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Chapter Text

Prologue - Pressurized Quiet

Aizawa didn’t blink until the first scream cut to static.

The room, UA’s sealed briefing theater, glowed a cold blue off the holowall. A U-shaped table wrapped the holo-projector at the center; Nezu sat at the head, paws folded, the hologram pooling light in his whiskers. Arrayed along the arms were the people UA would trust with bad nights: Aizawa; Toshinori in his slimmer frame, hands around a dented thermos; Nemuri with her arms folded just so; Hizashi uncharacteristically quiet; Cementoss steady and chalk-knuckled; Ectoplasm very still; Snipe with his brim tipped low; Power Loader faintly oil-scented; Thirteen’s visor ghosting the footage; Hound Dog with claws resting flat on wood; Recovery Girl’s cane tip parked by her heel; Vlad King a block of patience; Deku at the end of the run with a capped pen. Present Mic had stopped fidgeting.

Grainy footage rolled: a corridor somewhere foreign, the color science slightly wrong, whites a little green, the way cheap security rigs lie about the truth. The top-left corner carried a soft stamp, [CAM 02 / SUB-BASEMENT], that fuzzed every few seconds as if embarrassed to be precise.

[00:00.13] Auto-exposure hunted, the frame brightening, dimming, brightening again. The mic throttled itself from a sea of static to a tunnel where every footfall was a coin dropped down a well. Captions flickered: [AUTO-TRANSLATE: ???]… then steadied on English with the apologetic brackets that said it was still guessing.

No one in the room moved. Present Mic’s hand found a cough drop, the foil whispering. He didn’t open it.

[00:07.42] The corridor air looked wet. Condensation tracked along a ribbed conduit like a pulse under skin. The camera tried to white balance on a dented steel door and gave up, settling for something colder than real. A figure in the far distance crossed the spill of a light, a shadow clipping off the edge as if the building had bitten a piece out of them.

Aizawa catalogued nothing and everything: the rust map around the hinge; a dark smear near ankle height where boots had turned; the faint echo of a second mic somewhere down the hall catching the same sounds a half-beat late. His scarf shifted on his shoulders. He still didn’t reach for his goggles.

[00:12.09] Two voices, overlapping. The captions hesitated, then chose: [JUST DO IT.] The vowels carried different weather, one thin with nerves, one bored like a cashier. A third voice didn’t speak but moved, fabric on fabric, a sleeve brushing a wall.

The camera, bolted chest-high, watched down the corridor at an angle. A human pulse passed in front of the lens, a security guard, probably, just an elbow, and the top of a holster. The elbow retracted. The view steadied again.

[00:18.66] Light strobed at the far bend. Not gunfire yet; just a dying fluorescent chasing itself to the grave. The captions tried to call it [ELECTRICAL FAULT]. The mic wrote it as a faint insect hiss.

[00:23.01] A person was dragged into view by the armpits. The draggers stayed phantom, hands only. The person’s shoes scraped, single squeals that found the mic and pealed. The captions decided [PLEADING], then changed their mind and said nothing at all.

Deku’s knuckles eased from white to tight. He didn’t speak.

[00:28.45] Muzzle flashes finally strobed, but not aimed, aimed away, a warning, a punctuation. The camera’s shutter rolled; the whole image jittered sideways like a bad memory trying to escape itself. Something heavy clanged off-screen. The captions leapt: [LANGUAGE DETECTED:…], then blanked again.

A long shadow lifted something that read like a machete because the brain had to call it something. The edge never caught the light. The hands holding it didn’t shake.

Aizawa’s eyes watered. He still didn’t blink.

The cut happened off-panel. The sound wasn’t a slice, too neat a word. It was a wet toggle, a wrong switch thrown, then a hollow clack as the head that the camera would not show struck the casing and slid politely out of frame. The audio ran a half-second longer than the image, like the world had to be told what had already happened.

No screaming. Just the air admitting it knew.

Nemuri broke the quiet first, a whisper that still felt lacquered. “Charming.”

Snipe tipped his brim a millimeter. “Seen friendlier hall monitors.”

Aizawa didn’t raise his voice. “Later.” The word landed soft and absolute; the room went still again.

[00:31.90] The draggers were still hands. One of them wore a ring with a flat face; the camera’s compression made it a square of noise that pulsed as it moved. The hands receded. The body receded. The corridor stayed.

The captions, helpless, offered [SILENCE]. Then, bravely: [LAUGHTER], but it was only a fan bearing dying somewhere off to the left. The system replaced it with [MECHANICAL].

[00:36.14] The frame shook because the person wearing the camera inhaled for the first time in ten seconds. The HUD in the corner spiked and fell: AUDIO -6dB → -12dB. The algorithm added [DEEP BREATH].

Aizawa’s thought arrived without ornament: So that’s you.

[00:38.77] Something moved at the edge of the light. Not the draggers. Smaller. Faster. It skated the brightness without entering it, testing the borders like an animal checking a fence for weak metal.

The camera shifted, only a hair, from fear or duty, Aizawa couldn’t say. That tiny pan was enough for the new figure to claim the edge of the spill: a boy, younger than the voice he would grow, eyes ringed by neon that wasn’t neon, just the clinical hallway doing a bad impression of a holy moment.

[00:40.02] He didn’t perform. He didn’t posture. He just looked, first to the body the tape wouldn’t honor, then forward to the lens like a swimmer touching the wall. Quick. Exact. The check of a creature that knows when it is being watched and measures itself against the watcher.

He held that look for the length of a heartbeat and a half.

Freeze frame: the boy at the edge of the light, eyes wrong-quiet, meeting the lens.

For a breathless moment, the blue of the holowall dyed everyone the same temperature. Nezu’s paws rested together like folded punctuation, the little hinge of his wrist never quite still. Aizawa heard the HVAC return from its low hum to a steadier draw, the room remembering to breathe on schedule. A tiny red LED over the exit read LOCKED, one stern dot of color in all the blue.

All Might’s thermos ticked as it shed heat; a coil inside sighed. He held it like a peace he could pour if needed. The smell wasn’t strong enough to name, just warm and clean, steam without a story. He didn’t offer it yet. Not the time to make this gentle, his jaw said.

Present Mic kept the cough drop in his palm, foil printing ghosted into his skin. His mouth had the set of a pro saving his instrument. He swallowed once on purpose, the way a singer does when the room is cold. Don’t waste the throat on gasps.

Deku’s capped pen lay under his fingers like a trapped arrow. He had the posture of a student not writing as an act of discipline. A back-of-the-brain map still drew itself: angles, distances, timing. He let it. He did not chase it. If I speak first, I change the room.

Aizawa finally blinked, single, slow, a reset more than a concession. The world reassembled on the other side of that private shutter: Nezu’s porcelain voice loading in, All Might’s center-of-gravity kindness, Deku’s pressure contained and productive. He pinched a thread from his scarf and rolled it between forefinger and thumb. Chalk dust. Laundry soap. UA.

Chair casters complained a fraction as someone adjusted weight; then stillness again. The holowall’s freeze-frame held a patience that felt like a dare. We teach him, or we drown him in paperwork and call it safety, Aizawa thought, already hearing his own voice say it later.

The lights rose a notch. Nezu’s voice was careful porcelain. “PROJECT: EMBRUS is now under the SABLE Protocol, Containment-by-Curriculum, per the International Quirk Safety Commission. Advent testing is banned in Japan. UA will host the subject under educational custody.”

All Might’s thermos lid clicked; steam curled like a peace offering. Deku steadied his breathing, hands flat, then looser. He said nothing.

Nezu inclined his head, porcelain calm. “Implementation specifics will be briefed to staff on a need-to-know basis. For today: custody is educational, not carceral.”

Aizawa’s voice stayed dry. “We’ll cover procedures with the class during supervised drills.”

The holowall held the freeze-frame; no one chased details. Not yet.

A discreet policy packet flickered onto the holowall, then minimized with a polite chime, acknowledged and deferred. Implementation would happen in closed-door briefings and, later, supervised classroom drills.

All Might met the room with quiet steel. “We teach a human, not a hazard label.”

Deku nodded once, a small agreement without performance. We can do that.

Aizawa let the room be quiet long enough to find its balance again. Teaching is a contact sport, he reminded himself, not a bloodless policy. His eyes had the grit of a week of too-late grading; he refused to rub them. Costs mattered most when you couldn’t see them. Consent wasn’t a signature; it was the habit of stopping before the cliff. His own tools were blunt on purpose: a stare; a scarf; a quirk that could take the shine off the world and make everyone honest. I can switch him off, he thought, but that doesn’t teach him to switch himself off. Lesson plans assembled like scaffolds in the back of his mind: drills that ended in breath, not applause; language that turned risk into math; the part where he would stand between a boy and the worst version of that boy until the boy could do it for himself. No drama. Chalk and repetition. And consequences you could name without hating the person they landed on.

On the holowall, the freeze-frame hiccuped, one frame only, less than a blink. A diagonal watermark bled in: [ARCHIVAL COPY , SECURITY CHAIN INCOMPLETE]. The boy’s gaze held, unmoving. Then the image yielded to a gray card with a polite banner: [FOOTAGE ENDS , REDACTION PER IQSC]. The screen went black.

“PROJECT: EMBRUS is now under the SABLE Protocol, Containment-by-Curriculum, per the International Quirk Safety Commission. Advent testing is banned in Japan. UA will host the subject under educational custody.”

“Implementation specifics will be briefed to staff on a need-to-know basis. For today: custody is educational, not carceral.”

“We teach a human, not a hazard label.”

Steam unfurled as Toshinori twisted the thermos lid. He poured into two cups and set one in the empty space at the far end of the table.

Nemuri’s mouth tilted. “Setting a place?”

“Practice,” he said.

Aizawa thumbed the projector dark. The room lost its blue; the ghost of the freeze-frame hung behind their eyelids.

Nezu stacked his paws. “First bell in six hours.”

Aizawa gathered his scarf. “Sleep while you can.”

Steam unfurled as Toshinori twisted the thermos lid. He poured into two cups and set one in the empty space at the far end of the table.

Nemuri’s mouth tilted. “Setting a place?”

“Practice,” he said.

Aizawa thumbed the projector dark. The room lost its blue; the ghost of the freeze‑frame hung behind their eyelids.

Nezu stacked his paws. “First bell in six hours.”

Aizawa gathered his scarf. “Sleep while you can.”

Chapter 1 - New Year, New Work

​

The gates opened. Cool air moved through the courtyard. The floors were clean and a little damp; the glass felt cold if you touched it. Students came in with first-day energy and the kind of voices that come back after a long break.

Mina spotted Jiro at the gate and closed the distance in three quick steps. They bumped shoulders like they’d been doing it every day instead of after a year apart. “I swore off glitter,” Mina said.

Jiro pinched a sequin off Mina’s sleeve and held it up. “How’s that going?”

Mina sneezed, and a faint cloud betrayed her. She made a face. “Work in progress. It’s in the vents.”

“It’s in your soul,” Jiro said, and the corner of her mouth gave her away. Mina sneezed; a few specks of glitter hung in the air.

Jiro nudged her, laughing. “You can’t escape me,” Mina said, throwing both arms up like a monster about to pounce before looping her arm through Jiro’s.

“Obviously.” They fell back into step, easy. Jiro put on an exaggerated look of discomfort and pressed against her without any real force. Mina’s cheek brushed her shoulder like she was really trying to make Jiro sparkle with her residual glitter.

Across the drop-off lane, Kirishima and Bakugo bumped fists, more than a greeting, less than a challenge. “New goals?” Kirishima asked without breaking stride.

“Same goals,” Bakugo said. “Bigger weights.”

At the curb, pro-hero teachers worked the small meet-and-greets with parents, Vlad King with a clipboard, Recovery Girl’s cane tapping a patient rhythm, Present Mic shaking two hands at once, Power Loader pointing a family toward check-in. Aizawa said little and nodded once; that was enough. Someone called that the gym would be ready in five.

Iida straightened a poster by a few degrees. Momo had already fixed the other corner and left a small checkmark on the backing as if to say seen. Sero caught a falling flyer with a flick of tape and put it back without a word. Kaminari made a show of wiping his hands like he’d helped. No one corrected him.

Deku was mid-laugh at something Iida said about the poster, hands easy for once. Then the prickle came, there and gone, like a radio click you only half heard. He glanced over his shoulder without meaning to.

Mineta drifted by behind them, telling someone, “Saw somebody I didn’t recognize, office rushed me out.” The idea moved through the crowd without a name.

The calm resettled. The trace stayed.

Present Mic’s voice cut over the chatter, echoing off the small stage and through the speakers into the courtyard outside, full of gathered families, press, and new students: “Alright, UA, auditorium!”

The auditorium took everyone in and made them rows. Rafter banners hung clean and bright, the floor smelled faintly of wax, and the stage lights threw a warm spill that made the room feel closer than it was. Present Mic slid under the lights like a DJ to his booth, mic he didn’t need and loved anyway. “UA!” he called, palm up. The room answered, clap, whoop, echo. “New year, new shot, let me hear it!” The cheer swelled, rolled once under the rafters, and came back off the back wall like a soft wave.

“I can’t hear you!”

The second cheer hit properly, bigger and cleaner. A few camera phones popped up; a couple of little siblings on the balcony screamed like they were at a concert. Mic grinned, hand to his ear like a ham and a pro. “That’s the sound.” He paced a step, enjoying it, then pointed toward the Support rows for a separate whoop and gave them a finger-guns salute.

“Welcome to all new students across UA, Hero Course and Support alike. Because we had a one-year gap, two years’ worth of new faces are joining us today. If you were a first-year during the Liberation Front crisis and stood up when it counted, you’ll see Provisional Credits on your record. That work mattered then, and it still matters now.”

He let the applause carry, then eased a hand down. “And for everyone we lost in that time, let’s give them a moment of silence.” The room settled into a simple, honest quiet; even the drones at the ceiling dimmed their status lights until the hall felt like it was holding its breath.

“Thank you,” he said. A breath. Then the wattage came back. “Alright. New year, new work.”

A screen lit behind him with plain text. “You’ve got the full updates in your handbook and in the app,” Mic said. “We’ll hit the headlines. You all can read the rest later!” The first slide flicked by: perimeter upgrades, campus drills, reporting flows.

The screen ticked through bullet points as a low murmur of page flips and phone taps rippled down the rows; pens came out, chairs creaked, and the lights cooled to a working glow. A second slide flashed Non-lethal first, teamwork weighting, curfews by training tier; a third flagged post-incident checks and Support Tech Governance.

Jiro rolled a spare pick between her fingers. Non-lethal first sat right with her. She tapped a knee to keep the rhythm of the room and made a tiny notation to tune her amp sim for a softer entry. Kaminari drew a small lightning bolt on his paper, crossed it out, and wrote “no zapping hallway bots,” then smirked because it helped him remember; under it, he added a doodle of a vacuum with a sad face.

Iida nodded when he heard Provisional Credits and teamwork weighting. He didn’t write. He trusted that he would. When curfews by training tier came up, his shoulders set a little higher, and he mentally blocked out study slots between patrol windows. A margin note formed in his head about hallway speed limits and evacuation etiquette.

Momo heard Support Tech Governance and made a mental note to publish her change-log template to the class drive. She had it ready; she didn’t need to open it to check. She also queued a reminder to tag Hatsume on the compliance checklist and to request serial logs from Facilities for lab gear.

Uraraka glanced at Deku as post-incident checks passed on the screen. He kept his face calm and his hands still. The off-station feeling stayed, neither worse nor gone. He let her closeness sit there as a small anchor; she squeezed his hand once and let go so he could keep counting heads in his peripheral.

At the back, Kirishima typed teamwork up in his notes and looked, without looking, at Bakugo. Bakugo didn’t react, which was his way of reacting; his knee stopped bouncing for exactly one beat and then started again. Todoroki, two rows over, rubbed frost crumbs from his cuff until the fabric went dark.

Nezu stepped forward. Present Mic eased back, palm out, the handoff clean, like a baton exchange. Nezu didn’t need the mic. His eyes were bright; his smile was precise.

“Effective and intact”, results without collateral, records preserved for audit. “At once.”

He tapped the clicker once. “You’ll also see the academic model shift in your materials, UA’s Hero Course phasing from a compressed high-school track to a long-form collegiate progression with co-ops and capstones. Homeroom will brief on the essentials.” He nodded to the faculty along the side wall. The screen went dark, and the house lights nudged up by a shade.

Meanwhile, in the east-wing corridor outside the auditorium, the exit halls had thinned. Present Mic and Nezu’s announcements rolled like distant surf. An “Authorized Media” badge flashed once as someone bent over a large autonomous floor scrubber parked by the janitor’s closet. A maintenance panel hung open. Fingers moved where only maintenance should.

“Hey!” The janitor’s voice came from around the bend.

The badge holder looked up, startled, something spilled from their palm, a shimmer of grain-small machine-spiders marching into the open panel, and ran. The panel snapped shut on nothing fixed.

Footsteps thundered closer, Kamui Woods rounded the corner, branches unfurling to shield the janitor as the scrubber twitched. Mt. Lady slid between them and the machine on instinct, hands out, not growing because of ceilings and collateral.

“Runner went that way,” the janitor jabbed, breathless.

“Go,” Kamui said without looking back. “I’ve got him.”

Mt. Lady took off down the hall, thumb to her earpiece, static; something was jamming it. She clicked her tongue and kept running.

The machine woke wrong. Brushes slammed to full. The wash nozzle pinched into a hard jet that sliced a discarded aluminum sign. Rubber wheels skidded, black arcs streaking the floor as the scrubber fishtailed. Kamui braced; the reinforced brush housing hammered his guard and drove him back three steps. He absorbed, redirected, wood creaked, heel slid, then the machine juked past, too fast for an indoor unit.

Out at the main doors, Mt. Lady hit the threshold as the suspect bowled through two pros and spilled into a knot of cameras and yelling press. Light jackets, badges, too many. She swore as the figure disappeared into the pack.

“Dammit, gone,” she muttered.

Her comm cleared for a heartbeat. “Nezu, we have an unauthorized visitor posing as press, suspect at the main gate, blended into the media, Kamui is, ” A powdery whoomp rolled the plaza; a cloud like fine drywall went up, and the channel fuzzed out again as the crowd broke in every direction.

At the same time, the scrubber found speed it wasn’t built to hold. Safety shrouds along the chassis had sheared; the brush housing had locked like a blunt guard; the wash nozzle had knifed down to a cutter jet. It hit the east-wing double doors hard enough to pop the panic bars and burst into the gym on the media-deck side, water blasting, brushes howling.

Chairs scraped; a lens case skittered under the bleachers. People screamed and scattered.

Class 3-A was closest when the machine forced itself inside. They moved. Back in the corridor, Kamui’s branches sagged where the impact had clipped him; medics swarmed, more rattled than hurt.

Aizawa dropped in front of his class. He’d heard the same message on the radio. “We neutralize, not destroy. Keep the black box intact.” He knew he couldn’t stop them from helping; he was grateful for that.

“Don’t shock it,” Momo said. “Lithium pack.”

Kaminari lifted both hands. “No shock. Got it.”

The robot’s mechanical arm grabbed a kiosk and shoved it toward a cluster of students.

“Move,” Aizawa said. He didn’t need to raise his voice. “Rescues first.”

3-A moved like they practiced. Iida kept a lane open. Sero set a second tape line, and the kiosk stopped where it should. Mina laid a narrow ribbon of low-corrosive acid, slick, not burning, so the kiosk slid into a padded bench and stayed. Jiro’s earjacks flared; she heard the gear grind before the chassis lunged. “Left side, incoming, pressure building.”

