Chapter Text
Izuku Midoriya walked into the HSI orientation room and immediately regretted every life decision that had led him here.
The space itself was nice—clean lines, wide windows, sunshine trying its best. Even the plants looked hopeful. A woven basket of tea packets sat beside the sign-in sheet, as if peppermint could defuse the tension thickening by the second.
He had made it four steps into the room when the girl closest to the window burst into tears.
“Oh,” he said, freezing mid-step, “oh no—are you—?”
“I’m sorry,” the girl hiccupped, flapping her hands like she could shoo the tears back into her face. Her name tag read “Ren” in soft, shaky letters.
“I just—this is a good thing—I promise—I’m not upset, I’m just—” She sobbed. “So scared.”
“Totally normal!” Izuku chirped, a little too brightly, setting his bag down like it might explode. “First day jitters! Deep breaths! Do you want tea? There’s—uh—peppermint?”
Across the room, a boy with hair like a dying firework scoffed so loudly it physically startled three people. “You cryin’ already?!” he barked, pointing at Ren like she was a car crash. “It’s been thirty seconds! We don’t even know him yet!”
“Daiki,” said a taller girl near the back wall, not looking up from the corner she had claimed. “Sit down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Maki! We don’t even have rules yet!” Daiki threw both hands in the air. “What if he’s secretly evil?! We don’t know him! He could be—like—a lizard man in a skin suit!”
Ren cried harder.
“Okay,” Izuku said, gently putting the tea basket between them like a peace offering. “I’m not—uh—not a lizard man. That’s a fair question though! Good critical thinking.”
“You’re sweating a lot,” came a very small voice from behind him.
Izuku nearly levitated.
Eri peeked out from behind his arm like a suspicious woodland creature. She was half-hidden behind Kota—who stood with his arms crossed and mouth twisted like he was guarding a hostage. His eyes didn’t leave Daiki.
“I’m only here because Eri wanted to come,” Kota announced, projecting loudly into the void. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I literally just got here,” Izuku muttered under his breath, mostly to himself.
At that moment, the girl closest to the whiteboard turned, smiling like she was on her third cup of coffee and thriving. She moved with unsettling precision, like she'd practiced this morning in front of a mirror.
“This is such a wonderful start,” she said, smiling. “I’m Yui. I’m so happy to be here.”
The smile did not reach her eyes.
“…Right,” Izuku said. “Great. That’s great. Thank you, Yui.”
The last kid, sitting cross-legged in the corner like they’d been summoned from the underworld, slowly pushed their sunglasses up the bridge of their nose.
They did not speak. They simply looked at him.
For a long time.
Izuku stared back, sweat now freely pouring from his temples. “And… you’re Kei, right?”
A beat of silence.
Then, “You look like you cry a lot.”
“I don’t—” he started, then stopped. “…Okay, that’s fair.”
Kei didn’t blink. Izuku blinked twice just to make up for it.
“Right,” he said again, trying to smile. “Okay. Um—why don’t we all take a seat, yeah? You don’t have to sit in a circle or anything, I’m not a monster. I just want to go over a few things, and then we can get to the real orientation stuff.”
No one moved.
Except Ren—who, still crying but now determined, shot to her feet and nearly tripped over her own bag in the process.
“I—I can sit!” she said, too loudly. “I’ll sit right here! That’s fine!”
“Thanks, Ren,” Izuku said gently, as she flopped onto the nearest chair with all the grace of a puppet mid-seizure.
Daiki followed with a dramatic groan, flinging himself backwards into a seat like a Victorian child fainting from the stress of modernity.
Kota sat stiffly next to Eri. Maki did not move from her corner. Kei slithered into a seat like they were doing the room a favor. Yui sat with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap like she was praying for divine judgment.
Izuku glanced at his notes, which felt insulting now in their optimism.
He had bullet points. Little checkmarks next to phrases like 'establish trust!' and 'model vulnerability!'.
He was going to have to light this clipboard on fire before the hour was over.
“Okay,” he said again, trying not to grip the clipboard like a life raft. “So. Welcome to Hero Support Initiative Orientation Week. I know that’s a mouthful, so you can just call it HSI. And I want to start off by saying— really saying—that I’m proud of all of you for being here.”
Kei rolled their eyes.
Kota crossed his arms harder.
“It’s not easy,” Izuku continued, powering through, “to walk into a new place. Especially with everything you’ve been through. I don’t know all of your stories yet, but I know enough to know that you’re brave. That you’re strong. And that I feel really lucky to be the one who gets to support you through this next step.”
