an S-Class Hero.
Your current rank is pending formal review and will be decided after additional interviews and evaluations. However, your inclusion in the Association grants you full access to S-Class benefits, financial support, equipment requisitions, and tactical assignments.
Please find enclosed your provisional hero ID card. We recommend that you register your current address and contact information at the nearest Association office as soon as possible.
Thank you for your service to humanity.
—Hero Association, Internal Affairs Division
Saitama stared at the paper.
“…S-Class?”
He looked down at the card. It was real. Plastic, laminated, with the Hero Association emblem in silver foil and his name—well, just “Saitama”—printed cleanly beneath a pixelated photo of his bored-looking face from one of the drones.
...No exam. No interview. They really just made me S-Class off the footage.
He tilted his head slightly and let out a quiet whistle.
That’s insane. I thought they’d make me start from the bottom or at least throw a written test at me or something. Isn’t that what happened to the real Saitama in the show? He got, like, C-Class 388 and had to work his way up from there…
He scratched his head.
But I guess that’s the benefit of living in the real version of this world. The stakes are higher, and apparently, so are the standards for emergency recruitment.
The thought lingered for a moment.
Then his eyes drifted to the lower part of the letter—where the words “financial support” were clearly underlined.
“…Wait. Benefits?”
He stood up quickly, letter in one hand, ID in the other.
Hold on. If I’m S-Class, I get a salary, right? Like, a real one. Housing, food stipends, hazard bonuses—
His stomach grumbled.
He looked over at the open fridge. Inside, there was half a bottle of soy sauce, one expired cabbage leaf, and a single boiled egg.
“…Finally.”
He looked at the card again, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Guess this means no more living off gratitude apples and instant noodles.”
He turned to glance out the window—and paused.
A low buzzing sound filled the air.
Dozens… no, hundreds of mosquitoes were swirling in the sky.
His eye twitched.
“Oh. Right. That thing’s still happening.”
He rolled his shoulders, glanced down at the card once more, then sighed.
“Guess the S-Class perks will have to wait until after I squash this bug problem.” He said as he went to change himself.
Meanwhile the TV was still on:
“We interrupt this program for breaking news. A large swarm of mosquitos has been sighted in City Z. Mummified remains of att*cked farm animals have also been found. If you encounter a swarm of mosquitos, flee immediately.
This is an emergency evacuation warning. Threat level: Demon.
No resident is to go outside under any circumstances.
I repeat, no City Z resident is to go outside...”
(Meanwhile on another part of Z-City)
“Come on, you guys. Go get some food for me!”
The voice rang out playfully from the sky as Mosquito Girl hovered above the city ruins. The wind shifted around her insectoid wings, the buzz behind her building into a low, bone-deep rumble.
She was a disturbing blend of seductive and grotesque: her limbs elongated and bladed, her legs digitigrade like those of a predatory animal, reinforced with segmented plating and tiny hooked spurs that clicked each time she shifted weight in the air. Her arms ended in serrated claws, and coarse bristles lined her limbs, twitching ever so slightly with every wingbeat.
Her face, however, was eerily human—soft and feminine, framed by shoulder-length platinum white hair, and adorned with compound red eyes that sat layered beside her human ones, glinting with insectile precision. Two antennae twitched like radar as she turned her head, scanning for her next prey.
Below her, a massive swarm of mosquitoes blanketed the sky. Tens of thousands—no, millions—of them buzzed in perfect unison, blocking out sunlight, converging and shifting as one living entity.
Suddenly, a loud thunk echoed through the air—something fast, metallic, and precise had landed.
From a nearby rooftop, a figure stepped forward—a tall young man with pale skin, golden eyes glowing faintly under his black-and-yellow irises. His white-blond hair fluttered in the breeze, and the sharp plating on his cybernetic limbs gleamed as vents along his arms began to glow a soft orange.
Genos.
“Target acquired,” he said coldly, eyes narrowing as he scanned her.
Mosquito Girl tilted her head. “Huh?” she muttered under her breath, narrowing her human eyes at the new arrival.
“I see…” Genos continued, data flooding into his vision from his scanners. “You make the mosquitoes suck blood from victims, and then you collect it for yourself. That’s how your nutrient cycle functions… A parasitic energy system using external vector collection.”
She blinked, her expression neutral, almost bored.
“You’re controlling the swarm with a signal—ultrasonic or pheromonal, most likely. That would explain their erratic migration patterns and synchronized attack clusters.”
She didn’t speak. Just licked her lips.
Genos raised his right palm slowly, his fingers folding slightly as the conduit panels along his forearms opened, charging coils rotating into place.
“If I eliminate you, the source, the swarm will collapse.”
His voice was flat, clinical and emotionless.
Mosquito Girl let out a low chuckle.
“Our next meal is here,” she purred. “Drain him dry.”
The sky pulsed as the swarm surged forward like a dark tsunami. Millions of tiny bodies aimed themselves like guided missiles toward the lone cyborg, proboscises extended, wings slicing the air like razors.
But Genos didn’t flinch.
He stood his ground as the insects hit him.
They tried to pierce his skin, but they couldn’t. Metal plating. Alloy polymer mesh. Thermal shielding. There was no blood to drain.
The mosquitoes swarmed harder, crawling up his arms and legs in chaotic layers. A normal man would have been devoured in seconds.
Genos only said one word.
“Incinerate.”
In an instant, the vents along his arms and shoulders exploded with plasma energy, bright as the sun and hot enough to melt titanium.
A blast of flame erupted outward in a 360-degree wave. The mosquitoes didn’t even have time to scream—or if they did, it was drowned in the roar of superheated air.
The swarm ignited, popping like firecrackers, tiny black specks turning to ash mid-flight.
The entire block was briefly bathed in white-orange light. Windows cracked. Car alarms wailed. The smoke from the incineration drifted upward like a mushroom cloud.
When it cleared, the rooftop was covered in a thin layer of soot—and not a single mosquito remained.
Genos lowered his hand slowly, smoke curling from the barrel embedded in his palm.
Mosquito Girl hovered in the distance, visibly rattled.
She looked around. Her swarm was gone. All of it.
Still she forced a grin, baring needle-sharp teeth.
“Well, that was rude,” she hissed. “Now I’m gonna rip that pretty metal face right off your skull.”
Genos didn’t respond. But his arm vents hissed again, already priming the next attack.