The arm snapped toward the media deck, and the cutter jet screamed. Todoroki planted a wall of ice; it held, thin and cracking. The jet arced off the face, tore the hose, and the spray ripped across the ceiling, shearing three stage-light arms.

“Above!” Jiro called.

Uraraka vaulted the ice, reached, and tapped each falling light. “Soft.” They drifted, harmless. Midoriya was already clearing the space below, hands guiding, voice steady, opening a lane to the exits. He and Ochako ran the evacuation together, pushing the crowd out of the cone of danger.

Kirishima hit the floor in a slide, skin hardening to stone. He caught the thrashing arm at the elbow and locked it to his chest. “Got you,” he said through his teeth.

“Wheels,” Todoroki said, and threw cold across the base. Frost climbed the treads and seized their spin. The chassis skidded, angry and pinned.

The second arm swung for Kirishima’s head. Bakugo stepped through the steam and put a tight pop into the joint, loud, controlled. The arm dropped with a clatter and kept twitching on the floor.

Aizawa’s capture scarf snapped out, wrapped the housing twice, then bit around a floor anchor. He leaned back, and the machine jerked to a stop, held, not harmless.

Momo slipped through the gap Aizawa and the students had cleared, kept low, and went to one knee beside the machine.

“Careful, no brute force,” Power Loader said.

“The controller has a tamper purge,” Aizawa warned, eyes locked on the thrashing unit. “Trip it and we lose the black-box records.”

“Whatever you’re gonna do, do it fast,” Bakugo snapped, as the overdrive whine climbed.

Momo eased the service panel free without prying. Steam vented hot and suddenly, chewing at Todoroki’s ice.

A tall young man slid in beside her and knelt. His jacket hung open; a thin line of dark metal at his collar caught the gym light. He kept his voice low for her. “There, control-bus ribbon. Sever it, and the motor drive cuts clean; the black box stays live. Then isolate the pack.”

She passed him the gloves. A faint tremor touched his right hand and eased when he braced his wrist on the frame.

Aizawa widened the circle. “Do it.” He didn’t erase; quirks don’t quite a motor.

The tool was a plastic spudger. It was enough. He pressed once, and the arms ceased; the grinding stopped; the robot rolled to stillness. Inside the panel, whatever glitter had been there was gone.

“Can you help with the battery?” Momo asked.

“Easy now.” They lifted it out together.

Power Loader crouched. “Black box intact?”

“Intact,” the boy said. He peeled a pale sticker, CYNARA FACILITIES LTD., and tucked it inside the shell where it would be seen at inspection, not by the crowd.

A UA drone trilled LOGGED. The gym’s noise found its level, bleachers unsettled, then steady.

Bakugo blew out a breath. Kirishima patted his shoulder once. Mina kept her thoughts to herself for once, which said enough.

The boy stood the way he’d knelt, calm, balanced. He didn’t invite attention, and the scene didn’t build any. Aizawa gave him a small nod. He nodded back and faded into the moving hallway.

Outside, the plaza air ran cooler. Spillways from the gym emptied into neat lanes of cones and tape; UA drones hovered low, repeating calm directions while pros set a soft cordon at the curb.

Uraraka brushed Deku’s sleeve, and they moved as one. “Left row to the lot, please, stay together.” She smiled and counted under her breath, hand up for stragglers. Deku echoed the call, voice steady, pointing families toward the check table. A security aide read names off a clipboard; Deku relayed, “Media deck row three accounted for, row four missing one,” and the aide scribbled, nodding.

Inside, the noise shifted, from panic to orders, then to that ordinary clatter that means handled. Uraraka exhaled. “Almost there.”

Deku let the quiet settle. The off-station feeling stayed as a thin thread under his skin and didn’t pull. He filed it as weather, not warning, and kept moving, shoulder to shoulder with her.

Nezu’s voice carried over the channel. “If you’re accounted for, proceed with staff to the marked exits. Pros will guide you to the lots. We’ll issue a public report in the coming days; for now, the safety of our students and guests is our first priority. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Todoroki stepped out with a few underclassmen; frost clung to his fingers and flaked away when he flexed. At the check table, pens clicked and names went tick by tick. A breeze shook the ginkgo; two leaves spiraled down, one clung to Deku’s sleeve, then slipped free.

Kaminari and Sero arrived mid-argument about whether melon bread counted as a vegetable if it was green. “It’s matcha,” Kaminari said. “Science.”

“It’s cake,” Sero said. “Also science.” He offered half to Uraraka like it proved something.

Mina and Jiro drifted over, spotting Uraraka and Deku holding hands. Mina grinned and pitched her voice just enough for Uraraka to hear. “Well, well, the love birds. I’m gonna need all the tea from you later.”

Jiro smirked, cut in, and fist-bumped Deku. “Hey, hero. Long time no see.” Her smile had a punk-rock edge.

Kaminari plopped down with a laugh. “I can’t believe it’s already been a whole year.”

“That’s because you short-circuited your brain. Like that robot,” Sero deadpanned.

“Hey, now,” Kaminari protested.

Mina finger-gunned between them. “They could be related.”

Deku, Mina, Jiro, Sero, and even Kaminari laughed at his expense.

Uraraka smiled. “I’m glad some things never change.”

Iida paused beside his gathered classmates, satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with the incident itself. “The evacuation paths cleared at acceptable speeds. Good work, everyone.”

“It’s good to see you too, prez,” Mina said.

He smiled toward them, then glanced down at Uraraka and Deku, their fingers laced. He gave Midoriya a soft look that said more than words, then clicked back into Class President. “This is highly inappropriate in public. We UA students, ” His hands chopped the air. The others shrugged, rolled their eyes, and laughed while he kept going.

Momo approached, new school mandates and policies stacked in her arms like slim novels. “Everyone, grab your booklets. We’ll finish the policy briefing in homeroom.” She wore a scholarly smile.

A roar carried across the courtyard as the last non-students filed out. Kirishima and Bakugo were stretching like they were warming up for a race only they could see. Kirishima caught Deku’s eye and gave a thumbs-up that meant later, training? Bakugo didn’t look over, which meant yes.

All Might angled toward the group while Aizawa diverted toward the two troublemakers. The Symbol of Peace lifted a hand. “Time to start heading to class.” Across the path, Aizawa rapped Bakugo lightly on the back of the head for tuning him out; Bakugo went off like a firecracker, words tumbling half-intelligible, half-feral.

The bell rolled over the courtyard. Trays clacked into stacks, shoes squeaked over tile, posters fluttered in the hallway breeze. For the first time in a year, it felt like school again.

Deku made his way through the halls and lingered by the trophy case outside 3-A, the one with photos of students who once filled these corridors. He paused at the picture of the Big Three, Mirio Togata, Nejire Hado, and Tamaki Amajiki, and smiled as something warm shifted inside him. The heartwarming beat passed; between classes, the halls went quiet for a breath.

He drew his attention from the glass like he’d forgotten something. He hadn’t. He just listened. A measured footfall came once, the way a coin drops, and you don’t see where it lands. The door beside him slid open; Iida poked his head out, curious at Midoriya’s absence. Danger Sense rose, then fell without warning. A false alert.

“Midoriya?” Iida asked.

“Sorry. I’m coming,” Deku said and stepped in as the next bell rang.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - Homeroom: A New Seat by the Window

Friday, June 1, 2323 , U.A., Class 3‑A Homeroom

The blinds threw pale ladders of light across desks that still smelled faintly of sanitizer. A clock ticked three polite clicks too loud. Someone had stacked fresh policy booklets on the back counter, and a large Support‑gear crate sat open beneath it, packing foam like snow where half the class had already torn into the new kit; a covered seating chart sat magnet‑pinned on the board with a yellow sticky that only said: wait.

Kaminari spun a pen by the clip and angled toward Sero like they were sharing a secret. “Be honest, are tiered curfews going to fry my social life worse than my quirk? Also, since we’re 3‑A… that means three years left, right? Like, math?” He drew a tiny calendar in the corner of his page and put three stars on it like he could wish the years tighter.

From the next row, Iida’s hands began to chop the air, precise and rhythmic. “Please don’t boil policy down to a punchline. Tiered curfews correspond to practicum blocks and recovery windows; your standing depends on verified practicum hours and capstone progress, not numerals in your homeroom. The six‑year model introduces capstones and co‑ops that, ” Sero was already looking over to Kaminari, tuning Iida out as he kept going, “carry distinct method sections, supervisor sign‑offs, and safety audits. Curfews are set to protect recovery time and circadian regularity,” his arms still chopping in the background.

Sero didn’t look up; he fed a strip from his desk dispenser and tore it with a sound that was too crisp for tape. “Only if your social life plugs into a wall. And ‘3‑A’ is a room label, not a calendar. Speaking of labels, Support’s getting me three adhesive grades to test: high‑humidity, anti‑dust, and one that survives Denki‑grade static.” He snapped the tape again, clean, satisfying, and stuck a square to the edge of his desk to see if it curled. “Might add a fourth for sweaty‑gym conditions. Real science.”

“Let’s gooo,” Kaminari muttered, grinning at Sero as the lecture warmed up, pressing his finger to one of the adhesive testers laid out on the desk. He looked down at don’t zap hallway bots under a doodle he’d turned into a caricature of a crying scrubber, then crossed out no zapping kiosks with a lightning bolt. He tried to lift his hand and realized it was stuck. Sero didn’t say anything, just watched as Kaminari tugged. He pulled at the desk, his face turning to panic as Mineta made his way through the sea of desks to the pair.

Mineta popped into the aisle between them like a prairie dog. “I logged two hundred volunteer hours. Do those convert to credits, or do I donate my precious time for free? Because some of that was in the sun, and I wore a hairnet.” He took a small bottle of solvent he carried for his own quirk and poured some on Kaminari’s hand, relieving him from the human flytrap‑like tape. His question was directed toward Iida, genuine and laced with something else.

“Not credits,” Iida said, only slightly pained. “They’re recognized as service hours toward your practicum profile. Valuable, but not a substitute for coursework. They appear on your transcript as commendations.”

“Free it is,” Sero said. He pinched up the spent test strip before the solvent could creep into the other samples, crumpling it in his palm. It made a small, wet sound. He rolled the wad once; the glue and solvent flashed to a glossy thread as he flicked it toward the bin. It kissed the rim, wobbled, and dropped in. “Nice.” He gave himself a quiet, private cheer and looked back over. “You manage anything like that over the year off? Elective: Not Getting Electrocuted 101. Audit only. Lab fee waived.”

Kaminari laughed. “Not really. I did grid repair, finished some safety certs. If those count toward our credits, I’ll pass or fail, or just pass out.” He lifted his pen like a tiny mic. “Six‑year track… fine. As long as curfews don’t cancel festival season. I am a cultural asset.”

“They will if you short out any more kiosks,” Sero said, friendly as a warning. “Tier‑Two curfew’s twenty‑two hundred this month. Don’t make it nineteen‑thirty because you tried to DJ a breaker panel.” Kaminari mimed zipping his mouth, then drew a zipper across the scrubber doodle.

The tape dispenser answered with one soft snap; a loose tail curled into a question mark on Sero’s desk.

Mina drifted past Iida’s policy chop and slid into the seat beside Jiro, letting the tail of his lecture fade into the room hum. The sanitizer on her sleeves still smelled faintly like citrus.

“You still smell like sanitizer,” Jiro said, not unkind. “Leftover from the evac?”

“Yeah, got caught up helping after all the heroics,” Mina said. “Sticker economy is booming. One kid tried to pay me in stars for three extra bandages.” Still laminated in kindness. She bumped Jiro’s shoulder, then noticed the sleek bud tucked against her ear. “New gear?”

“Hatsume’s in‑ear monitor, v2,” Jiro said. She thumbed the shell once, a quick systems check. “During the gym incident earlier, the P.A. near the side stairwell echoed, people missed instructions. The stairs ate every third word.” Fix the acoustics, fix the message. “If the acoustics lab stays open, I want decay times and a quick reverb map before we run drills.”

“I’ve got those ‘watch your step’ stickers from the evac,” Mina said. “We’ll mark stops and stripe lanes with Sero’s tape so nobody trips while you measure. We can file it as safety practice and call it a co‑op block.”

“Perfect,” Jiro said. The spare pick walked across her knuckles and settled between two fingers. “I’ll grab the decibel meter from Support. Side stairs first; landing to landing, then the turn with bodies in place. If we can get two volunteers to walk the loop while I sweep, ”

“Make it four,” Mina said. “Two tall, two small. Kids get lost in the long shadows.”

Two rows back, Shinso turned his chair a hair, enough to show he was listening without asking to join. Mina clocked him, thumbing settings on a new mask, and leaned over. “Looking spooky as always, Mr. Brainwash.” She said it like a joke she’d already retired; it landed easily.

Shinso looked up as the mask screen settled. “Hatsume pushed a firmware update last night,” he said, answering Mina, but angling it to Jiro, voice low. “New consent protocols log the prompt and reply in the same file, stamped with a cryptographic fingerprint. It also holds pitch and tone when I shift voices, so echoes don’t smear the read. Might be useful for your stairwell test.”

Jiro nodded, the pick stilled. “Send me the firmware spec. If prompt and reply live together, I’ll add echo‑cancel to the sweep, two positions: at the mouth and three meters out.”

Mina tapped her temple. “I got, like, three words of that. Does it do anything else cool?”

“It logs a negative, too,” Shinso added. “If someone refuses, the mask writes that and time‑stamps it. Aizawa wanted that standardized.” Less arguing later; more teaching now.

Mina blinked. “So, like, ‘No’ gets proofed the same way as ‘Yes’?”

“Exactly,” Shinso said. “It’s not just for street work. For de‑escalation demos, it’s protection for both sides.” He rotated the capture scarf once around his wrist, not tight, just thinking. “We’re trying it later today in the side stairwell by the gym if Support has a free mic shield. If you want to tag along, Hatsume can fold it into my demo, one shutdown, shared equipment, no extra permissions.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” Jiro said immediately. “I’ve got the older shield in my case. I can bring it so we can use it and compare the noise floor.”

Momo, who had been aligning a stack of policy booklets into neat right angles, looked up at the mention of tests. She crossed over with her tablet already open. “That’s a good plan. I’ll be there to handle whatever equipment we need. If you two run that, log device serials and time stamps, and attach them to the Governance checklist. Standard filename: capstone-YYYY-MM-DD-team. I’ll review for Support Governance and archive the audio.”

Jiro glanced at her notes and drew a neat box around method. “Sweet. Decay times, two mic positions, headcount, noise floor. I’ll photo the stair labels; the reflections off those plaques were part of the problem.”

“Good,” Momo said. “And a short justification for location choice, ‘side stairwell by the gym’ rather than ‘some stairs.’ Facilities hate ambiguity.” She smiled, small and earnest. “We are a collegiate program now. Repeatability matters.”

Mina made a little circle over Momo’s head with two fingers. “Bless our standards.”

“Thank you,” Momo said, and tapped her screen to generate the checklist. “Shinso, copy me on the firmware spec thread.”

“Sending now,” Shinso said, already thumbing his phone. “Subject line ‘mask‑consent v2.1, stairwell demo.’”

Jiro slid her case open a finger’s breadth and touched the soft edge of the older mic shield to make sure it was there. “I’ll swing by the stairwell five minutes early and tape off your standing marks. Two by the landing, one at the turn.”

“I’ll bring cones,” Mina said. “Also, clinic trick: if you put a sticker on the ground where you want people to stop, they actually stop. Something with a face. No idea why; it just works.”

“Behavior cues,” Momo said. “Add that to your method under ‘controls.’” She angled her tablet toward Jiro. “Also, record the ambient before anyone speaks. Ten seconds. Facilities like a clean baseline.”

“Got it,” Jiro said. Fix the room, fix the message. She wrote ambient 10s in the margin next to decay and underlined both.

Across the aisle, a drone hummed by the window and cast its reflections in a brief fish‑eye. The light swam over Jiro’s hand, and the pick flashed once, then went still.

Mina leaned back. “Six‑year track doesn’t feel so bad when the labs open, huh?”

“It feels like work we should have been doing anyway,” Jiro said, not defensive, just true. “If the message lands, rescues run smoother.”

Shinso nodded once. “And fewer arguments after. That’s also a blessing.”

Momo’s thumbs paused over her screen, then resumed. “Checklist created. Shared to the class drive under Collab Acoustics, Gym Side Stairwell, v1. I’ll add a slot for Facilities feedback.” She tapped Share. The tablet answered with a quiet, decisive tok, a small sound that made three heads lift and then return to their work.

Across the class, as the tablet’s tok faded, Uraraka flipped to the rescue‑tech spread and nudged Tsuyu’s desk close enough to share, though they were looking at different booklets.

“I’m eyeing the new rescue‑tech electives,” Uraraka said, tapping triage tags with the end of her pen. “Evac psychology, too. We used so much of that when we worked the shelter together over the break.” She angled her booklet so Tsuyu could see the course list; color coding had turned panic into motion, green for walking, yellow for wait, red for right now, black for the hard moments you don’t forget. She drew four tiny squares in the margin and shaded them in, then underlined accountability like it was something you could hold.

“Those make sense,” Tsuyu said, glancing at Uraraka’s list. “Evac psychology helped at the shelter, kero, and clear triage tags kept people moving.” She turned her own support catalog to a flood‑set page and slid it across for Uraraka to see. “Waterproof kit,” Tsuyu said. “These sets are lighter, kero. They don’t chafe. Straps lie flatter, quick‑release pulls are bigger, and hoods don’t tunnel sound. Gloves have grip ridges. The throw bag floats better.” She tapped the part number. “If the co‑op lets me test a sample, or if Requisition will route one, I’ll write the report: photos, weights, dry times. If we demo near the natatorium deck later, I’ll log how they move when they’re soaked.”

“Let’s write a requisition request for the board,” Uraraka said. “I bet Momo could help.” Tsuyu glanced toward the front, where Momo was buried in policy with Mina, Jiro, and Shinso, then nodded. “We can bring it to her after homeroom.” Uraraka sketched a small layout: entry/exit, drying station, slip‑hazard cones, PFD checks. “We’ll propose procedures for the natatorium: hot path, staff positions, timing the loop.”

Someone coughed, then caught it halfway like they’d stepped on a squeaky board. A chair settled an inch. The noise hopped two desks and thinned. Uraraka looked up from the outline; her eyes landed on Shoji and Koda at the window row. Shoji had become a familiar face to heteromorph districts after the incident, and he was speaking with the calm of someone who’d found a lane.

“Some heteromorph districts asked for a U.A. liaison after hours,” Shoji said, voice traveling without rising. “People felt safer when they saw the same face twice.” He folded a spare hand beneath the desk. “We swapped loudspeakers for paper notes and small‑voice announcements. Fewer startles. We added tail‑safe seating signs.”

Koda noticed Uraraka peeking and lifted a hand; she waved back without breaking the quiet. Tsuyu touched Uraraka’s sleeve and pointed to the next step in the sketch she’d been making before the cough made her look up.

A sticker from Uraraka’s notebook peeled, failed to commit, and fluttered down. Tsuyu flattened it with one fingertip, then pressed it higher on the page beside triage tags. The room held an easy, warm‑day quiet that let voices stay soft.

Something sweet lifted into the quiet, warm sugar and butter blooming low and steady. A travel oven on Sato’s desk blinked a tiny green light if it was shy about existing. The smell drifted, then settled, and the room remembered there were softer kinds of work than drills.

Kirishima squeezed a foam gripper once, twice, and then grinned as if the gripper had challenged him to a rematch. “Peer check,” he said, not loud, but it carried. He laid a cheap spring dynamometer flat on the desk. Support must’ve tossed it in the crate and written his number on a scratch pad. “Who’s got grip today? Window row? Tail row?” He glanced down the line. “I’m chasing Ojiro by four kilos and Shoji by… a lot.” He winced cheerfully. “Heavy‑lift rubble ops, volunteer squads, spoiled me. The year off was nothing but concrete and rebar. Good for the soul, bad for the calluses.” He turned his pad so the totals faced out. “Compare me. Don’t let me round up.”