He smiled—wobbly, soft-edged, so painfully earnest it made Kei look like they might vomit.
Then he looked at Ren.
“And Ren,” he added, “thank you for being open enough to feel things so deeply, even when it’s hard. That’s not weakness. That’s courage.”
For a split second, the room held its breath.
Ren blinked at him, wide-eyed and flushed and trembling.
She looked like a child caught in the act of being loved. Her mouth opened. She tried to say thank you. Tried to smile.
And then—
The air cracked like someone had fired a starter pistol in the room. A burst of pressure popped across everyone’s ears.
It was quiet, at first. A subtle shimmer in the air—like heat rising off pavement—but colder. The lights dimmed. A gust of wind came from nowhere, rustling papers and pulling everyone’s hair in the same strange direction. Yui’s skirt lifted slightly. Kei made a noise that could only be described as “viscerally offended.”
The temperature dropped five degrees in an instant.
And Ren vanished.
Daiki squawked, diving under the table. “ARE WE UNDER ATTACK?! IS THIS A TEST?! I’M READY, I’LL FIGHT GOD!”
There was a pause. A beat of absolute silence.
Then a thump from across the room as Ren reappeared—ten meters away, crouched on top of a low storage shelf like a startled cat.
Kei recoiled so hard their chair skidded backward.
“What the hell,” Daiki shouted, pointing at the shelf like it had personally offended him. “Did she just—?! What was that?! Did she explode?! Is this a teleport? Did she spawn-camp herself?!”
“Oh no,” Ren gasped, covering her mouth. Her fingers were shaking. “Oh no no no, I didn’t mean to—I can’t—I’m sorry—”
Izuku moved fast.
Not panicked—just calm and certain and here, sliding down to the floor beside the shelf she cowered on like he’d done it a thousand times.
“I—I’m—” Ren whimpered, covering her face. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying—I just—!”
“Hey, hey,” Izuku said quickly, holding both hands up like he was approaching a cornered animal. “Ren. You’re safe. You’re okay. That was your Quirk, right?”
She nodded without lowering her hands.
“Okay,” he said, stepping slowly toward the shelf. “You didn’t do anything wrong. This is a Quirk-positive space, remember? That means we expect things like this to happen. Especially when feelings are big.”
“She just blinked out of existence!” Daiki whisper-screamed to Maki. “That’s not a feeling, that’s a Jump Scare Quirk! We’re gonna need helmets!”
“No one needs helmets,” Izuku said calmly, with the long-suffering tone of a man already accepting the chaos of his life.
He held out a hand. “Do you want help getting down?”
She peeked between her fingers. “No. I—I can do it.”
And she did. Sort of. She scooted too fast, slipped a little, and had to half-jump into Izuku’s arms anyway.
He caught her like it was nothing. Like he’d caught dozens of trembling first-years with unpredictable Quirks and hearts too big for their bodies.
As soon as she was back on the floor, Ren turned and immediately attempted to crawl under the nearest desk.
“Ren. Look at me.”
She did, eyes glossy and terrified.
“You’re okay,” he said softly. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong. Your Quirk’s just… reacting to your feelings, right? That’s not bad. That’s information.”
“I broke the air,” she whispered.
“No,” he smiled, “you just made the room a little dramatic. That’s fine. We can handle dramatic.”
The wind settled. The lights stopped flickering.
Slowly, the temperature began to even out.
And as Ren took one shaky breath after another—counting them, grounding herself—Eri got up from her seat. She padded over on quiet feet, then sat beside Ren on the floor without a word.
Ren looked at her. Eri reached out and gently, carefully, took her hand.
Izuku swallowed hard.
He was definitely going to cry later.
Their fingers were laced together, small and trembling and real.
Izuku exhaled and looked around the room like a soldier surveying a battlefield.
The silence stretched—long enough for it to become awkward. Then longer still.
No one moved. No one spoke.
He let it hang. Just for a second.
Let them all feel it.
The tension. The quiet. The fact that they were still here.
“…Okay,” he said at last. “So. That was a strong start.”
The room had barely resettled.
Eri was still holding Ren’s hand under the desk. Kota hadn’t moved at all, like he was trying to become one with the chair. Daiki looked both alarmed and incredibly impressed. Yui smiled like nothing happened. Maki was still in her corner. Kei had taken out a sketchpad and was already drawing like their life depended on it.