Bakugo snorted without looking. “You finally stopped baby‑holding the bar?” He still didn’t glance over; he didn’t need to. “Grip doesn’t count if your thumbs float.” His finger slid down a table of testing blocks like he was skating it. “Cardio test next period. I’ll spot you from the finish line.” A beat, and then the real boast: “Eight‑lap split, one‑thirty‑eight. That’s with a mask monitor and a clipboard watching me breathe.”

Kirishima’s smile sharpened. “You back to posting splits?”

“Was never off them,” Bakugo said, and the line had more edges than brag. He flipped the page like it had made him wait. “Aggressive rehab means supervised track, not no track. Managed sightings, blah blah. If the public wants a comeback headline, they can time my warm‑up.” He tapped the booklet's corner flat and finally looked over, just once. “Thumbs around the bar, Red.”

Kirishima wrapped his thumb with exaggerated ceremony and squeezed the gripper again. “Copy.” He wrote a new number, half a kilo better, and underlined it like a kid with a gold star. “You want in on the grip board?”

“Pass,” Bakugo said, too fast to be polite and too relaxed to sting. “I’m posting lungs today. Ask me about VO2 when you’ve stopped seeing stars on farmer’s carries.” He checked the clock and rolled his shoulders.

Across the aisle, Todoroki looked up from a quiet calendar, the screen pale on his face. “I’ll stand between you two during drills,” he said, like he had decided it minutes ago. “Heat, then cold. Or the reverse. I’m balancing both this term.” He didn’t offer a reason, so he didn’t have to say it out loud, family counseling is working; training together helps.

Kirishima leaned back enough to catch Todoroki’s eye. “Great. I’ll be your shock absorber. If my hair goes frizz‑to‑icicle, we’ll call it science.”

A soft ding from Sato’s desk cut the grin in half. He cracked the oven door an inch; a ribbon of heat carried the smell across the middle rows. “First batch,” Sato said, keeping his voice down, like the cookies were classified. “Chocolate chip, small, soft. They bake faster in the travel tin.” He slid a silicone mat forward with a wooden spatula barely bigger than a tongue depressor and set the sheet to breathe. “Shelter kitchens taught me to bake in shifts. Nutrition drives, too. You don’t feed a line; you pace a line.”

“I can’t believe the Support crew sent you an Easy-Bake oven,” Kirishima said, impressed and already reaching. “Wow, those look really good, actually. Don’t mind if I, ”

“Hands off till they set,” Sato said mildly. “Two minutes.” He flipped the tiny timer and pulled a second bowl from the carrier. “Oatmeal next. I saw Uraraka and Tsuyu at West Dome last winter; oatmeal beats sugar crash when kids have to stand around in wet socks.” He portioned dough with a calm, practiced motion. “There’s a place for macros, but today’s morale.”

Bakugo sniffed once, reflexively, like a guard dog pretending he wasn’t. “You practicing for the cafeteria relaunch or bribing homeroom?”

“Both,” Sato said, smiling without looking up. “Relaunch needs quick batches and steady output. Homeroom needs cookies.”

Kirishima lifted the dynamometer again and slid it down the row. “C’mon, Bakugo. You measure lungs; let me measure hands.”

Bakugo finally turned at that, not to grab the tool, but to point it at Kirishima’s grip. “Elbow in. Wrist straight. You want forearm, not biceps.” The corrections landed like slaps, automatic and weirdly caring. “And quit looking at the number while you’re squeezing. It’s not going to change because you stare at it.”

Kirishima obeyed, eyes on a scuff on the desk instead. The needle crept. He laughed, surprised. “Hah. Half again.” He wrote it down with a big, blocky seven and put a box around it so his own future self wouldn’t cheat. “Okay, cardio boy. What’s your time split again?”

“One‑thirty‑eight,” Bakugo repeated, and it sounded less like a boast and more like a line item he planned on beating before lunch. “Heart rate monitor will catch you if you lie.” He stretched his neck once, listening to something inside it settle.

Todoroki tipped his phone toward Sato without quite making a show of it. “If you have a ginger dough, bake that one last. I’ll need heat after drills; the spice helps.” He didn’t explain that his counselor had suggested small rituals that tied both halves of him to the same action. He didn’t have to. “And keep one of the chocolate chips aside for Fuyumi if we pass the office later.”

“Sure thing, I’ve got you,” Sato said. “One gingerbread batch coming up. Chocolate chip set aside.” He turned the mat and lifted two test cookies with the tiny spatula, sliding the now‑set chocolate ones into a small container, then handing one to Kirishima and setting one near Bakugo without fanfare. “Small bites first. Heat’s still moving.”

Kirishima bit and made the noise of a person remembering that joy counted as training fuel. “Dude. This is, yeah.”

Bakugo didn’t move for two seconds like he was refusing a dare. Then he picked up the cookie between two fingers and tasted it like he was testing a fuse. No explosion; a second bite. He didn’t say good. He didn’t have to.

“Grip board after homeroom,” Kirishima said around an apologetic mouthful. “Window row versus tail row. Loser cleans the foam peanuts from the Support crate.”

“Not it,” Sato said, sliding the next tray in with the same, even motion. The oven light blinked; the smell brightened. “But I’ll feed the winners and the losers.”

“Cardio splits next period,” Bakugo added, as if posting a sign. “If you want to compare, bring numbers, not feelings.” He checked the clock, then the door, like time was a thing he kept in his pocket.

The timer chimed again, small and certain. The room inhaled together without planning to, and for a moment the warm sugar smell sat on top of the summer‑day quiet like a lid, keeping everything gentle until the next voice picked up the thread.

A stray curl of heat from Sato’s oven drifted across the back rows and vanished near the windows. A star sticker blinked once on the floor, then lifted, two fingers pinching air where a wrist should be.

“Evidence of a cookie crime,” Toru said brightly, pressing the star to the margin of a policy booklet like she was swearing it in. “Uraraka’s sticker pack must’ve gone rogue. If I stick it on my glove, you’ll all have to admit I have a hand.”

Aoyama produced a compact that no one had seen him put away, catching his own reflection with theatrical care. “Mon dieu, then at last we will behold the gesture that accompanies such refined commentary.” He tipped the compact, scattering tiny rainbows onto the desk. “But beware, the world is not yet ready for your entire silhouette.”

Ojiro’s tail whisked by to rescue a rolling tape core before it kissed the aisle. He set it on Toru’s desk without looking, voice even. “One sticker only. Two gets distracting in drills.”

Toru wiggled the star like a badge. “Scout’s honor.”

Midoriya’s pen hovered, then tapped once against the margin before moving again, the habit trimmed down from full pages of notes. Toru’s footfalls are six beats lighter than last term, closer stance? Stance work paid off. Ojiro’s tail flick = economy of motion, stillness everywhere else. Aoyama… calmer shine. That’s new.

“Chéri, calmer shine is an artistic choice,” Aoyama said, like he’d heard the thought anyway. He snapped the compact shut and produced a flat tin tied with ribbon. “Also, an oat biscuit, for later. Lactose-safe, because my diet is an epic poem with footnotes.” He nudged it toward Ojiro. “Tail-approved?”

Ojiro took one, more to honor the offering than the hunger. “Approved,” he said after the first bite. “Crisp edge. Good for long days.”

Toru held up the sticker on her thumb and forefinger. “Voilà. Hand, singular.” She wiggled. The star winked. “I promise not to wave it like a lighthouse.”

Aoyama pretended to shield his eyes. “Then I shall not faint like a sailor.” The tease softened into something smaller, honest. “It is good to be here again, non?”

Ojiro answered first, the way anchors do. “It is.” He glanced at Midoriya’s page. “What did you write?”

Midoriya flushed, half-caught. “Oh, just… small notes. Toru’s hand joke, Ojiro’s rescue reflexes, Aoyama’s calmer shine. Stuff worth remembering.”

“Color-coding would be cute,” Toru said. “And safe. We could do hearts for ‘pause’ and arrows for ‘go,’ if Facilities lets us have fun.”

“Arrows are fine. Hearts go in the notes,” Ojiro said, but without heat. The tail tapped once; compromise struck. “We can test it during Jiro’s stairwell sweep if there’s time.”

Aoyama straightened the ribbon on the tin like a line on a diagram. “Then we shall be efficient and aesthetically responsible. How very collegiate of us.”

A chair at the front settled with a soft rubber squeak, a sound like a room taking a breath. Midoriya’s gaze slid to the covered seating chart, the sticky note still telling them to wait. Clock’s near the bell. If he’s going to do it, it’ll be now.

Ojiro checked the clock with a small flick of his eyes. “Almost lunch,” he said, even. “Teacher still hasn’t made it to class.”

“Maybe he fell asleep in the teacher’s office again,” Toru stage‑whispered, star sticker held at attention.

Midoriya shook his head gently. “He’s probably still finishing paperwork from the gym incident.”

A light tik‑tik behind Midoriya’s eyes, weather, not warning, then it passed. The corridor offered a soft run of footsteps; Iida’s hands slowed mid‑chop, and Sato thumbed his timer to quiet before it could beep. Conversations trimmed themselves to the ends of sentences.

The door slid open on a soft motor. A voice, dry as chalk and exactly on cue: “I’m late.”

Aizawa crossed to the board, set a thin folder down, and peeled the sticky from the covered seating chart with two fingers. “Housekeeping,” he said, tone level. “No experiments during homeroom. Tape tests wait until lab hours. Sato, cool them and stow the oven until lunch.” He lifted the cover sheet; magnets clicked.

“Two items. One: Welcome back. Schedules are posted. Lunch after this.” A beat. “Two: we have an addition.” A couple of whispers slid and died as he kept talking, Sero, under his breath: “Transfer, huh?”; Kaminari, scribbling: “From where?” His eyes didn’t hunt the room; they were already where they needed to be. “Animus Athame. Hero name: Embrus. Seat by the window.”

The door eased again. A student stepped through, tall, posture tidy, a line of small piercings catching the room’s light like points on a quiet constellation. He didn’t scan the room; he marked the path he’d been given.

He crossed to the window row, back half, and sat. The room took him in the way a classroom does on a not‑quite‑school day: a few chairs adjusted, a pen paused, one cookie hovered and then disappeared. Curious looks landed, then broke politely back to pages and booklets; the hum of talk thinned rather than spiked.

“Aw geez, teach,” Mina murmured around the edge of a cookie, not quite loud. “Isn’t he supposed to introduce himself?” A couple of small smiles circled the row like a ripple and went still.

Without looking up from the chart, Aizawa said, “Stand and introduce yourself. Keep it brief.”

Static on the wire, edge, not impact. Midoriya’s head tightened with a fine burr behind his eyes. He winced as he watched the new student rise, his mind shifting back to the briefing from earlier today, the same face he’d seen in the video. He let one breath smooth out the prickles.

Animus stood. The strap slipped; the bag tipped, and a narrow metal thermometer slid free and touched the tile with a soft, clean tink. He caught the bag before anything else spilled.

“Name,” Aizawa prompted, dry.

“Animus Athame,” he answered, voice low, even. “Embrus. Transfer.” He crouched, picked up the thermometer, and tucked it away without ceremony, returning to his seat.

Midoriya recognized it instantly from across the room as the small object vanished into the bag, same model All Might favors.

Tsuyu’s pupils tracked the metal once, then returned to her page, the tiniest tilt of her head smoothing out.

Mina grinned around a cookie; Jiro gave the smallest, tidy nod like she was saving the name. Kaminari murmured “cool name” toward his margin, Kirishima offered an up‑chin, you’re in the lane, and talk dwindled into finished half‑sentences.

Aizawa’s gaze did one quiet sweep. “Good. Ten minutes, then lunch.” He tapped the frame of the chart with one knuckle, a tiny sound that traveled just far enough. “Let’s go over this quickly. We don’t have a lot of time. If there are no more interruptions, let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - Lunch Bell, Old Names

Friday, June 1, 2323 , U.A., Class 3‑A Homeroom → Hallway (lunch period)

Desks slid two by two until the room made loose islands of trays and notebooks. Steam lifted from bentos; Sato set a tiny cooling sheet by the window with the calm of someone who’d learned to feed lines.

Kirishima and Bakugo drifted toward the hallway mid‑debate, their voices bouncing once off the doorframe and fading. Mina waved across to Jiro; the two leaned in with Toru between them, a hush‑laugh catching on a private joke. Near the window, Denki hovered over Sato’s tray while Kirishima circled back to peek.

“Calorie‑dense, high‑protein,” Sato said, easy. “Oats, nut butter, whey. No sugar crash.”
“Protein bars?” Denki asked, skeptical but hopeful.
Sato flicked on a pocket fan over the cookies; the little hum joined the chopstick click. “Exactly, just good.”
“If you say so,” Denki grinned. Kirishima nodded. “Sounds awesome. What’s in the oatmeal one?” Sato began to tell him in the background.

At a side cluster, Sero tore a narrow strip of tape. “If cookies are for training, are they taxable as equipment?”
Mineta, genuinely considering it: “I will need a ruling.” They both watched the fan like it might answer.

Uraraka squeezed back through the doorway queue with two bentos balanced and a quick, apologetic smile that didn’t require a reply.

Lunch in homeroom is always a little louder, kero, Tsuyu thought, setting her thermos by a tidy stack of napkins. But today is a not‑quite‑school day. She drew a simple box around requisition, natatorium on a sticky and pressed it to her notebook. Everyone’s eager to train again, she noted silently, watching how people fell back into place after a year’s absence. Peaceful, kero.

Jiro leaned over a desk cluster with Momo and Shinso. “After lunch, stairwell. Decay times, two mic positions, ambient ten.”
Momo didn’t look up from her tablet. “We’ll need to schedule it with Mr. Aizawa.”
Aizawa passed the doorway just long enough to hear his name and added, flat: “No drills after lunch today; nothing formal starts until Monday. Schedule it.”
“Understood,” Momo said, the tip of her stylus flicking a quiet highlight over Animus Athame on her roster before she returned to the checklist.
“Midoriya, with me,” Aizawa added, and Izuku stood to follow him out.

Animus kept to the window seat, posture tidy; in side profile, a constellation glint ran the nearer ear, a matched line on both ears, with one stud on this side lost to the angle. He rose as Midoriya stepped off the row, and they met almost shoulder‑to‑shoulder at the aisle, a near bump that passed without a word; Midoriya’s shoulders tightened by a degree and then eased, like a wire losing its burr. “Sorry,” Midoriya said, already shifting his tray. Animus tipped a small nod and yielded the aisle, letting him go ahead.

Uraraka set their bentos down and exhaled. “Mission accomplished, it’s a zoo out there. Getting to the new classroom is wild.” She blinked. “Ah, I forgot the hot water.”
“I’ll grab it, kero,” Tsuyu said. “Back in a minute.”

The hallway air was cooler, the floor wax catching soft reflections from the window light. At the tea station, a steel urn breathed a little fog. A student stood there with a paper cup, turning it once between finger and thumb before he checked the water with a slender thermometer. The movement was careful without being fussy, habit, not performance. The hallway light cut across his eyes; faint violet rings haloed the irises, the same tell from that summer, tucked where only a careful look would catch it.

That turn, Tsuyu thought, and felt the memory arrive without announcing itself. Those rings. She let the rest of the thought fold up and rest, patient as a frog on a lily pad.

He glanced and shifted an inch to make room at the urn. “Go ahead,” he said, barely above the urn’s breath.

“Tsuyu!” Uraraka jogged up, a little out of breath. “Requisition pinged me, boxes from home just got to the dorm intake. I have to go sign for them.”
Tsuyu nodded. “We’ll catch up later, kero.” Uraraka waved and hurried off. Tsuyu stayed quiet, filled her thermos, and turned to head back to the room. By the time she glanced back, Animus was already gone.

The afternoon sun was an unapologetic splash of gold across the classroom floor. The window was open to the stifling June heat, the cheerful chatter of his classmates an uninterrupted hum behind him. He ignored it all, lost in the sky’s infinite calm. The ceramic of his teacup was warm against his palms, the steam a ghost of a cloud rising into the still air.

Drip.

A single, cool drop of rain, unexpected and absurd, landed on his cheek. He wiped it away slowly, the moisture a shock against his skin.

Drip, drip.

More drops followed, spattering on the windowsill and the dusty glass. The students behind him grew quiet, if only for a moment, confused by the strange shower that was falling while the sky remained a bright, cloudless blue.

Sato panicked as he rushed the cooling protein bars away from the window as rain began to fall.

Animus just stared out at the unlikely sunshower, a single, knowing thought forming. The fox spirit has taken a wife. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the tea as he lifted it for a measured sip.

A young woman sat down across from him, turning the desk in front of him to face his own.

She didn’t say anything at first, just sat down across from him, her tray set gently on the table. Her fingers curled around her drink, her large eyes watching him without blinking.

After a pause…

“I remember you.”

The words aren’t loud. But they land with clarity.

“That summer. You saved me from falling into the river at the festival. You probably don’t remember… but I did.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin on her hands.

Her voice remains soft but steady.

“You’ve changed a lot since then. You feel heavier now, not in a bad way. Just… like you’re carrying something.”

Another beat. Her lips purse slightly.

“You can tell me to leave if you want. But if you’re planning to sit here brooding every day like this, I might make it a habit to join you.”

There’s no pressure in her words. But her presence is anchored. Familiar. Honest.

She doesn’t ask anything else. She simply waits.

He did not return her inquiry at first. Instead, he took a deep breath. “During Obon, right?” Animus let the moment sit between them. “It’s been a long time, Tsu.” He opened his eyes and looked back at the young woman in front of him, grown up but undeniably the same person from all those years ago. “How’s your Obba‑chan been? Well, I hope.”

Tsuyu set her thermos down. “She’s well,” she answered, a small smile. “Obba‑chan still scolds the river for running too fast.” She slid a napkin toward his cup. “She’ll be glad you asked.”

Rain ticked at the glass, a sunshower, brief as a breath. Denki was already back to eyeing Sato’s tray; the room’s hum found itself again.

“You still turn the cup twice before you drink,” she added after a moment, tone easy. “Some things don’t change.”

He had space to answer or not. Tsuyu kept the line gentle. “If you want quiet, I can just sit.”

Across the room, Momo tapped her tablet and lifted two fingers toward Jiro: understood. “We’ll file the stairwell slot for Monday,” Jiro murmured to Shinso, and let it drop.

Animus simply looked at her for a beat, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. He lowered his gaze to his teacup, thumb absently tracing the smooth curve of the ceramic. A drop of rain tapped the windowpane, a small sound threading the quiet between them. He turned the cup once, then again, the old rhythm.

“It’s the polite way,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. After a heartbeat: “Sometimes… It’s good to remember the rules.”

He lifted the cup and took a slow, deliberate sip, a quiet confirmation that some things don’t change.

Tsuyu’s lips parted slightly.

Animus met her eyes and caught the flicker there: the old river under a vermilion sky; lanterns chasing the current; two kids on wet boards laughing. Recognition, not surprise.

“You… do remember.”

She blinked once, slowly, and a thin smile found the edge of her mouth.

“You still talk like that,” she said, softly. “Back then, you made small things feel important.”

Her hands folded in her lap.

“I never forgot that summer. You were strange, but safe. Honest.”

“I used to look for your name in the news,” she added, eyes steady. “I didn’t know if you’d stayed in Japan.”

She studied him a beat longer. The smile eased.

“Guess you didn’t. But you found your way back.” A breath. “I’m glad you’re here, Animus.”

She spun the drink lid with one finger. “You missed a lot.” An invitation, not a push.

A chair leg squeaked across the floor nearby.

Momo stood a few feet away, lunch tray in hand, after dispersing from her group. Her expression was polite, reserved.

“Asui‑san. May I join you?”

Tsuyu glanced at Animus, then back. “We’re just catching up. Please.”

“Thank you.” Momo sat beside Tsuyu rather than across from him, as if to keep the line of the window clear. Her gaze flicked over the constellation piercings and the snake bites, then returned to his eyes.

“Athame‑san,” she said with a small bow. “Welcome to Class 3‑A. I’m Momo Yaoyorozu.” She set her chopsticks down neatly. “If you need materials or access after lunch, I can help you route requests or give you a quick tour on Monday.”

She left it there, formal and kind.

Animus set down his tea out of courtesy. “Yaoyorozu, right?” His tone checked what he already knew. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Mina drifted up to the window row with a grin and a napkin balanced on her fingertips. “Peace offering,” she said, easing a still‑warm cookie toward Animus’s desk. “High‑protein, Sato‑approved. I’m Mina, sorry to cut in.”

Tsuyu angled the napkin his way, a small nod. “Sato’s,” she vouched.

“Thank you,” Animus said, accepting it. He glanced at Sato; Sato answered with a quick thumbs‑up over the cooling tray.

“Jiro,” Jiro added from just behind Mina, dry, economical; she tipped her earbuds in a small nod to both of them. Toru wiggled her fingers in a hello; a hairline gleam skipped where her nails should be as Animus met her eye line and gave a small nod.

“Animus Athame,” he offered, voice even. “Nice to meet you.”

“Your hero name’s ‘Embrus,’ right?” Mina’s eyes flicked to the cup. “I don’t know what that means, but it sounds cool. Respect, window seat tea‑guy.” She lifted her own drink. “Welcome to 3‑A.”

A few more soft taps stitched across the glass; the sunshower kept to its lane. Denki, at Sato’s tray, ran cheerful interference, “So what’s in the oatmeal one again?”, while his other hand palmed a second bar; Sato looked up in time to give him the teacher look.

Uraraka slipped back in with a stamped slip tucked under her arm. “Sorry for the wait, got it signed!” She set it by Tsuyu’s notebook and leaned in, bright. “Heads‑up: Requisition says we’re heading to the new dorms right after lunch, half day. They’re almost done setting everything up.”

“New dorms?” Mina perked.

“Yep. We’re in Heights Alliance, Building A‑1, 3‑A’s on the top three floors,” Uraraka said. “Commons on ten, boys on eleven, girls on twelve. Rooms are way bigger now, ID‑keyed with private bathrooms. You can see the commons from the mezzanines, and there’s a skybridge on the boys’ floor to the teachers’ dorms. Pretty cool. It’s a bit overwhelming.”

Momo’s eyes warmed. “More space will be… appreciated.” She tapped her tablet. “When we arrive, I can help with ID access and any supply requests.”

Jiro smirked, elbow to Mina. “Bet the build quality’s better too. Last time they threw ours up in, what, three days?” The line earned a few grins.

Tsuyu slid the stamped slip closer to her notebook. “We’ll route the natatorium requisition after lunch,” she said, “and check the pool calendar for Monday.”

Jiro tipped her head toward Shinso. “We’ll go with you and pull the request forms and see what’s open,” she murmured; Shinso lifted two fingers in acknowledgment.

Mina clapped once, bright. “Since it’s a half day and we’re heading to Heights Alliance after this, dorm room decoration contest, round two?”

She pivoted, pitching her voice just enough to carry. “Announcement! After we get our keys, decorating kicks off, teams or solo, your call. Just for fun, let’s go wild, 3‑A!”

A scatter of answers rose from the room, Kirishima’s “Manly,” Denki’s “Dibs on lights,” Sero’s “Define ‘tasteful,’” and Tokoyami’s low, satisfied “We shall consult the abyssal palette.”

Momo’s smile warmed. “Sounds fun, keep it informal,” she said. “No rubric, no forms, just bragging rights.”

Jiro hooked a thumb toward Shinso. “You in this time?”

“And you too, Athame,” Mina added, looping Animus in without leaning. “You guys were not here last time, this is going to be so fun!”

The clock nudged toward the bell; clusters began to gather along the center aisle, trays closing and voices brightening.

The ceiling speakers popped to life with a soft crackle. Principal Nezu’s voice came bright and precise: “Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome back to U.A. As a reminder, today is a half-day. After the lunch period, please proceed with your homerooms to your dormitories to complete check‑in. Residential Life and Requisition staff will be available for assistance. Formal instruction resumes Monday. That is all.”

The bell followed a beat later, clean and ordinary.

Hallway , minutes earlier

Aizawa stopped just beyond the doorframe where the corridor swallowed the classroom noise. He didn’t bother with small talk.

“You read the debrief,” he said, voice even. “Couldn’t say this in that room: trust your classmates first. He enrolled, not enlisted. Don’t turn him into homework.”

Midoriya’s hands stilled at his sides. “Understood.”

“If you notice anything off,” Aizawa went on, “log it, time, place, intensity. Don’t telegraph it.”

Midoriya nodded once. “I’ll keep notes. Quietly.”

“And if anyone, media, students, crowds him, redirect to me. Be a class rep without being a warden.”

Midoriya breathed out. “Right. Treat him like a classmate. Make space.” A beat. “If he wants to talk, ”

“Then listen,” Aizawa said. “No savior routine.” He tipped his head toward the door. Enjoy the half-day. You’re allowed to be eighteen.”

Midoriya’s mouth quirked. “Yes, sir.” He followed him back toward the room.

Sun on the desks, rain already gone; 3‑A rose as one and shouldered the afternoon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 - Move‑In: Heights Alliance A‑1

Friday, June 1, 2323 , U.A. Campus → Heights Alliance A-1 (post-lunch, early afternoon)

The bell let them up in a bright ripple; trays stacked, chair feet whispered. Iida took point without announcing it, hands low for once, voice steady: “Single line to the elevators; mind the carts.” Outside the windows, the sunshower had settled into a summer sprinkle that made the pavement look lacquered. Overhead, broad glass skybridges stitched the academic wing to the newly renovated Heights Alliance, clean spans of steel and light. A covered 11F skybridge to the teachers’ dorms arced alongside, reminding them how different this was from their old emergency-built dorms.

Mina whistled under her breath. “Hard to believe these were the old dorms, they look… completely different.” She glanced over the modern facade as the class moved across the skybridge toward the dorm lobby.

Iida nodded. “They aren’t the same. These were rebuilt from the ground up. Upgrades are extensive, including ID-keyed access, redundancies, and defined muster points. My parents approved immediately.”

Uraraka’s mouth quirked. “If I hadn’t already stopped by to sign for my package from home, I’d probably be worse than last time, when I almost fainted. Today I’m trying not to.”

Toru, quiet but honest: “Don’t remind me. I’ve already called home three times today. The incident in the gym earlier didn’t help.”

Mina gave Toru a sympathetic glance. “Your parents barely let you move into the dorms last time. I’m surprised they even let you come back after everything that’s happened.”

Toru sighed. “After everything…” She tasted the words. “They only said ‘yes’ when they saw the new plans, and a personal letter of reassurance from Principal Nezu.”

Mina fell in beside Jiro and Toru, walking backward half a step to face them, voice pitched to carry. “Okay, round two: dorm contest is on, pure fun, zero forms. Lights? Themes? We go tasteful or full chaos?”

“Define tasteful,” Sero said from a desk-island behind, already peeling a fresh tape tail like a fidget. Iida angled a look, and Sero hid the dispenser with exaggerated innocence.

Kirishima shouldered the support crate with Sato, making the carry easy. “Manly rule one: nobody blows a breaker,” he said toward Kaminari without looking.

Kaminari already had both hands up. “Pre-emptive innocence. I’m just here to evaluate ambient vibes.”

Aizawa ghosted the line at the rear, presence enough to keep the pace honest. “Commons first,” he said dryly. “Keys after check-in. Don’t leave luggage in the corridor.”

They crossed the covered walk to Heights Alliance A-1. The lobby doors breathed open: cool air and wood polish; a Residential Life desk with a tidy stack of key packets and two staffers in U.A. polos.

“Welcome back, 3-A,” one staffer said, warm-professional. “Commons on ten. After check-in, you’ll get your floor assignment and ID rings. Girls are assigned to 12F, boys to 11F. The main elevator runs to the 10th floor; you’ll take the stairwell up to your rooms.”

Momo tipped her head. “My family asked for the safety review; the answers were satisfactory.”

Kirishima grinned. “Mine said ‘independence is manly, also text.’ Not arguing.”

Kaminari raised a hand. “My mom only asked if the building has surge protection. I told her yes, also me.”

Jiro smirked. “My folks said, ‘Practice quietly.’ It was a look.”

Uraraka’s smile went small and sure as she stepped out on the 10F mezzanine. “Looks even better finished than the preview,” she murmured, one hand light on the atrium rail.

From the mezzanine, they could see the 10F common space spread below, soft seating in clusters, a kitchen tucked behind a glass pass off the lounge (more Michelin than dorm): polished steel and stone under soft lights, induction hobs in a straight line, kettles queued; the windowwall looked over the courtyard, where rain sketched fine streams that clung to the glass.

Koda lifted a hand, gentle. “Um… sparrows are nesting under the balcony eave. Let’s keep the door closed a little.”

“Roger that,” Sato said warmly.

Mina leaned over the mezzanine rail, eyes wide. “Okay, okay, do you see this place?”

Iida, automatic: “Please use the stairs.”

With an easy laugh, Mina took the access stairs at a half-jog, swung around the end post, and popped over the back of a couch, landing on the plush green cushions with a soft bounce. “How big is this TV?” She found the remote and started surfing.

Kaminari jogged down after her, grinning. “Sato, check it out, back of house has a walk-in fridge and freezer.” He added, “I promise not to pair the TV to my quirk. Today.”

Sato came shoulder-to-shoulder with the others at the glass. “Polished steel, labeled shelves… there’s even a service door by the elevator for deliveries. Fewer trips through the lobby.” He didn’t try it; he just smiled, already mapping the space.

Kirishima followed his nose toward rubber and concrete. “Oh, man, personal gym.” He eased open the fitness room door off the hall; mirrors and racks caught the light. Shoji slipped in behind him with a quiet nod.

Bakugo appeared at the doorway with a towel looped around his neck, gave the rack a once-over, and grunted. “If anyone moves the labels, I’m blowing a gasket.”

“Noted,” Kirishima said, amused. “Nobody touches the labels.”

Iida hustled to catch up, hands halfway to a scold, then stopped at a study suite large enough for a whole-class session. “Whiteboards, conferencing cams… This must be the remote learning station for sick days. Excellent.”

“Over here,” Midoriya called. He and Todoroki stood near a tea bar by the island; at the front desk, a Residential Life staffer lifted two key packets. “Midoriya, Todoroki.”

Up on the mezzanine, Uraraka and Jiro glanced at the directory display. “Girls’ floor has its own commons and study hall,” Uraraka reported, pleased.

Sero tipped his chin toward another line on the board. “Same on 11F for guys.” He tried a nearby lounge door out of habit and found it locked.

Aizawa stepped up beside them, tone as flat as his stare. “You’ll need your ID ring to access floor facilities.” He cleared his throat, raising his voice to address the class. “Listen up, first day back or not, rein it in.” The students began to drift from their scouting paths toward the commons desk, queueing for the U.A.-emblemmed rings and dorm rule booklets.

“Okay, okay,” Mina said, hyping quietly. “Tea station equals base camp. After keys: quick vibe scout, then break to floors. Jiro, music-corner recon with Shinso; Sato, snack staging; Momo, we love a checklist, but we don’t need one for vibes.”

Momo’s mouth tugged, amused. “I shall resist the rubric.”

Tokoyami looked out toward the balcony glass. “A more fitting roost. The shadows are… well-behaved.”

Sato eyed the kitchen’s precise layout. “Real kit this time. Not an emergency cart. I can pace a line for real. Dinner’ll be fun.”

An invisible fingertip sketched a quick smile on the glass. “Room tour contest, round two, without the panic under it. That feels good.” Toru’s voice angled toward Shinso and Animus. “You two weren’t here last time. Can’t wait to see what your rooms look like!”

Animus smirked, watching the smile bloom on the glass. Rain began to tick louder; the sky shaded darker. Lightning stitched thin seams across the distant clouds, thunder rolling low a beat later. Shinso glanced at Animus and lifted one shoulder. “Good to know I’m not alone in this.”

Animus gave a reserved nod, then offered a polite smile. “Likewise,” Animus said softly. He hadn’t known these dorms existed until a few days ago, but he was determined to fit in.

Aizawa stepped to the second-floor balcony beside Iida and looked down into the commons. “All right, listen up.” He tapped the ring on his hand, different engraving, same concept. “Residential Life is issuing your ID keys. Keep them on you at all times.” A nod toward Iida, then toward Momo as she joined him. “Iida will run the quick orientation. Momo will flag optional arrangements before classes start on Monday. Don’t make trouble.” He peeled off along the rail, leaving the view to them while the staffers kept working the desk.

Iida raised his voice, crisp. “Orientation walkthrough: these are tower floors ten through twelve; internal signage labels them 3-A Levels 1–3. Skybridge access on eleven. ID keys for rooms and lounges, carry them. Quiet hours begin at twenty-two hundred. Pool and gym: spotter required, towel policy posted, and no quirks in the water.”

Ojiro lifted a hand, tail neatly gathered. “I’ll spot first wave in the gym after check-in, two at a time.”

“Approved,” Iida said. “Thank you, Ojiro.” Questions later; we’ll post the PDF.”

Momo lifted a hand. “Two optional items. One: Open Gym scrimmage with Class 3-B, Saturday, June 2, 17:30 to 19:00 in the Main Gym. Sign-up opens after dinner; power-cap bands provided. Two: U.A. City Day on Sunday, June 3, is the Fashion Challenge. Each student designs one outfit for every classmate under a single shared theme.” She added, practically: “Requisition Committee pre-staged your belongings; most boxes should already be in your rooms.”

Aoyama brightened, hand to heart. “Une Fashion Challenge? Enfin, taste returns to U.A.”

Mina shot him finger-guns. “You’re on my styling council.”

“Then, ” Mina’s voice arrived from the mezzanine where she’d somehow already posted up, hands cupped like a mic. “Let the 3-A dorm room contest begin!”

Iida clapped once, light but firm. “Contest kickoff after check-in. Please form a queue at the desk.”

Mina pointed her remote like a baton. “Keys first, bragging rights after, make your way to the conversation pit to the right after you get your stuff!”

Shinso glanced over to Animus and offered a sympathetic shrug. “Guess we’re on the hook now.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 - Bakusquad vs. Dekusquad

The line moved in orderly inches. Iida kept it honest with the lightest signals, one palm lower, one nod forward. At the desk, the staffers slid out small packets: an ID ring engraved with the U.A. crest and a thin booklet of dorm rules.

“Ashido, Jiro,” the staffer called. “Kirishima, Sato. Kaminari, Sero.” Names rose and fell; the queue breathed.

Momo stepped up, pen already uncapped. “Replacement procedure if a ring is lost?”

“Report immediately,” the staffer said. “We’ll disable and reissue.”

“Efficient.” She signed, crisp.

Denki lifted a hand, not toward a switch. “Media hub pairing, will the lounge run on the posted Wi-Fi SSID or stay wired? I can help configure later.”

“Credentials will be posted; pairing by request only,” the staffer said. “Thank you.”

Iida inclined his head. “Appreciated, Kaminari. We’ll coordinate the setup this evening.”

Sero peeled a narrow tape tail and wrote Hanta on it, wrapping the ring-box edge. “All these boxes look the same,” he murmured, sticking the label on. Iida considered speaking and chose to let the label pass.

Mineta cleared his throat. “Poster policy? Asking so I can follow it.”

“Dimensions and placement are in the booklet,” the staffer said. “Thank you for checking.”

“Good,” Iida said, pleased. “Appreciated, Mineta. For clarity: campus policy prohibits explicit or sexualized imagery.”

Mineta rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. No sketchy posters. I’m good.” Jiro and Mina both gave him the look. He winced, then managed a small nod. “Understood.”

“Yaoyorozu, Mina,” the staffer called, and Mina pivoted in with a grin big enough to read from the back.

“Tsuyu, Uraraka.” Tsuyu accepted both packets, passed one to Ochaco, and tucked her booklet flat against her key packet.

“Shinso, Athame.” Shinso took his with a small, tired thanks. Animus received his in a quiet handoff, bowed a degree, and slipped the ring on, same hand as the tea habit, clean and unshown. From the glass, an invisible fingertip added a second dot to the smile it had drawn; he angled a low nod toward where Toru’s voice had come from. “Thanks.”

The stair lights along the risers pulsed once; groups began to split for 11F and 12F.

The stair lights breathed on in a soft line. Order helps, kero, Tsuyu thought, shifting her key packet under one arm so the booklet lay flat against her ribs.

“Right side on ascent,” Iida said, light but firm. “No running.”

Bakugo took the stairs two at a time without looking back. “We’re all going up, shut the hell up.”

Iida didn’t bristle; he matched pace. “Safety doesn’t pause because you’re in a hurry, Bakugo.”

Rain combed the windows in thin silver. They rose together to the 11F landing, open air, the commons humming below, a skybridge mouth to one side. Toru’s handprint fogged a little heart on the glass and vanished as she laughed under her breath. Jiro bumped her shoulder, mouth quirking. Tsuyu felt Ochaco ease in close beside her; calm is catching, she reminded herself, and let her breathing settle.

Mina popped up a step on the lower run to be seen. “Okay! Quick announcement, uh, boys versus girls! Room contest warm-up! Losers buy takeout for winners!”

Jiro didn’t even turn her head. “Math, Mina. We don’t have enough girls to make that fair.”

Mina blinked. “Oh. Right. I knew that.” She stage-whispered, “I didn’t know that.”

Momo lifted two fingers, gently. “Even split makes the most sense. We’re twenty-two today.”

Kirishima grinned, already reading the room. “So… Bakusquad vs Dekusquad? That’s fair and manly.”

“Fine,” Bakugo said, arms folding like a period at the end of a sentence.

Midoriya nodded once, steady. “Works for me.”

“Captains decided,” Mina chirped, delighted that her mistake had somehow become a plan. She clapped. “Bakugo and Midoriya draft fast. One-minute timer. Winner picks takeout; other team covers. Go!”

The circle loosened into energy. Kirishima didn’t even wait for his name; he was already at Bakugo’s shoulder with an easy grin. Uraraka slid to Midoriya without looking for a cue, bright as a yes. Kaminari drifted Bakugo-ward on pure habit; Iida stepped to Midoriya, precise. Jiro tilted her head, then crossed to Bakugo with a dry, Don’t make me regret this look. Yaoyorozu joined Midoriya, calm competence. Names began to fly, quick, friendly, no grand speeches, like kids who’d done this a hundred times and learned something each time.

Midoriya caught Animus’s eye earlier than anyone seemed to expect and tipped two fingers toward the open space at his side. “Join us?” He kept it like a courtesy, not a headline.

Animus touched the rim of his new ring like he was checking its weight and stepped over, quietly. Tsuyu clocked the timing, not last; deliberate, low-profile, kind.

This is better, Tsuyu thought, watching little clusters sort themselves: Sero laughing as he pointed, Todoroki’s expression barely moving as he nodded, Tokoyami finding a shadowed corner of whichever team had more shade at their back. She waited for the last few tugs of gravity to settle and then stepped in when Midoriya’s eyes met hers. Even balance, kero.