Izuku cleared his throat. Gently. Like someone afraid of spooking wild animals.
“Well,” he said. “That might be a new record for first-day Quirk activation. But you all handled it really well.”
Ren whimpered.
“You did,” he said again, kind but firm. “You’re here. You stayed. That’s what matters.”
He took a breath. “So—before I ask any of you to talk, I’ll go first. I think it’s only fair you know a little about me.”
That got some attention.
Izuku stepped to the front of the room, arms loose at his sides, not pacing, not towering. Just present.
“My name’s Izuku Midoriya, but you can call me Midoriya-Sensei if you want to be formal. Or just Mr. Midoriya. I’m twenty-five, and I teach Modern Heroics and Support Strategy here at UA. I also run this new HSI program with a few other staff—some of whom you’ll meet tomorrow.”
Kei didn’t look up, but their pencil stilled.
“I was… supposed to be a Pro Hero,” Izuku continued. “But life had other plans. I spent my high school years training under Japan’s top hero, but I didn’t take that path in the end. I burned out. Got hurt. Had to step away before I even got a license.”
A beat.
“I thought that meant I’d failed,” he said, and his voice went soft. “But I found something else instead. Something that made more sense for who I was. I realized I wanted to help people like this. Not on patrol. Not in a costume. But here.”
Something shifted in the room.
It was still tense. Still uncertain. But a few of the kids looked at him now, not just through him.
“Anyway,” Izuku said, scratching the back of his neck, “I’m not here to fix you. I’m just here to help you figure out what your next step is—whatever that looks like. And that means making this space safe for you to explore, mess up, and grow.”
He smiled. “Even if that means occasionally teleporting onto furniture.”
Ren made a sound like a dying mouse.
That was the exact moment Daiki raised his hand.
“Can I use my Quirk too?” he asked, eyes sparkling with danger.
Izuku blinked. “Um—well, I’d like to get to know everyone a bit more before—”
Too late.
Daiki stood up and gravity shifted.
Not subtly.
The room’s air pressure dropped, like they were suddenly deep underwater. Paper floated off desks. The lights buzzed. Everyone’s shoes groaned against the floor like the ground was trying to eat them.
“Oh, come on,” Kei snapped, bracing against the table as their sketchpad slid an inch sideways.
“Daiki,” Izuku called, stepping forward, “let’s—okay, that’s enough, let’s bring it down—”
Daiki grinned. “I am bringing it down.”
“Literally,” Maki muttered.
“Okay!” Izuku clapped once. “Seriously. Big feelings, good. Accidental black hole, bad. Can we scale it back?”
Daiki made a little “whoops” noise and dropped back into his chair.
The pressure vanished. Everyone immediately breathed out.
Yui fanned herself like she’d just had a spiritual experience. Ren still hadn’t moved. Eri looked like she wanted to go home. Kota muttered something under his breath about being “surrounded by dumbasses”.
And from the back, Maki finally spoke.
Just two words.
“Nice Quirk.”
Daiki’s face lit up like a sunrise.
“Icebreaker time,” Izuku announced, with the upbeat energy of someone trying very hard not to take psychic damage. “We’ll keep it simple. Name, Quirk, and… one thing you want from this program.”
Seven faces stared at him like he’d asked them to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.
He smiled through the tension. “I’ll start.”
He gestured to himself. “Izuku Midoriya. No Quirk anymore—but I used to have one. What I want from this program is to help you all realize that your story isn’t over just because it took a turn you didn’t expect.”
Yui clapped. No one else did.
“…Cool,” he said. “Uh—let’s go clockwise? Ren?”
Ren made a tiny squeak.
“I—I’m Sorano Ren,” she stammered, still holding Eri’s hand under the desk. “My Quirk is Blink. It’s teleportation, but only, like… short distances. And it’s triggered when I’m… um. Having feelings.”
Kei made a noise in the back of their throat like they were choking on sarcasm.
Ren rushed ahead. “And I want to—I don’t know—just learn how to not mess everything up. I guess.”
“Oh my god,” Maki said flatly, “same.”
All heads swiveled.
Maki stood up like she’d been possessed by rage and boredom in equal measure. She didn’t even look at anyone—just stared out the window like the sun personally offended her.
“Anzu Maki,” she said. “Soundburst Quirk. I scream and things break.”
Daiki made a hell yeah face.