Shinso hung back near the rail with a small, tired smile, and Bakugo jerked his chin, Get over here already, so he did. Toru’s voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once: “I’ll round you out, Midoriya.” A spark of glitter trailed across the glass, then disappeared.

“Done!” Mina sang, hands up like she was calling a clean landing. “Team Bakugo versus Team Midoriya. One hour to vibe your rooms. Meet back in the conversation pit for judging. Prize: the winners pick takeout; losers cover, no backsies.”

“Hands off each other’s setups,” Bakugo said, flat. “Touch my boxes and I’m blowing a gasket.”

“Manly ground rule,” Kirishima agreed.

Tsuyu let her smile happen, small and honest. That’s settled, kero. The knot untied into motion, voices overlapping, plans already forming, the storm outside keeping time on the glass.

Iida checked his watch and lifted one finger. “One hour. Meet back in the conversation pit.” The tiny chime on his timer sounded like rain hitting a kettle lid.

“Ready, set, decorate!” Mina sang, already backing toward the 12F stairs with Jiro and Toru in tow. Jiro swung her bag higher; a coil of cables peeked like a tame snake.

“Boys, we’re home field,” Kirishima said, clapping once. “Let’s go!” Sero twirled a strip of tape like a baton; Denki pointed at the media cart as if it might give him a quest.

Midoriya lifted his ring hand in a small circle. “See you in an hour.” Todoroki nodded; Iida mirrored the nod, satisfied.

Shinso slid his packet into his hoodie pocket and angled a look at Animus. “Opposite sides, huh? Catch you after, loser owes tea.”

Animus tipped two fingers in quiet agreement. The storm rumbled a baritone somewhere outside; Shoji shifted a crate to free the stairwell, and the group split clean, girls up, boys out, voices braiding and thinning as the halls took them.

Tsuyu’s feet found a steady rhythm on the risers. Balance first, kero. Then color.

The split felt easy because it was familiar.

On eleven, Kirishima shouldered a box through his doorway and kicked it shut with a grin. Sero was already on a step-stool, laying a clean tape guide along the wall, “so we don’t eyeball crooked later.” Denki uncoiled an HDMI cable like a question and crouched by the media cart to hunt the right port. Bakugo cracked a case, an Allen key set in his fist like a dare. At Midoriya’s desk, Iida steadied a leaning stack while Todoroki set a small tool kit down, precisely.

Up on twelve, Mina flung open a carton, and a glitter-string tangle leapt out; she draped it over her forearms and spun once. Jiro let her cable snake coil neatly on the rug while Toru’s invisible hands pressed washi tape to a mood board until it held. Yaoyorozu measured the inside of a drawer with a tape measure she didn’t really need. Tsuyu pinned a color tab to a wall corner, balance first, kero, and Ochaco fanned a handful of photo prints, testing which ones felt like home.

The hall noises thinned to soft doors and muffled music, little islands lighting up.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 - A Room of One's Own

The door closed behind him the sounds of the busy world between the halls fell with a hush that felt intentional. His hands lingered on the cold and sturdy wooden door as he leaned against its solid surface. The sound folded the hallway out of the room and left the small weather of his breath, the thin hum of power heard through the outlet, the softened percussion of rain against the tower glass.

He moved to where the boxes waited, numbered, squared, patient, his hand tracing across their sealed tops. His eyes turned to the bed that was too large for one person and exactly the right size for never feeling cornered, the dark canopy perfect for shutting out the light and losing oneself to the empty. The oaken desk had weight, and an emptied spot that seemed to hold a purpose. The ring on his finger, new metal, old impulse, its unfamiliar weight already routine.

New room. Same name. New door. Same prison: low profile. Work first.

He opened one of the smaller boxes tightly sealed in wood and foam, fragile written across it in various places. He pulled from it a small kettle and set it upon the desk to claim the space. Shortly after he produced a cord, socket, and click. He unscrewed the travel tin and let the lid rest upside down like a shallow bowl. Leaves caught the light in their dark geometry. He pulled the thermometer from his bag and lay beside the carefully arranged setup like a slender truth.

For a moment, he looked at the small area. Set up the same way he had been taught all those years ago, and for a moment, he smiled.

His phone woke to a vibration, causing it to fall into the box it was resting on. When he lifted it, pinned threads, a few short messages saved from months that had felt longer than they were; tiny lifelines he refused to play on a loop. He didn’t open them. He knew the shapes by heart.

Below, the building breathed with other people. Doors, voices, a tape measure zipping closed, laughter that rose and fell without looking around first to ask permission. The heat that touched his chest wasn’t anger, exactly. Envy flickered, then obeyed. Good. Keep it that way.

He filled the kettle and let it come to the edge. The kettle began to whisper. His fingers shook once when he reached for the thermometer, a small tremor he pretended was from the cold metal. He steadied his wrist on the desk and breathed in a square: four in, four hold, four out, four wait. The needle eased to its mark. He poured, watching the surface shiver, steam drawing quick white characters that said nothing and then vanished.

He didn’t sit. He mapped without moving: window, door, sightlines, outlets; where the desk should angle so he could see the hall without living in it. He kept the bed’s long side open. No corners. Not today. He could hear Mina laughing above, and Kirishima slapping a palm against a box for pure emphasis; someone played two seconds of a song and stopped like they were checking volume levels. The world kept happening without him. Relief was part of the ache.

He thumbed the phone awake again; the top-most message stayed unread on purpose, two lines from a sister written in the hour between a storm and silence, all the vowels stretched with love and absence. He had starred in it. He had not replied. Not yet. Not like this.

The cup warmed his hands. The first sip rewired his throat into something that could be patient. He let the taste settle behind his teeth and leaned his knuckles on the desk. He could feel the old pressure of eyes that weren’t in the room, administrators, headlines, a thousand stories that wanted a cleaner villain or a cleaner victim, and didn’t know what to do with a person who had to wake up and make tea and decide where a desk should go.

They’re kids who walked through fire and still laugh in a hallway, he told himself, not as an indictment but as a directive. Match their light without stealing it. Earn proximity. Keep your voice measured. Work first.

He set the cup down. The tremor wasn’t gone, but it had something to hold.

A knuckle rapped twice, low courtesy.

“Door’s open,” he said, voice measured.

Shinso leaned into the frame, hoodie hood half-up like it had been a long morning. “Timer says fifty-two and change.” The corner of his mouth moved. “Opposite sides. Loser owes tea.”

Animus allowed himself the smallest smile. “Then you’d better like oolong.”

“Like is strong,” Shinso said, deadpan. “But I’ll drink what I’m owed.” A beat. “You good?” It wasn’t a pry.

“I am,” Animus said, and let it be true enough. “Go win something. I’ll see you in the pit.”

Shinso flicked a two-finger salute, same gesture, different weight, and ghosted back into the hall. The door eased shut; the kettle ticked as it cooled. The room belonged to him again, which meant it asked to be made.

He opened a box by sliding the tape free in one clean pull. Books first, because spines made a wall feel like it remembered things. The titles didn’t matter to the room; they mattered to his hands. He lined a row and left two thumb-widths clear on the right for whatever came next. The second box held cables, a small surge strip, and a rolled mat for under the chair so the legs would glide instead of thunk. Desk things went where they always went: pen tray, notebook, the small brass weight he used to keep papers honest when the window was open.

He angled the large, solid wooden desk with ease to a degree and then another until the door lived in the corner of his eye instead of the center. The chair rolled; the mat caught; he adjusted. He could feel the shape of work appear under the day like stone under water. He found the thermometer case and set it where it would wait without being in the way. He folded the kettle cord into a neat figure-eight. Order first; the rest follows.

Below the noise, the tower’s structure sighed, a long, contented sound of steel remembering its shape in the rain. He pictured the contest circle later, Mina with her pretend microphone, Bakugo making rules out of grunts and being right more often than he wasn’t, Midoriya watching faces instead of furniture. He pictured Shinso’s dry mouth corner when he said the word owed. The bet was nothing, which made it safe. Tea debt. Good currency.

He kept moving. A small framed print went to the desk’s back right corner, not an altar, just proof that a past existed and didn’t own him. Clothes would wait. Posters would wait. The bed would remain unadorned until the room’s lines made sense. He pulled one more box toward him with the side of his shoe, cut the tape, and found the practical things, charging brick, spare cable, a folded note he didn’t read, all the small scaffolding of a life you’re not sure you deserve and intend to build anyway.

He took another sip and let the warmth occupy the space the ache would have used. You were robbed of certain days. You were also given this one. Use it well. The thought arrived without ceremony and sat down where it fit. He nodded to no one.

Animus exhaled the room into place. Work first. He slid a box closer with his foot, cut the tape, and began to make a life out of what he had.

Kirishima shoulder-checked his door and came in laughing at nothing in particular, just the way the hall felt when everybody had a plan. He left the door swung wide; half the rooms on the corridor were propped open with boxes, a string of little stages, voices running back and forth like braided cable. The room smelled like cardboard and cedar. He set the box on the bed, bounced it once with his palm, and grinned.

“Okay. Vibe check.” He cracked the lid. Posters, a red throw, a stack of cracked-spine manga that had done tours with him. From Sero’s open doorway next door came a steady count as if he were teaching the line of tape to behave.

Denki popped into Kirishima’s open doorway without knocking, two HDMI ends held up like a moral dilemma. “ARC? eARC? Which one makes the TV love me?”

“Neither if you jam them,” Kirishima said, taking both and clicking one home. He tipped his chin toward the hall. “Go be useful before Bakugo invents a new rule.”

Down the corridor, from Bakugo’s propped-open door, a drawer thudded shut like punctuation. “If any of you touch the allen keys, I’m eating you,” Bakugo barked, voice pure gravel.

“Protein is protein,” Sero called back, deadpan, perfectly audible through the open doors.

Kirishima laughed and dragged his desk two inches so the chair wouldn’t kiss the wall. The little stuff made a room honest. His phone buzzed; Shinso’s timer pinged the shared thread with a new label: Tea Debt , 00:49:12.

“Nice,” Kirishima said, and slung the red throw over the chair. He stepped back, palms on his hips, and tried to see it the way a friend would. Rain stitched the window; the open doors breathed the corridor in and out. Down the corridor, Midoriya’s voice was low and warm, Iida’s precise, Todoroki’s almost silent. It felt right, like the building was flexing and finding shape around them.

“Manly,” he decided, and started hanging the first poster as straight as Sero’s tape.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7 - The Room Rodeo (Part 1)

Time slid forward on a hundred small decisions, tape hissing into place, screws taking their bite, water cooling from perfect to patient. By the time the hour had a rim on it, the dorm felt different: rooms breathing in, hallway breathing out.

Iida appeared at the 11F rail like a lighthouse, watch raised. “Thirty seconds,” he called, calm, not scolding. His other hand drew a neat circle: down to the conversation pit.

From the 12F rail, Mina made a trumpet with her hands and then ruined the bit with an actual airhorn. The burst ricocheted through three floors and set off five different laughs.

Students began to filter to the stairs and along the inner balconies. Midoriya was among the first to the 11F landing, Iida beside him; Todoroki stepped into place without hurry. Shoji arrived with an unconscious hush, hands empty; Tokoyami’s cloak moved like a quiet flag. On the girls’ side, Tsuyu and Ochaco came together, calm, bright, followed by Yaoyorozu tucking a tape measure into her pocket and Jiro winding a loose cable around two fingers as she walked. Hagakure’s “I’m here!” came from a foot away, cheerful as proof.

Shinso dropped in at the end of a breath; Animus slipped to the balcony rail opposite him, not last, not first, cup finished and hands even. They shared the ghost of a nod, later.

“Ten,” Iida said, eyes on the second hand. “Nine… eight…”

“Don’t sprint, just descend with spirit!” Mina chirped, then covered her own laugh with the back of her wrist.

“…three… two… one.” Iida lowered his arm. “Time.”

Kirishima glanced down the 11F corridor. “I’ll grab Denki.” He jogged two doors and pointed; a muffled “One sec!” came back, and then Kaminari spilled out, victory-posing with a remote he’d clearly just tamed.

“Jiro?” Toru asked, already turning.

“I’m here,” Jiro said, appearing at the top of the stairs with the rest of the girls, one last loop of cable slipping into her pocket as if it had planned the timing.

They poured down in two ribbons and pooled into the sunken pit. The rain kept its soft percussion on the glass. The hour was up, but the warmth wasn’t.

Mina hopped down the last step like she had a mic. “Welcome to the Heights Alliance Room Rodeo, okay, that name is terrible, we’ll workshop.” She aimed two finger-guns at the captains. “Team Bakugo. Team Midoriya. We tour, we judge, we eat.”

Midoriya’s smile was small and sure. Bakugo folded his arms like punctuation.

“Order?” Tsuyu asked politely.

“By floor,” Iida suggested. “Eleven, then twelve, alternating by team where possible.”

“Sounds good,” Kirishima approved.

“Rules,” Bakugo said. “Hands off people’s stuff. Keep the commentary clean. If you break something, you buy two.”

“Sold,” Mina said, sparkling. “Let’s roll.”

Yaoyorozu lifted a hand, gentle. “If it helps, I can create simple scoring slips, very light.”

Iida brightened. “Excellent idea. Please include a clear scale and boxes to check.”

Momo touched her lip, then her palm bloomed white with a neat stack of pads and a cup of pens. She passed them to Mina, who bounced them down the rows like party favors.

“Two quick things,” Momo said as they circulated. “No one scores their own room. And while tonight’s main prize is team takeout, winners choose; other team covers, we’ll also note the highest individual score for a small personal prize.”

Mina, already wearing one of the pens like a headset: “Personal prize is the Room Crown, paper only, very haute couture, and first pick when we order.”

Jiro smirked. “And here I thought we were avoiding rubrics?”

“I promised I’d resist the rubric,” Momo said, amused. “This is rubric light.”

Dorm Room Decorating Contest , Quick Checklist

• Overall Theme & Creativity (1–50): Does the room feel cohesive and original? Effort shows; surprises welcome.
• Use of Space (1–25): Layout, organization, comfort. Smart storage and traffic flow.
• DIY & Personal Touches (1–25): Handmade or repurposed elements; clear personal style.

Scoring notes: Put the room owner’s name at the top and circle their team (Bakugo / Midoriya). Do not score your own room. Highest individual total earns the Room Crown + first pick on the takeout order. Team totals = sum of all member scores; the highest team total wins the contest. Tie-breakers: compare Theme & Creativity first; if still tied, coin flip.

Mina clapped once. “Okay! With our very official paperwork in hand, tour time.”

Mina didn’t need a microphone to set the stage; she just pitched her voice so it landed softly on the open doors of the 11th-floor corridor. “Captain Bakugo, first reveal!”

Bakugo thumbed his door wider and didn’t move from the frame. “Shoes off if you step in. Two at a time. Don’t touch anything.”

That was all the ceremony he allowed. The class gathered in a crescent that kept the threshold clear. Batches of two stepped onto the mat, socks quiet on wood. The room had the feeling of something tuned rather than decorated: dark bedding drawn tight enough to square the corners; a desk cleared of everything except a compact tool roll and a low, steel-necked lamp; cords routed clean and clipped along the baseboard. A pull-up bar spanned the door like a black underline. A folded towel sat on a narrow rack beside a set of resistance bands; nothing leaned where it shouldn’t.

Kirishima leaned just enough to see the hardware. “You sunk sleeve anchors?”

Bakugo’s mouth ticked. “You want it ripped out?”

“Looks solid,” Kirishima said, easy approval in his voice.

Kaminari almost stepped onto the mat in his sneakers and got a warning without volume. “Shoes, dumbass.” The word landed like a tap on the back of the hand. Kaminari laughed, kicked his heels off, and stayed in the crescent.

Momo wrote without looking away. “Minimalist function, cohesive and intentional.”

Iida’s gaze traced the pathways. “Unimpeded. Excellent sightlines for entering and exiting. No trip risks.”

Jiro tipped her chin at the desk. “I like the quiet. It’s not sterile, just… focused.”

Midoriya didn’t comment; he watched the way Bakugo’s hand rested on the doorframe, the way his shoulders settled when people respected the rule about not touching things. He nodded once, the kind of acknowledgment that didn’t need words.

Bakugo didn’t perform pride, but it edged the set of his shoulders. He flicked the tool roll closed with a practiced motion and slid the drawer flush, no rattle, no extra sound. “If you’re done, move. People behind you.”

The pairs swapped out. Sero peered up at the bar and measured the line with his eye. “Level.”

“Obviously,” Bakugo said.

Mina hovered just outside the threshold and spared half a breath to score before she grinned. “Vibe is sharp. Feels like the room would bench-press you if you talked back.”

“Bench-press isn’t for back,” Bakugo said, deadpan. The laugh that rippled through the crescent was quick and clean; he let it pass without chasing it.

Tsuyu checked one small detail the way she always did. The towel folded lined up neatly with the rack; the corners of the bed mirrored the corners of the desk. “Balanced,” she said simply. “Feels ready.”

Bakugo hooked a thumb to signal the last pair through and let the door rest where it had been. “Next.” It wasn’t a dismissal so much as a green light.

Mina lifted her pen like a baton. “Captains alternate, so Midoriya will be across the hall next. Keep your slips handy, no self-scores. Two at a time, same etiquette.”

The crescent loosened without losing its shape. Kirishima bumped Bakugo’s shoulder on the way past, light, familiar. Bakugo didn’t look over. He didn’t need to.

“Captain Midoriya ready?” Mina called, already angling the group across the hall.

Midoriya stepped to his doorway and rested a hand on the jamb like he was remembering to be present. “Same rules,” he said, voice even. “Shoes off if you come in. Two at a time.” He smiled a little. “Please don’t trip.”

The class gathered in another crescent. Pairs rotated through carefully, mindful of the threshold. Midoriya’s room didn’t announce itself; it invited. The desk sat at a slight angle so the hall lived in the corner of his eye. A shallow tray held two pens and a single notebook, open to a blank page, spine relaxed. A small framed print, color low, lines simple, leaned on the dresser instead of hanging, like it had traveled with him. The lamp cast a warm cone that didn’t try to own the space. Bedding plain, window clear.

Iida’s approval sounded like relief. “Efficient and safe. Pathways open; chair clearance ideal.”

Momo’s pencil moved, but her voice stayed soft. “Understated intentionality. Everything supports focus.”

Tsuyu touched the edge of the tray with her eyes, not her hand. “Feels like you, kero. Not loud, true.”

Jiro’s gaze tracked the lamp and the angle of the desk. “Good light discipline. No screen glare.”

Hagakure clasped her hands, visible today thanks to pink gloves, and practically swooned. “It feels so homey! Like a study nook in a hero library or something.”

Midoriya rubbed the back of his head, bashful. “Ah, thanks. It’s not much, just tried to make it comfortable.”

As the last pair stepped out, Momo gave Midoriya an encouraging nod and turned to the next in line. “Shall we continue clockwise? Todoroki?”

Todoroki stood with a slight, polite stretch and guided the group a few doors down. “It’s open.” He slid his door aside, revealing a tidy, sunlit space. “Same rules apply.”

Todoroki’s room was a study in balance, literally. Half the decor leaned cool, half warm. A woven rug of glacier blue stretched from the door to a low coffee table, while a rust-red blanket was folded at the foot of his bed. The walls were mostly bare except for a framed family photo on the dresser and a vintage All Might poster (mid-pose in a frosty battle scene) hung opposite a small Endeavor figurine on a shelf, fire and ice, neither dominating. A sleek humidifier stood in one corner, and an air purifier in the other. His desk held a laptop and a stand of color-coded notebooks. In the wastebasket beneath, a few crumpled draft pages peeked out, evidence of late-night practice essays.

The class rotated through two by two. Momo’s pencil glided across her page. “Color temperature split, yet unified.”

Iida adjusted his glasses, clearly approving. “Clear segmentation for study and rest. No hazards; devices well-placed.”

Kaminari chuckled under his breath. “Of course, half is cold, half is hot. On brand.”

“That humidifier’s probably for his left side,” Sero joked lightly, earning a small smirk from Todoroki.

Jiro gestured subtly toward the All Might poster. “Classic pick. First movie, right?”

Todoroki nodded. “I grew up with it.” He didn’t mention that it was a gift from his mother; he didn’t need to.

As the viewing finished, Mina jotted a quick note. “Vibe: equilibrium. Personal without flash.” She gave Todoroki a bright grin. “Fun touch with the color split, Todoroki.”

He almost smiled. “Thanks. It keeps things… even.”

Mina tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully, then swept an arm toward Kaminari’s door with a flourish. “Time to amp it up! Denki Kaminari, show us what you’ve got!” she chimed.

“Welcome to Casa de Denki!” Kaminari announced with an exaggerated bow, clicking his door open wider. A subtle blue glow pulsed from LED strips tracing the ceiling edges, giving the room a fun, arcade-like ambiance without being overpowering. His setup was undeniably more polished than two years ago: a streamlined computer desk with a twin-monitor rig occupied one corner, cables managed in tidy sleeves and not a tangle in sight. A charging station sat on a floating shelf, neatly hosting his phone and an array of gadgets , noise-cancelling headphones, and a retro handheld gaming console , all lit by a gentle neon-yellow lightning bolt lamp mounted above. On the wall above his bed (dressed in navy-blue sheets with bright yellow throw pillows), a framed internship photo showed Kaminari grinning between Mt. Lady and Kamui Woods, both mentors giving a thumbs-up. Beside it hung a poster of an electric-guitar anime hero, signature scribbled in silver ink. The entire space felt like a cross between a teen tech hub and a laid-back lounge.

“Oooh,” Toru’s voice came from somewhere near the doorway as the invisible girl stepped inside with a friend. “Pretty lights!” The LEDs reflected faintly off her sleeves, tracing her outline in blue.

Momo smiled, pen at the ready. “Modern tech comfort. Playful but clearly functional.”

Iida gave an approving nod at the organized cords. “Efficient. Workstation, entertainment, and relaxation areas are well separated , and no safety hazards.”

Midoriya pointed near the desk at a hefty power strip displaying green lights. “Is that a surge protector with a built-in voltage indicator?”

Kaminari beamed. “Oh, yeah! After… past incidents, I invested in top-of-the-line surge protection. Learned my lesson.” A few classmates chuckled knowingly; everyone remembered the occasional blown fuse in the old dorms when Kaminari got carried away.

Jiro stepped closer to a shelf, noting a row of game cartridges and a small speaker. “I see you modded your speakers.” She recognized the casing as Support Course custom work. “Bass-boosted and everything?”

Kaminari rubbed his neck with a laugh. “Guilty. Tinkered with them a bit, with help from the Support Course folks. Gotta have good sound for music and gaming.”

“He’s being modest,” Sero chimed in, scanning the room. “Denki spent part of last year rewiring the city grid. This setup’s probably disaster-proof.”

Kaminari’s cheeks tinted faintly pink at the praise. “I mean, I got certified in electrical safety. Figured it was time I live up to my quirk – not fry everything around me.” His grin returned as he gestured to a sleek black console under the mounted TV opposite the bed. “Movie night in my room sometime, anyone? I promise the system won’t short out.”

“Bold invitation when we haven’t finished judging,” Mina teased from the doorway, though her eyes sparkled. She scribbled on her score sheet. “Vibe check: I’m feeling a solid gamer zen here.”

“Seconded,” Kirishima said, peering in with an eager smile. “It’s way cleaner than last time, bro. And those neon lights? Manly in a modern way!”

“Thanks!” Denki gave a mock salute. “Figured I should step it up. Can’t let my teammates down on the Neon side, right?” He flicked a small remote, and the LED strips shifted from blue to a rotating spectrum of electric green and purple. A small “whoa” went through the crowd as colors danced on the walls.

Bakugo, arms still folded, raised an eyebrow at the light show. “As long as you keep it to party hours,” he said gruffly, but there was no bite to it.

“Don’t worry, lights out at curfew,” Kaminari vowed, clicking them back to a calm blue.

Tsuyu pointed to a cute magnet on a mini-fridge tucked under the desk , a cartoon frog with sparkly eyes. “Nice magnet,” she said.

“Oh, heh,” Kaminari scratched his hair sheepishly. “Present from Asui – uh, Tsuyu – after internship. A little reminder to hydrate.” Tsuyu’s lips curled in a pleased smile at the mention.

As the pairs swapped to give everyone a peek, Mineta took in the comfy beanbag in one corner and the stack of manga next to it. “Not bad, Chargebolt. You’ve got the bachelor-pad vibe going,” he joked.

“Yeah – for a bachelor who actually studies,” Jiro quipped, noting a neatly organized rack of textbooks on a low shelf (each bookmarked and highlighted).

Kaminari shrugged cheerfully. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.” He waggled his eyebrows, drawing laughs.

Mina clapped lightly to draw everyone back. “Alright, judges, last looks!” She waited a beat as a final few notes were scribbled and appreciative murmurs floated out. Kaminari gave two finger-guns to the crowd, an unabashed grin on his face.

With a satisfied nod, Mina spun on her heel. “Onward!” she declared, already heading toward the next room.

Mina twirled her pen with a flourish and pointed it at the next open doorway. “From Team Bakugo’s side, the one, the only, Eijiro Kirishima!” she declared, injecting game-show hype that drew a laugh from the class.

Kirishima appeared in his doorway with a broad grin, one hand braced proudly on the frame. “C’mon in! Mi casa es manly casa,” he said, only half-joking. He stepped back to let the first pair onto the rug. The room gave off instant energy: a crimson throw draped over the desk chair, posters of classic heroes and shounen manga lining one wall in a collage of bright courage, and a squat rack of free weights neatly tucked beside the dresser. His bedspread was bold red with black trim, one corner already sporting a tiny plush shark that somehow looked fierce instead of cute. On the desk, a cluster of framed photos caught the eye, snapshots of Kirishima with arms slung around friends at volunteer sites, one of him, Bakugo, and Animus in wetsuits giving a thumbs-up on a beach (an internship memory), and a small signed Crimson Riot poster centered above. The room didn’t just reflect Kirishima’s personality – it practically flexed with it.

Momo nodded as she took it in. “Very cohesive. A heroic-spirit motif with personal flair.” She scribbled quickly.

Iida adjusted his glasses, pleased. “Well-organized. Equipment stowed safely, clear path from door to window. Weight rack is secured, good.”

Sero let out a low whistle at the array of weights. “Check out the custom grip board on the wall.” A wooden board hung near the closet, pocked with indentations where Kirishima likely practiced grip strength. “He must’ve made that to train.”

Kaminari leaned in from the threshold, eyes bright. “Is that from our second-year training? Man, you kept it!”

“Had to,” Kirishima confirmed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “I carve a new notch every time my grip-strength PR increases.”

Midoriya’s face lit up at the Crimson Riot poster. “That’s autographed… did you meet Crimson Riot?”

Kirishima chuckled. “Nah, ordered it signed. But hey, keeps me motivated!”

Jiro’s gaze traveled over the collage of posters and photos. “It’s like a mini Hall of Heroes in here,” she said dryly, though her tone was warm. She noticed an electric guitar resting on a stand in the corner, sleek and well-kept. “Nice axe. Didn’t know you kept up with the guitar.”

Kirishima followed her look and laughed. “Oh, that! Yeah, Tokoyami taught me a few chords back during the cultural festival, remember? I still jam sometimes. Helps pump me up.”

Mina hovered in the doorway, bouncing on her toes as she jotted down her own scores. “Vibe is off the charts. It’s like walking into a training montage.”

“More like a get-pumped playlist,” Kaminari quipped, nudging Sero, who nodded.

Tsuyu’s eyes flicked to one of the volunteer group photos on the desk, noting Kirishima muddy and beaming among locals. “It feels… welcoming,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Like everyone’s invited to work hard together, kero.”

“Exactly!” Kirishima flashed a thumbs-up so enthusiastic it nearly sparkled. “This room’s open for all – anytime you want a workout partner or just to hang out.”

Bakugo, arms crossed at the back of the crescent, gave a small snort that was more fond than derisive. “Just don’t drop weights at midnight.”

“Roger that,” Kirishima shot back, unoffended. He patted the padded flooring under the weight rack. “Got soundproof mats – no midnight PRs, promise.”

As the last pair traded places to peek inside, Shoji gently tapped one of the weight plates with a fingertip from where he stood just outside. “Solid iron. You’ve increased your set since the first year,” he observed quietly.

Kirishima grinned at the tall teen. “Heh, figured I should step it up from the old dorms. Couldn’t let Sato’s cake-stealing win last time be my peak.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the group; everyone remembered how Sato’s baking bribery had clinched the 1-A contest. From somewhere toward the stairs, Sato protested, “That was a totally legitimate win!” which made them laugh even more. Kirishima waved a hand in good sport.

“Alright, alright,” Mina said, regaining control with a dramatic clearing of her throat. She flashed a grin at Kirishima. “Any final flex for the judges, Red Riot?”

Kirishima stepped back and gave a mock flex of one arm, flashing his shark-toothed grin. “Just that you’re all awesome. Thanks for checking out my digs!”

“Too wholesome,” Mineta joked lightly, scribbling on his score slip. “Where’s the showmanship?”

“Hey, sincerity is manly,” Kirishima countered, unfazed. With that, he let the door swing mostly closed, inviting the crowd to move on with upbeat chuckles still in the air. Pens scratched on score sheets as Mina led the way back into the hall, already eager for the next reveal.

The next seat over was Sero’s. He sprang up with a loose-limbed energy and beckoned them over. “Alright, welcome to Casa del Tape!”

His door opened on a room that managed to feel both sporty and playful. The walls had a few posters of pro heroes known for urban swings and acrobatics, Air Jet, Native, even a vintage Spider-Man poster snuck in as a joke. A skateboard hung on two hooks above the bed. Rolls of capture tape in various colors were mounted on a rack by his desk like a rainbow arsenal. That desk itself was dominated by a custom rig of pulleys and clamps, half-finished, some kind of jury-rigged tape dispenser upgrade. A Rubik’s Cube and a yo-yo sat next to it, as did a small cactus in a dinosaur-shaped pot. A strip of LED lights ran around the ceiling, currently set to a mellow orange glow.

Two at a time, the class wandered in with smiles. Momo tapped her chin, clearly impressed by the gadget project. “Inventive and vibrant. Equipment doubling as decor.”

“Efficiently utilized,” Iida said. “No obstructions, good wall storage.”

Kirishima gave a low whistle. “Manly décor , love the board. And that tape rack’s genius.”

Sato was already eyeing the tape contraption with professional curiosity. “Think you can rig that to frost a cake?”

Sero grinned. “If you supply the cake, I’ll try anything once.”

Hagakure gasped happily at the dinosaur planter. “Is that Rex? From Toy Story?” Only she would notice, as big a fan of kids’ movies as she was.

Sero laughed. “It is! Good eye, Toru.”

Mina flipped through a few of Sero’s poster tubes propped in the corner. “I see someone brought the whole hero poster club,” she teased.

“Guilty,” Sero said. “Better than a blank wall, right?”

Jiro was bobbing her head at the soft music playing from Sero’s phone speaker. “Nice playlist,” she noted. “Chillhop beats? Solid choice for studying.”

Sero shot her finger guns. “Exactly! Keeps the vibes, doesn’t distract.”

As the tour moved on, Mina scribbled on her score sheet. “Vibe: creative workshop meets hangout spot. Very you, Sero.”

He offered a playful salute as he eased his door closed. “Tape doesn’t lie.”

Mina ushered the group to a door on Team Midoriya’s side. “Our resident martial artist – Mashirao Ojiro!” she announced brightly.

Ojiro slid open his door with polite efficiency and a modest smile. “It’s not much, but… welcome.” The room was arranged in calming, traditional simplicity. A woven tatami-style rug covered much of the floor, and Ojiro had placed his bed low, futon-style: the mattress directly on a raised tatami platform he’d built from interlocking floor tiles. The bedding was plain off-white with a neatly folded sage-green quilt at the foot. Along one wall hung a vertical scroll bearing a single calligraphed kanji for “discipline,” and beneath it a low wood bench doubled as a tea table. A pair of zabuton floor cushions flanked it, inviting conversation or meditation. In the corner, a stout wooden practice post (wrapped in padding) stood beside a bamboo sword (shinai) resting on a rack – training tools kept unobtrusive but accessible. Every item had its place; open space was clearly a priority, leaving plenty of room for Ojiro’s tail to sway freely without knocking anything over.

Momo’s eyes shone with appreciation. Minimalist and serene. A dojo at home. It’s lovely.” She made a note.

Iida stepped in carefully, removing his shoes without needing to be told. “Optimized for movement. Zero clutter and lots of open floor. Remarkably practical.”

Jiro, remembering the chaos of some first-year rooms, gave a small nod. “That tatami platform – did you make that yourself?”

Ojiro rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. “Ah, mostly. They’re modular panels I set up, nothing too hard.” He flicked his tail once, a habit when he was shy. “Let's me run kata drills in the mornings.”

Todoroki stood near the doorway, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the tranquil layout. His voice was soft. “It reminds me of my old room.” A few classmates exchanged knowing smiles – Todoroki’s first dorm room had been famously traditional as well. He added, “Yours feels more authentic, though.”

Ojiro’s cheeks tinted a faint pink at the unexpected praise. “Thank you. My grandfather sent me that scroll from our family dojo,” he said, nodding toward the calligraphy. “Figured it’d keep me focused here, too.”

Near the desk – an unobtrusive piece with a simple bamboo pen cup and neatly stacked notebooks – Hagakure’s invisible hand lifted a colorful crayon drawing pinned on the corkboard above. “What’s this from?” Toru asked excitedly, recognizing the childish scrawl of Thank You, Hero!! above a stick-figure with a big tail among smaller figures.

Ojiro chuckled softly. “Oh… a kid from one of the evacuation shelter classes I helped teach drew that. I kind of treasure it.”

Tsuyu’s smile was gentle. “That’s very sweet, kero.”

“Talk about staying grounded,” Kirishima said, clearly impressed by the lack of ostentation. “Manly in a whole different way.”

Sero peeked at the open closet, where – to no one’s surprise – even Ojiro’s casual clothes were folded or hung with precision. “Is that Best Jeanist’s influence I spy?” he joked, noticing how uniformly everything was arranged by color and style.

Ojiro laughed lightly. “Possibly. He did insist on teaching me how to properly fold a gi and a pair of jeans.”

Mina swiped a finger along the edge of the low bench , spotless. “No dust bunnies here. The vibe is super zen.” She pretended to take a calming breath. “I feel like I should bow or something.”

“N-no, no, please don’t,” Ojiro stammered, waving his hands in polite panic at the thought of anyone treating his space like a sacred dojo. The class chuckled.

Mineta craned his neck to peek under the bed frame, half-expecting a hidden stash of contraband, but came up empty. “The guy doesn’t even have dust to hide,” he said, half in awe, half in resignation.

“Respect,” Aoyama declared softly from the back. His usual flamboyance was tempered as he looked around. “So simple, yet so elegant… étoilé,” he added, dubbing the room with a starry compliment.

Ojiro blinked at the unexpected French, then bowed his head. “Thank you… I think.”

Mina gave Ojiro a playful salute with her pen. “Alright, judges, final notes for Mr. Discipline here.” She waited as a few more marks were made. A warm quiet had settled in the room – a reflection of Ojiro himself.

As they shuffled back into the hall, Uraraka stretched her arms above her head. “That was actually relaxing,” she murmured, and a few others hummed in agreement.

“And educational,” Iida added, posture as straight as ever. He seemed genuinely inspired. “I may take inspiration for my own tidying.”

Pens still scratching on score sheets, the class moved on to the next room.

Next up was Sato. He dusted cookie crumbs off his hands and led them a few steps over. “Alright, come on in, watch your step,” he said kindly.

Sato’s room greeted them with a warm, sweet aroma, like vanilla and cinnamon. It was impeccably neat but homey. A sturdy wooden table stood against one wall, topped with an electric hot plate and a small oven unit, clearly his personal baking station. A row of cookbooks and recipe binders lined the shelf above it, interspersed with jars of sprinkles and cocoa. On his desk sat a large mixing bowl doubling as a catch-all for pens and gadget chargers. The bedding was a comfy patchwork quilt, and a bulletin board above it pinned up recipes, each annotated with notes in his tidy handwriting. A poster of the Sugarhill Bakery’s “Pastry of the Year” winners hung proudly near the door.

The class filtered through, noses already in the air. “Functional coziness,” Momo noted, smiling. “Baking lab meets bedroom.”

“Well-partitioned,” Iida observed. “Appliance area secure, no extension cords across floors. Safety measures observed.”

Tokoyami picked up a laminated recipe card from the table, reading the elegant calligraphy of “Chocolate Soufflé” on it. “There is poetry in this preparation…” he murmured, approving the artistry.

“That smell is unfair,” Kaminari groaned good-naturedly, peeking into the oven (it was empty). “My mouth’s watering and it’s not even on.”

Sato rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I might’ve baked a little something earlier.”

“He absolutely did,” Hagakure chimed, hands clasped. “There were muffins cooling on the common counter when we got our keys, kero.”

Kirishima pretended to stagger against the door. “Sato’s bribing us, and I’m okay with it!”

The room filled with gentle laughter. Aoyama dramatically wiped an invisible tear. “Such divine decadence, très magnifique.”

Mina sniffed the air like a cartoon character floating on a scent. “I feel hugged by sugar. Best feeling ever.”

Sato’s ears went pink at all the praise. “I’ll, uh, bring more next time,” he promised.

As they filed out, Mina scribbled on her sheet with extra flourish. “Vibe: the kitchen of our dreams, but make it Sato’s room. Comfort and heart, check.”

Sato beamed and closed his door softly, the scent of vanilla following them out.

Trailing the group, Sato shut his door amid contented murmurs , the smell of baked goods still following the class. Several students were licking sweet traces from their fingers as they regrouped in the hall.

“Okay,” Mina laughed, catching Sero sneaking the last bite of a cookie, “palates cleared? Onward we go!” She led them to the next room on Team Midoriya’s roster. “Mezo Shoji, ready to show off?”

Shoji stood just inside his open door, six arms at ease and a gentle posture that somehow made his towering frame seem inviting. He inclined his head. “It’s not much, but please… make yourselves comfortable.”

True to Shoji’s nature, the room was airy and calming. He had pushed his bed against the far wall and set it low, covered in a soft gray spread with a texture like woven grass. A single leafy potted plant sat in the corner by the window, which was cracked open just enough to let in fresh air and the faint patter of rain. A hint of sandalwood hung in the air – perhaps incense recently burned, now just a comforting memory. Instead of the standard desk chair, Shoji had laid out a couple of large floor cushions and a sturdy low bench. The setup looked intentionally flexible: easy for someone of Shoji’s build to sit comfortably, and just as welcoming for a guest. By the door, an umbrella stand held a neatly rolled umbrella, and a small towel hung on a hook above it , ready for anyone coming in from the wet weather. The walls were mostly bare save for a framed photograph of Class 3-A at a community service event, and another smaller picture of Shoji and Koda surrounded by smiling children with heteromorph quirks. A few well-worn books lined a minimalist shelf: titles on psychology, hero ethics, and nature field guides. Overall, the space felt less like a personal display and more like a refuge.