Maki kept going. “What I want from this program? Nothing. Not yet. Because I don’t trust this place. Or anyone in it. But I’m here, so let’s just get it over with.”
Izuku opened his mouth. Then closed it again.
“…Thank you for sharing,” he managed, which was technically true.
Maki sat back down and immediately pulled her hoodie over her head.
Yui spoke up next, her smile bright but not quite anchored—more dazzle than depth, like a spotlight with no switch. “Tano Yui! My Quirk is Combustion Sync—I can trigger explosions when I move to a rhythm. Think boom, but make it choreography.” She threw in a playful finger gun, then added, “I wanna be a Hero someday! Or maybe a therapist who yells affirmations.”
Ren flinched. Daiki blinked slowly like he was buffering. Kota looked like he aged five years on the spot.
Izuku blinked. “That’s an interesting combination of goals.”
“I’m complex,” she beamed.
“Right. Okay. Kei?”
Kei didn’t look up. “Shiratori Kei. Mirrorworld Quirk. I can reflect things that reflect me.”
Izuku nodded slowly. “And what do you want from the program?”
Kei tapped their pencil once. “To leave.”
“Ah. Okay.”
Next was Eri, who hadn’t let go of Ren’s hand the whole time.
She spoke softly, but clearly. “Eri Aizawa-Yamada. Rewind Quirk. But I’m still learning how to use it without hurting anyone. I want to be able to help people… the way Mr. Midoriya has helped me.”
Izuku immediately had to look at the ceiling again.
Kota went last.
“Kota Izumi. Water Jet Quirk. I’m only here because Eri asked me to be.”
Eri looked up at him. He looked away. But he squeezed her hand under the desk.
“…Right,” Izuku said, pressing his palms together like he was praying. “Thank you. That was—really good.”
And then Daiki raised his hand again.
“Can I do mine but, like, louder?”
“No,” Maki snapped.
Daiki scoffed dramatically. “But I didn’t go yet!”
Izuku blinked. “Oh—right. Sorry, Daiki. Go ahead.”
Daiki leapt to his feet like he’d been waiting his whole life.
“Hayashi Daiki,” he announced, with absolutely no chill. “My Quirk is called Gravity Sink. I can increase gravitational pull in a targeted area, and sometimes that area is—uh. The entire room. Whoops.”
Maki stared at him with the flat disapproval of a tired cat.
“But I’m working on it!” Daiki added quickly. “And what I want from this program is—uh—friends? Growth? To not be a disaster? I don’t know! To not die sad and alone?”
A beat of silence.
Then he gave two thumbs up and sat back down like he’d dropped the mic.
Izuku blinked rapidly. “Thank you for that… honest share.”
He inhaled—sharp, shallow—and clapped his hands once, brightly, like he was trying to summon order from the void.
“Alright,” he said, voice calm but hopeful, “let’s switch gears a bit.”
Seven pairs of eyes turned to him, various shades of alarm already creeping in.
“I’ve got a team challenge for you,” he went on, stepping to the side of the room where a long table had been rolled in, covered in paper, string, scissors, tape, and—of course—an open carton of raw eggs.
Kei audibly sighed. Maki looked like she was reconsidering her enrollment.
“You’re going to build a device to protect an egg from a one-story fall,” Izuku explained, gesturing to the supplies. “No Quirks on the materials—this is about strategy, creativity, and collaboration.”
Daiki leaned forward, instantly buzzing. “Do we get to name the eggs?”
“You can if you want,” Izuku said. “But please don’t get too attached.”
Ren made a small, distressed noise.
“It’s a team exercise,” Izuku continued. “So I’ll be assigning groups. We’ll do two pairs and one group of three. You’ve got twenty minutes.”
Immediately, Kota narrowed his eyes. Daiki grinned. Yui perked up like someone had plugged her into an outlet.
“Maki, you’re with Daiki,” Izuku announced, pointing before they could argue. “Kei, you’re with Yui. And Ren, you’ll be with Eri and Kota.”
The air shifted.
Maki made a low sound of betrayal. “You did that on purpose.”
“I literally didn’t,” Izuku said.
“I did!” Daiki said cheerfully.
Kei pulled their hood up without comment. Yui was already halfway to the tape. Ren went stock-still, visibly panicking, and Kota muttered, “Great,” like it was the worst day of his life.
Eri just smiled and started clearing space on the table like a good soldier.
Izuku clapped again, trying to pretend things weren’t unraveling in real time.
“Alright, grab your supplies. Clock starts now.”