Momo’s smile was soft as she noted the details. “Open and soothing. Almost like a little sanctuary.”

Iida pointed to the umbrella stand by the entrance, clearly impressed. “Very considerate. An entryway setup for wet weather , quite thoughtful, Shoji.”

Shoji’s mask shifted as he smiled beneath it. “Figured we’d need it today,” he said in his quiet way.

Tokoyami stepped quietly inside, Dark Shadow peeking over his shoulder. The shadowy familiar gave a hushed, “Nice vibe… very zen,” which earned an amused side-eye from Tokoyami.

Jiro knelt briefly to test one of the floor cushions. “These are really comfy. And adaptable seating is, smart choice. I can tell you arranged things for everyone’s comfort, not just your own.”

Shoji gave a small shrug of his upper shoulders. “We’re a team. My room isn’t off-limits if someone ever needs a quiet spot or an extra study space.”

At that, a couple of people exchanged looks of appreciation. Koda, standing near the potted plant, gently touched one of its leaves with a giant finger. “Um… the plant… It’s a peace lily,” he said softly. He recognized the species immediately. “It’s healthy.”

Shoji nodded. “From my hometown. I brought a cutting over and grew it. Helps with the air… and it’s nice to have something living around.”

Koda’s eyes practically sparkled at that revelation, and he gave Shoji a thumbs-up of approval so enthusiastic it made a few classmates grin.

Mineta peeked around, perhaps hoping for some hidden indulgence to tease – a pin-up poster or secret stash – but found nothing of the sort. “Man,” he said under his breath, “even Shoji’s snacks are probably healthy.” Everyone knew Shoji tended to favor simple onigiri over junk food.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Sato chuckled, patting his own stomach. “I could learn a thing or two about moderation.”

Near the window, Tsuyu noticed a small wooden wind chime on the sill, carved in the shape of a bird. It was perfectly still now, but clearly placed to catch the breeze. “I like this,” she said. “Does it sing when the wind blows?”

Shoji ducked his head bashfully. “It’s quiet, but yes. It belonged to my grandmother. I keep it as a reminder of home.”

Mina leaned against the doorframe, careful not to jostle the hanging towel. “I feel like I’ve done a full yoga class just stepping in here,” she joked lightly. “Vibe check: tranquil AF.”

Iida cleared his throat, half-chiding at her phrasing. Mina just winked at him.

Midoriya’s gaze traveled to the group photo on the wall , the one from the heteromorph outreach event. He remembered that day, a small moment of victory amid rebuilding. “Shoji… you really made this room for all of us, huh?” he said, tone warm with respect.

Shoji’s tentacle-like Dupli-Arms – each ending in a small eye or ear – waved in a modest shrug. “It wouldn’t feel like home without everyone,” he replied simply.

A brief, heartfelt silence fell, filled only by the gentle rhythm of rain against the window. Then Kirishima clapped Shoji gently on the back (mindful of the smaller limbs). “You’re the man, Shoji. Seriously.”

Shoji’s dark eyes crinkled with gratitude above his mask.

Mina let the wholesome moment linger a second more before gently herding them out. “Alrighty, judges, give your scores for Shoji’s serenity. We’ve got more rooms to cover.”

As the class filed back into the hall, they did so a bit slower, as if carrying some of Shoji’s calm with them. More than one person took a cleansing breath.

Except for one, Aoyama was practically vibrating with contained excitement by then. He stood with a flourish and pointed his classmates toward the stairs. “Mes amis, if you’ll indulge me, next, the pièce de résistance!”

With dramatic flair, Aoyama led them one floor up to the 12th, twirling once in the hall for effect before opening his door. “Bienvenue à Château Sparkle!”

Aoyama’s room was nothing short of dazzling. The lights were dimmed to better showcase the constellation of twinkle lights draped artfully along the ceiling. A crystal chandelier lamp cast playful rainbows on the walls. His bedspread was a deep navy dotted with golden stars that matched the canopy of lights above. One corner housed a full-length mirror framed with marquee bulbs, beside a gilded clothing rack displaying a few signature capes and belts like a mini costume exhibit. His desk was immaculately organized with rhinestone-studded stationery, and atop it sat a silver platter of assorted cheeses under a glass dome. The scent of expensive wax and a hint of sweet cologne lent an upscale lounge ambiance.

The class entered two at a time, eyes wide. “Lavish glam,” Momo said, taking in the decor. “Unified celestial motif, very bold.”

“Surprisingly functional under the glamour. No clutter in walkways… though that mirror is somewhat large,” Iida noted, hands on his hips but a smile on his face.

“It’s like a hero runway in here,” Mina giggled, touching one of the dangling fairy lights. “Totally Aoyama.”

Tokoyami gazed around at the sparkles, squinting slightly. “My darkness is… challenged by this brilliance,” he deadpanned.

Hagakure was practically bouncing. “It’s so pretty! Like a dorm room meets a Broadway dressing room.”

Aoyama clapped delightedly. “Oui, exactement! Every day should feel like a performance, non?”

Jiro lifted the cheese dome curiously, finding labeled wedges. “Is this… a cheese tasting set?”

Aoyama struck a pose, hand on hip. “Only the finest samples from my family’s fromage collection. Please, take one! The brie is heavenly.”

Kaminari didn’t need convincing; he popped a small cube of cheese and sighed appreciatively. “Fancy.”

Mina mock-whispered, “He even feeds his guests. Five stars, Yuga.”

Aoyama beamed, guiding the last pair out with a graceful wave. “I do what I must to keep my friends enchanted.”

Mina jotted down notes with a grin. “Vibe: Can’t Stop Twinkling, achieved. Opulent yet surprisingly welcoming.”

Once Aoyama’s door closed (with a melodramatic bow from its owner), the group shifted attention to Tokoyami.

Mina took the cue with a theatrical gleam in her eye. In a playfully ominous tone, she announced, “Now, stepping into the shadows… the one and only Fumikage Tokoyami!”

A few chuckles rose as Tokoyami’s door eased open. The room beyond was dim, lit mainly by the soft golden glow of a desk lamp with an ornate raven-shaped shade. Tokoyami stood inside, cape settled around his shoulders, one hand extended in a polite welcome. “Enter freely,” he intoned – ever melodramatic. Dark Shadow billowed at his side in a friendly coil, its eyes gleaming from an upper corner of the ceiling.

The decor was sparse yet striking. Heavy midnight-blue curtains were drawn halfway, muting the afternoon light to a dusk-like ambiance. The bedspread was black with subtle silver filigree patterns, reminiscent of twilight clouds. A single painting hung above the bed: a moonlit forest scene that Tokoyami himself might have painted (the bold, shadowy brushstrokes looked familiar). On the desk lay an open leather-bound journal beside a quill fashioned from a long black feather. It didn’t take a detective to guess it was one of Hawks’ feathers repurposed as a pen; an elegant inkpot sat beside it, lid off as if recently used. A slim bookshelf held a neat row of classics – Edgar Allan Crow’s poems (as Mina jokingly dubbed them once), a collection of gothic haiku, and a well-worn volume on hero ethics. In one corner, propped on a stand, was a black bass guitar; its presence quietly announced that Tokoyami still valued the power of music. The overall effect was of a room embracing darkness not as something scary, but as something calm and intrinsic.

Momo tilted her head, clearly impressed by the balance. “Gothic elegance. It’s cohesive without being over-the-top.”

Iida nodded, eyes adjusted to the low light. “Uncluttered. Clear walkways even in limited illumination. No tripping hazards.”

“Safe, sure,” Kaminari whispered with a grin, “but I half-expected a coffin in the corner again.” A few people snickered, remembering Tokoyami’s overzealous “lair” from the first dorm contest.

Tokoyami gave a soft ahem that might have been embarrassment. “I’ve… refined my tastes since then,” he murmured.

Jiro stepped forward, her boots soundless on the plush, dark rug that covered part of the floor. She eyed the bass guitar appreciatively. “Still jamming in the shadows, huh?”

Tokoyami’s beak curved in the hint of a proud smirk. “The night has its own melody,” he replied in his poetic way. Then, after a beat, he added more plainly, “Yes… I practice when I can. The acoustics here are agreeable.”

Dark Shadow bobbed behind him, chiming in a stage whisper, “He plays lullabies for the darkness.” Tokoyami swatted lightly at his companion, and a round of muffled giggles spread through the group.

Kirishima leaned in to examine the journal on the desk. The open page was filled with neat, flowing handwriting. “Whoa, is this poetry?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Tokoyami cleared his throat and closed the journal with measured calm. “Drafts,” he said, attempting nonchalance. If birds could blush, he might have. “Merely thoughts on paper.”

“Those looked like song lyrics,” Mina teased softly, peeking at the moonlit painting instead to give him grace. “Multi-talented as always, Tokoyami.”

He accepted the praise with a quiet nod, crossing his arms. “I strive for profundity in all pursuits.”

“Profundity,” Mineta echoed, as if savoring the word. He nodded sagely. “Ten points to vocabulary.”

Tsuyu’s large eyes blinked as she regarded the forest painting. “Did you paint that? It’s calming... but a little lonely.”

Tokoyami followed her gaze to the artwork he had indeed painted over the summer. “Solitude has its place,” he answered cryptically. Then he added, softer, “I’m glad you find it calming.”

From the doorway, Midoriya noticed the feather quill and couldn’t help but smile. “Brilliant use of your mentor’s gift. Hawks would be proud of the penmanship angle.”

Tokoyami’s tone warmed a fraction. “He did always say heroes write their own stories. I suppose I took that literally.”

A low rumble of thunder punctuated his sentence, as if on cue. The lamplight flickered across the room’s silver accents. Dark Shadow murmured, “Atmosphere… nice touch,” toward the window.

Mina took that as her cue to wrap up. “Alright, creatures of the night, mark those score sheets,” she quipped, twirling her pen like a wand before jotting something for herself. “Vibe: poetic brooding, in the best way.”

Aoyama, who had been unusually quiet in the shadows, placed a hand over his heart. “Truly, a room of beauté ténébreuse,” he pronounced – dark beauty. Coming from him, it was genuine praise.

Tokoyami bowed his head in acknowledgement, clearly pleased that his evolved style was so well received.

As the class filed out (a few with one last curious glance at the feather pen or the guitar), Mina stepped back into the hall. “Alright! I think that's enough for the boys’ floor for now.” She grinned and gestured upward. It was time to see what 12F had in store.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8 - The Room Rodeo (Part 2)

Ochaco hopped up, cheeks already rosy. “Okay, my turn! Sorry in advance if it’s not as exciting as that.”

She led them back down the hall on 12F a short way. Her door opened to a space that felt airy and cheerful. “Come on in, watch your step, there’s a floor cushion there,” she urged kindly.

Uraraka’s room was a blend of cute and practical. A plush pink rug covered much of the floor, and two oversized floor cushions sat in a corner around a low table scattered with review books and a half-finished puzzle. String lights (simple white, not too bright) crisscrossed the ceiling in a star pattern. On the wall above her bed hung a collage of photos: her family, Class 3-A group shots from various holidays, and a few candid hero course moments. Her desk had a neatly pinned budget sheet next to her laptop, and an open guide to “Advanced First Aid Techniques.” A small rack by the door held a couple of bargain-store scarves and hats, one of which was a replica of Thirteen’s helmet she got on discount. Under the bed, clear containers revealed neatly folded winter clothes, and… were those coupon organizers? Likely.

Two by two, the class stepped inside. “Comfy functional,” Momo said warmly. “Personal touches everywhere, but everything in its place.”

“Efficiently filled,” Iida noted. “Clear paths, multi-purpose table area, nothing wasted.”

Hagakure was already giggling at the collage on the wall. “Look, it’s us at the dorm Halloween party last year! Ochaco, you kept all these?”

Uraraka laughed. “Of course! They make me happy.” Indeed, the smiling faces in the photos radiated warmth.

Tsuyu examined the first aid guide on the desk, nodding in approval. “Always prepared, kero. That’s Ochaco-chan.”

Mineta was kneeling on a floor cushion (he had flopped there dramatically on entry). “This cushion… I could nap here forever,” he sighed.

“Until she levitates you off it,” Jiro teased, nudging him with her foot.

Uraraka grinned and pretended to activate her quirk with a tap of her fingertips. Mineta yelped in mock fear and scrambled up, prompting laughs.

Mina sniffed the air. “Do I smell… mochi?”

Uraraka pointed to a covered tray on her shelf. “Green tea mochi. My parents sent a batch. Everyone can have some later!”

Kirishima gave her a thumbs-up. “You’re the best, Uraraka!”

As they trickled out, Mina scribbled down a final note. “Vibe: warm and uplifting. Definitely Uravity’s space, grounded, with a little float to it.”

Uraraka shut her door with a content smile as they moved on.

Still smiling at the tiny frog-themed planters on her windowsill – Mina gave a chipper clap. “Alright! Switching gears. Team Bakugo’s next contribution: Kyoka Jiro!”

“Let’s get this over with,” Jiro deadpanned, but the corners of her mouth lifted as she opened her door. “Welcome, I guess.”

Her room was a comfortable collision of music and practicality. The walls bore a few framed posters of classic rock bands and modern pop icons, each carefully selected rather than plastered haphazardly. In one corner, her beloved electric guitar (a sleek black model with violet decals) rested on a stand beside a small amp. Above it, strung across the wall, was a subtle strand of fairy lights interwoven with Polaroids: candid shots of Class 3-A at dorm parties, the cultural festival performance, and a recent pic of Jiro with her earphone jacks plugged into an impressive soundboard at a volunteer event. Her bedspread was deep purple, accented by a cozy-looking gray knit throw blanket. It matched the foam panels she’d mounted on parts of the walls , soundproofing tiles painted a soft lavender to blend in. A low bookshelf by the bed overflowed with vinyl records and music magazines on the lower shelves, and textbooks and notebooks on the upper – organized, but not obsessively so. On her desk, a pair of high-quality studio headphones sat on a stand, and next to them, a small soldering kit plus a half-disassembled metronome hinted at recent tinkering. The room felt lived-in yet composed, each item a note in Jiro’s personal soundtrack.

Momo’s eyes lit up at the sight of the audio equipment. “Music haven meets functional dorm. It’s very you, Jiro.” She jotted notes with a little smile.

Iida stepped carefully around a coiled instrument cable on the floor, noticing it was taped down to prevent trips. “Mindful. Equipment in one zone, study area in another, clear path in between. Safety standards upheld.”

Jiro crossed her arms, trying to hide how pleased she was. “I did my best. Didn’t want anyone face-planting on my cables.” She shot Kaminari a look – he’d tripped over her amp cord back in the first year.

Kaminari held up his hands defensively. “Hey, I learned to watch my step! And nice picks on those posters.” He pointed at one featuring an iconic punk guitarist. “Legendary.”

Jiro shrugged like it was no big deal, but a faint blush rose to her cheeks. “Figured it was time to frame ’em instead of just taping ’em up.”

“Personal touches…” Tokoyami inclined his head from just outside the door. “I recognize that.” He gestured to a black knitted scarf draped over Jiro’s desk chair. “From our festival performance. Glad to see it lives on.”

Jiro fingered the end of the scarf, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yaoyorozu made it for me that day, remember? Of course, I kept it.” Momo beamed at the mention.

Near Jiro’s bookshelf, Hagakure’s glove picked up a colorful flyer pinned to a corkboard. “Shelter Open Mic Night – All Welcome.” Toru read it aloud. “Is this from when you did music therapy, Kyoka?”

“Mm-hm,” Jiro affirmed. “I helped run a few open-mic sessions at the evacuation shelters. That flyer’s from our biggest night – kept it as a reminder of why we do all this.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but pride flickered in her eyes.

Aoyama clasped his hands, looking around as if truly seeing Jiro’s domain for the first time. “Mon Dieu… It’s both chic and rock ’n’ roll. Très bien, Kyoka.”

Mineta nodded vigorously, surprisingly sincere. “Honestly, it’s kinda cool. Feels like a mini recording studio.” He refrained from any off-color joke for once, perhaps out of genuine respect for the setup.

From the hallway, Mina leaned in with a grin. She wiggled an earphone jack cable she’d playfully snatched from Jiro’s amp. “Vibe check: I’m getting major headphone sanctuary energy.”

Jiro raised an eyebrow and, with a quick flick of her wrist, she yanked the cable back like a yo-yo, neatly out of Mina’s grasp. “As long as you ask before borrowing my gear, Ashido.”

Mina laughed and pretended to zip her lips.

Nearby, Midoriya was eyeing a petite potted cactus on Jiro’s windowsill that had tiny musical-note stickers on its ceramic pot. “Are those… notes from All Might’s theme song on there?” he asked in disbelief.

Jiro snorted. “Trust you to find the Easter egg. Yeah – a Support Course friend made me a ‘musical cactus’ as a gag gift. It doesn’t sing or anything, but it looks cool.”

“That’s adorable,” Uraraka giggled, poking her head past Midoriya to see.

As classmates traded comments, Jiro found herself fiddling with the volume knob on her amp – an unconscious sign of contentment. She’d been a bit nervous to show her space, but seeing her friends react with curiosity and fondness put her at ease.

Momo finished jotting down scores with a flourish. “It’s an inspiring setup. I might come to you for soundproofing tips.”

“Anytime,” Jiro replied, then added with a mock-severe glare, “so long as I get credit as co-sound engineer for any future dorm concerts.”

“Deal,” Momo laughed.

Mina theatrically tapped an invisible microphone. “Alright, rockstar – your set is complete.” She gently shooed everyone back into the hall. “Score it up and move those feet! We’ve got more rooms to cover before the night’s out.”

Jiro exhaled in relief as she closed her door, a faint smile lingering as the group’s chatter receded down the hallway. She could hear Mina already hyping up whoever was next, the dorm tour rolling on – and her heart humming along to its familiar rhythm.

Tsuyu was next, standing with her usual calm poise. “Follow me, kero. It’s just over here.”

She guided them one door down. Inside Tsuyu’s room, the air felt a touch cooler and very fresh. The walls had been painted a gentle sage green (perhaps with special permission), and a large frog-shaped cushion sat against the bed frame. Potted plants, small ferns, a peace lily, and a hanging pothos brought a bit of a marsh vibe, but tidily. A shallow wooden basin filled with water sat near the window, with a stepping stone in the middle; it looked like a tiny indoor pond. On her desk were neatly arranged notebooks labeled with various rescue scenarios, and atop one was a photo of Tsuyu with her siblings on a summer day by a lake. A pair of goggles hung from a hook on her shelf, alongside a folded raincoat.

They entered quietly, as if the room’s tranquility demanded it. “Soothing and natural,” Momo said softly. “Eco-tones and personal habitat touches.”

“Optimized for relaxation and training,” Iida remarked. “No clutter, clear floor, safe incorporation of water element.”

Tokoyami stepped closer to a fern. “The greenery thrives… It’s like a fragment of a secret garden.”

Hagakure dipped a finger curiously in the basin and let a droplet fall. “Is this for… you?” she asked.

Tsuyu nodded once. “Sometimes I need to soak my feet, kero. Keeps my skin from drying out. And I like the sound of water.”

Midoriya was scribbling mental notes with his eyes. “Custom environment support… That’s really clever, Asui.”

Tsuyu’s lips curved in a subtle smile. “Thank you, Midoriya-chan.”

Kaminari peered at the goggles. “Those new? They look upgraded.”

Tsuyu followed his glance. “Received them from Selkie’s team. Night-vision capable now.”

“Awesome,” Kaminari said, genuinely impressed.

Mina hugged herself happily. “It’s so calm in here, I might melt. Spa day vibes, Tsuyu.”

As they stepped out, Mina recorded her thoughts. “Vibe: zen frog oasis. Functional for her quirk and totally calming.”

Tsuyu closed the door gently behind her. “Glad you all felt relaxed, kero.”

Down the line, Mineta was practically bouncing on his toes. He struck a pose at his door, one hand sweeping to present it. “Step right up to Mineta’s lair of luxury! Welcome, welcome!”

A few groans and laughs mingled, but everyone gathered around with amusement. Mineta threw his door open with a theatrical flourish. “Enter… if you dare,” he added with a waggish wiggle of his eyebrows.

The room beyond was surprisingly… tame, at least by Mineta standards. It was dimly lit in a purposeful way; LED strips along the baseboards glowed a deep purple, giving everything a lounge-like ambiance. His bed was neatly made with dark satin sheets and a plush black comforter. On the side table sat an empty wine glass and a bottle of sparkling grape juice in an ice bucket (clearly freshly staged). A small speaker in the corner played smooth jazz at a low volume. One wall was decorated with framed vintage superheroine comic covers, tasteful art rather than anything risqué. A funky neon sign above his desk read “GRAPE Expectations” in stylish cursive. The desk itself was organized: textbooks stacked, a scented candle labeled “Midnight Grape” burning gently, and a few neatly capped markers.

It smelled faintly of vanilla and grape candy, an oddly pleasant combo. Two at a time, the class ventured inside, some bracing for something outrageous that never came. Instead, they found a room that was… actually kind of cool, in a quirky Mineta way.

Momo blinked and let out a soft, relieved chuckle. “Playful maturity. A lounge vibe with personal flair.”

“Tidy and unobstructed,” Iida noted with an approving nod. “No… inappropriate clutter.”

Kaminari picked up a deck of playing cards from Mineta’s dresser. “Oh-ho, is this for magic tricks or poker nights?”

Mineta shrugged coyly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He then winked. “I’ve been practicing sleight of hand. Strictly for hero training purposes, of course.”

Jiro sniffed the air. “Is that a candle I smell? Grape-scented?”

Mineta clasped his hands behind his back, feigning nonchalance. “Sets the mood, don’t you think? A hero should engage all the senses.”

“Color me impressed,” Sero admitted, tapping the neon sign. “And this pun? High art, my friend.”

Hagakure leaned against the wall, giving a thumbs-up that only showed as a floating glove. “Honestly, Mineta, I expected… well, something that would get you in trouble. But this is really nice!”

Mineta pressed a hand to his chest, eyes shining theatrically. “You wound me, Hagakure! But thank you. I aim to be a refined gentleman.” He plucked the ice bucket up and poured a bit of grape juice into the fancy glass. “Juice, anyone?” he quipped.

That earned a chorus of laughter. Kirishima gently clapped Mineta on the back. “You’ve come a long way, bro.”

Mineta flashed a grin that was more genuine than lecherous for once. “Just wait till you see the bookshelf I plan to build. It’ll be full of actual books, promise.”

As the class filtered out, Mina scribbled her notes while shaking her head in amused disbelief. “Vibe: clean but edgy (in a PG way). Mineta’s growing up, who knew?”

Mineta only pretended not to hear that, shooting a finger-gun pose before shutting the door.

Back on the 11th floor, Koda was up, standing shyly by his door. He held Shoji’s sleeve gently to muster courage. Shoji gave him a supportive nod.

“I’m, um, next,” Koda managed quietly. He opened the door, motioning for them to come in. “Please… watch your step.”

Koda’s room exuded a gentle, natural warmth. The bedspread was a soft green and brown, like forest foliage. On his windowsill sat a neat row of potted flowers, marigolds, daisies, and a tiny oak sapling in a ceramic cup. A large terrarium occupied one corner, complete with a little log and a heat lamp; inside, if one looked closely, slept a green tree frog and a small colony of stick insects that Koda was fostering for the Nature Club. His desk was modest, holding a sketchpad with rough drawings of various animals and a stack of letters from his pen pals at the animal sanctuary. Above the desk, a bulletin board displayed clippings of hero rescues involving animals and thank-you cards from children (with crayon drawings of bunnies and birds).

The class stepped in gently, sensing the kindness in the space. “Nature’s haven,” Momo said softly. “Alive with personal meaning.”

“Clear and creature-friendly,” Iida noted. “Habitats secure, nothing loose or dangerous.”

Tokoyami’s eyes softened at the sight of a sleeping bat in one of the clippings. “It’s like a shrine to the animal kingdom… how noble.”

Shoji peered into the terrarium and gave Koda an approving pat on the shoulder. “They look happy and safe.”

“Th-thank you,” Koda replied, smiling as he watched his little frog breathe calmly. “I’m hoping to release them next week once they’re healthy.”

Hagakure squealed quietly as a tiny stick insect moved. “They’re so cute! I didn’t know bugs could be cute, but leave it to Koda.”

Aoyama dramatically blew a kiss toward the flowers on the sill. “Truly magnifique, flowers for the soul.”

Uraraka clasped her hands near her heart. “This is so wholesome, Koda-kun.”

Even Bakugo, pretending not to listen at the back, cracked one eye open when he heard that a frog lived in the room, perhaps imagining a rogue amphibian hopping around the dorms.

As the last pair stepped out, Mina let out a happy sigh and scribbled away. “Vibe: an animal sanctuary in mini. Gentle and pure.”

Koda ducked his head, pleased that everyone seemed supportive, and Shoji helped him ease the door closed without jostling the terrarium.

Hagakure practically jumped up next, her uniform floating with no body visible inside. She flourished an invisible skirt hem and introduced herself with a giggle. “Toru Hagakure, coming through!”

Her door swung open to reveal a room that was bright and a touch whimsical. Hagakure had lined one wall with a floor-to-ceiling curtain of shimmering material, when she stood in front of it, one could actually discern her silhouette better by contrast. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed overhead, their reflections dancing on the shiny curtain. A section of the room was set up like a mini stage: a karaoke mic, a projector, and a blank wall opposite the shiny backdrop for movie nights. Her bed was covered in a duvet patterned with cartoon ghosts, and a shelf by the bed showcased an impressive collection of horror DVDs and manga (labels facing outward since she didn’t need to worry about blocking anyone’s view of them). On her desk was an array of makeup and accessories, a variety of colorful sunglasses, hats, and gloves, her ways of “appearing” when she wanted to.

The class entered with excited curiosity. “Playful transparency,” Momo said with a grin. “Literally crafting visibility and fun.”

“Well-zoned,” Iida commented. “Entertainment area separate from study area. No obvious hazards, good.”

Mina gasped and ran to the faux stage. “Girl, you made a whole performance corner?! Love it!”

Hagakure’s gloves clapped as she bounced. “Movie nights, karaoke, you name it! I figured if people can’t see me, I can still direct the spotlight elsewhere.”

Jiro was already thumbing through the horror collection. “These are classics… Oh wow, you have the limited edition of Spirited Away and Invisible Man back to back. Heh, nice.”

Hagakure giggled. “Had to. Invisible solidarity.”

Tsuyu stepped in front of the reflective curtain and tilted her head until she saw a faint outline of Toru beside her. “This curtain helps, kero.”

“That’s the idea!” Toru said proudly. “Hatsume helped me with the material. It’s still in testing, but under certain light, I show up as a kind of glimmer.”

Midoriya was scribbling mental notes again at the support gear mention. “Creative visibility solutions… Fascinating.”

“Also, total party central,” Kaminari added, eyeing the projector. “I call first game night here!”

“Ooh, noted!” Toru cheered.

With everyone thoroughly charmed, Mina jotted down her scores. “Vibe: glittery ghost paradise. Fun and inventive, very Toru.”

Hagakure offered an unseen bow (indicated by a lowering of floating gloves) as she shut off her fairy lights and closed the door. “Thank you, thank you… I’ll be here all year!” she joked.

It was Iida’s turn next, and he executed a crisp stand as if he were at a podium. “Tenya Iida, presenting my room.” He unlocked his door and slid it open, standing aside with an ushering hand. “Please, come in, but do remove your shoes and keep to the walkway runner, if you don’t mind.”

Iida’s room was, expectedly, extremely neat and efficient. A navy blue runner carpet lined the path from the door to the bed, ensuring no dirt would mar the polished wood floors. His bed was perfectly made with a U.A.-blue bedspread and hospital corners sharp enough to pass inspection. Above the bed hung a framed poster of his elder brother’s agency (Turbo Hero Ingenium depicted leading a rescue). His desk was organized with a charging station for devices, a stand holding open a thick book on hero ethics, and a clipboard with his daily schedule filled in to the hour. On a shelf, a collection of alarm clocks was displayed, some vintage, some high-tech, all set precisely to the same time. A small whiteboard on the wall listed Iida’s goals for the week in tidy bullet points, and at the very bottom in a different color was a note: “Remember to relax – by order of Ochaco & Momo” with a smiley face.

Jiro glanced around and smirked. “Only you would turn a dorm room into a faculty office, Iida. Clear homage to Ingenium. Backup alarms on top of backup alarms, peak Iida.”

Iida puffed up a bit. “What? I like things orderly. And the carpet keeps dirt off my textbooks.”

“Maximized academically,” Iida praised himself with a hint of humor. “Ample study resources, yet clear living area distinction.”

Kaminari pretended to tiptoe as if in a museum. “I feel like I shouldn’t touch anything… or breathe too hard.”

Jiro smirked. “He’s got backups for his backup alarms. This is peak Iida.”

Hagakure pointed out the whiteboard note. “Hey, we made it onto Iida’s board! See, he does listen to us sometimes.”

Iida coughed lightly, cheeks coloring. “My friends insisted I include some leisure in my schedule,” he explained to Animus, who was examining an antique wind-up alarm clock on the shelf with interest.

“Balance is important,” Animus said kindly. “Even our class rep must recharge.”

“Wise words,” Tokoyami intoned, as if quoting a proverb.

Mina scribbled on her sheet. “Vibe: future CEO’s dorm. Pristine with a side of heart.” She flashed Iida a playful thumbs-up. “Structured, but not soulless. We like it.”

Iida adjusted his glasses, both flattered and flustered. “Thank you. And thank you for staying on the carpet,” he added as they stepped out.

Momo went next, smiling with gentle poise as she guided them a couple of doors down. “Momo Yaoyorozu, vice representative, welcomes you,” she joked softly. She opened her door with a graceful push. “Please, come in. Pairs are fine.”

Momo’s room was elegant and intellectual. The walls were lined with tall, white bookshelves filled with textbooks, reference volumes, and a few classic literature novels. Interspersed were decorative pieces: a scale model of a Victorian-era cannon (a successful creation from her quirk finals, lacquered to preserve it), a glass terrarium with a tiny succulent, and some neatly framed photographs of her family and close friends. Her bed had a plush white comforter and a myriad of pillows in rich blues and golds. On the bed’s headboard, a row of notecards was clipped, each labeled as a “change-log” entry with a date and a lesson learned (Animus might have recognized that method from earlier conversation). Her desk had a sleek laptop on a stand, an organizer with various crafting tools, and a neatly rolled blueprint of some support gadget she’d been designing with Hatsume’s notes in the margins. A wooden mannequin figure (for sketching poses) sat atop her shelf next to a small sewing kit, showing her multifaceted hobbies.

The class walked in, admiring the mixture of comfort and studiousness. “Scholarly chic,” Jiro said, taking in the decor. “It’s like a mini-library, but cozy.”

“Maximized thoroughly,” Iida praised, running a finger along one of the orderly shelves. “Study, rest, and preparation areas are well defined.”

Mina was already leafing through one of the change-log cards pegged to the headboard. “She even decorates with wisdom. Look, ‘Don’t fear mistakes; learn from them – 05/12.’ So on-brand, Momo.”

Yaoyorozu laughed softly. “Those are just personal reminders.”

Midoriya’s eyes sparkled as he scanned her books. “You have the latest edition of Hero Tactics and You! And is that a signed copy of Nano-Tech in Modern Hero Costumes?”

Momo nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! The author visited last year’s symposium. I might have created a fountain pen on the spot for the autograph,” she admitted.

Tokoyami studied the Victorian cannon model. “A relic of battle repurposed into art… how poetic.”

Koda was gently petting the succulent’s glass case as if it were alive. “Even the plant looks happy…”

Sero peered at the blueprint on her desk. “New support item in the works?”

Momo smiled. “Just a prototype idea for a multi-tool staff… still refining it.”

Mina finished scribbling. “Vibe: graceful brainiac. Detailed, but warm. Totally Yaoyorozu.” She gave Momo a quick side-hug, which Momo returned with a pleased grin.

As Momo closed her door, a certain excited energy ran through the group. Only a few rooms remained, and everyone knew who they belonged to, the ones who’d never done this before.

Mina glanced at her roster, then lifted her pen toward the Bakusquad side of the group. “We’ll pause the alternation to slot a miss, Ashido’s next, then Shinso (penultimate), and Animus to close. Same threshold rules, slips ready, no self-scores.”

At the back, Shinso checked the timer thread discreetly looped around his finger; beside him, Animus kept his own score slip folded once between his fingers, unreadable, patient. Rain made small rivers on the common room’s glass wall, the gentle patter setting the rhythm for the finale.

Mina took two little hops backward to her own door like she was emceeing herself, then caught the impulse and softened it to a grin. “Ashido, reporting in. Same rules, shoes off, two at a time. I promise no strobe.”

She slid the door open. The room smiled back.

It wasn’t the neon explosion from her 1-A days; it was the edit. A low dance mat, foam underlay, no thump, claimed a corner in front of a thrifted full-length mirror secured to the wall with an anti-tip strap. A thin run of glow-in-the-dark tape dotted the floor in two short arcs, footmarks for dance drills, muted enough to disappear in daylight. The bed kept to soft white with a sun-pink throw folded at the foot; above it, two framed prints replaced her old collage: one silhouette mid-spin and one festival snapshot where everyone was laughing. A small mirror ball the size of an orange sat on the shelf like a joke she’d learned to keep small.

The desk was tidy: a makeup caddy corralled brushes and palettes; a portable speaker sat on a foam pad beside a slim laptop; a stack of playlist cards, actual index cards, was clipped together with titles like “warm-up,” “slow fire,” “cool-down.” A shallow tray held hair ties, athletic tape, and a mini first-aid kit. Cables hid in a sleeve. No LED rainbow, just a single warm strip tucked under the shelf that made the prints glow softly.

Pairs rotated through. Momo’s pencil found a bright tempo. “Dance-ready, curated sparkle, signature edited. Cohesive.”

Iida tracked the mirror anchors and the mat edge. “Impact damped; mirror anchored; visual markers low-contrast. Neighbor-friendly.”

Jiro touched the speaker pad with a knuckle. “Decoupled. You won’t buzz the hall.”

Kaminari leaned in, delighted. “You laminated the playlist cards? Organized chaos, chef’s kiss.”

Kirishima pointed at the glow-tape arc on the floor. “Footwork road map. Hard.”

Tsuyu’s eyes paused on the festival print where the class laughed together. “Good balance, kero. Fun without clutter.”

Aoyama clasped invisible hands at the shelf. “Mirror ball de-weaponized. Très tasteful.”

Bakugo eyed the speaker. “Bass stays under the floor.”

“Limiter on,” Mina said cheerfully. “And I don’t test routines at 2 a.m.”

Sero sighted the mirror mounts. “Strap hits a stud. Clean.”

Midoriya’s smile was small and sure. “It feels like momentum, not noise.”

Mina marked her slip last, for once. “Vibe: bright and grounded. We can sparkle and be considerate.” She tipped her head toward the hall, letting the last pair rotate out. “Thanks for stepping through.”

She set the little mirror ball so one facet caught the warm strip light and threw a quiet star on the ceiling, then let the door rest.

“Shinso next,” she called, voice carrying without shouting. “Penultimate, same threshold rules. Slips ready; no self-scores.”

At the back, Shinso’s timer thread ticked; Animus’s slip stayed folded once, patient. The rain stitched the glass like applause held in cupped hands. The finale gathered.

Mina’s voice eased down a half-step as she gestured toward the 11F hall. “Shinso, penultimate. Same etiquette, shoes off, two at a time.”

Hitoshi opened the door and stood to the side, one hand resting on the jamb. “Mind the line near the post,” he said evenly. “It’s padded.”

His room looked like he’d drawn it with straight lines and then softened the edges where they mattered. A foam-wrapped training post stood in one corner on a low mat, the base sand-bagged and quiet. A neatly coiled capture scarf rested above it in a fabric sling on a wall hook that hit a stud. Two short tape marks on the floor mapped footwork, no busy grid, just cues he trusted. The bed was spare and low; a slate-gray throw folded like a sentence that stops when it should. On the desk: a compact electric kettle, two mugs stacked on a tray, a notebook with three lines ruled in pencil, and a small vocal steamer beside a tin of lozenges. A cable sleeve managed the cords so nothing snaked into the walking lane.

Light came from the window and a simple desk lamp aimed down. A slim peg rail kept a hoodie, a towel, and a soft drawstring pouch out of the way; the pouch held a voice modulator mask in its case, clean, closed, nothing flashy. A single black-and-white print, a footbridge over still water, hung level above the dresser. On the shelf, a digital timer sat turned to zero; it looked well-used and recently quiet. No posters; no clutter; nothing that would catch an elbow if you changed direction fast.

Groups of two moved through the threshold in quiet consideration. Momo’s pencil set a steady cadence. “Disciplined minimal, threads and lines, softened at contact points.”

Iida traced the little training zone with his eyes. “Training area bounded; post padded; hook anchored to a stud; cords managed. Safe.”

Jiro listened and nodded toward the kettle. “No buzz. The kettle doesn’t sing until you want it to.”

Sero aligned his gaze with the tape marks. “Distances make sense. No overreach baked in.”

Kirishima pointed at the coiled scarf. “That wrap won’t tangle. Clean lay.”

“Learned the hard way,” Shinso said dryly. The corner of his mouth almost moved.

Tsuyu’s gaze paused on the steamer and lozenges. “Voice care is good planning, kero.”

Aoyama clasped invisible hands in delight. “Minimalist noir. Très sobre.”

Midoriya’s praise was small and sure. “Your footwork markers look honest.”

Bakugo flicked the hanging sling with a knuckle. It didn’t swing. “If you crack a wall, you’re patching it.”

“I’ll log it before I swing it,” Shinso returned, not defensive, just procedural.

Mina wrote as she spoke. “Sling mount, footwork tape, voice-care kit. Vibe: quiet, ready.” She glanced at the tray on Shinso’s desk and couldn’t help but add with a teasing lilt, “And the two mugs are a nice touch.”

“Insurance,” Shinso deadpanned, rolling with it. “In case someone shows up with tea debt.”

The laugh that went around was small and clean. Shinso eased the last pair through, thumbed the timer once so it clicked without starting, and let the door rest. “That’s it,” he said simply, resetting his timer thread.

Mina turned to the remaining student with a grin bright enough to chase off nerves. “Finale: Animus. Same threshold rules, slips ready, no self-scores. Take a breath.”

Rain stitched the glass like a held cymbal. The class shifted, anticipation mounting without crowding. The last door waited.

The crescent drew one quiet breath and held it.

Animus opened his door and stepped aside, palm flat against the jamb like he was remembering to be gentle with the building. “Shoes off,” he said, voice even, not loud. “Two at a time.”

The room was simple enough to be read in one glance, and layered enough to reward a second. Pale walls, a low bed pulled tight, a massive Alaskan king frame in dark metal with sheer black canopy curtains gathered at each post like silent sentinels. The desk was turned a few degrees so the corridor lived only in the corner of his eye; it was a heavy, dark wooden piece that looked imported rather than standard issue. A shallow tray on its surface held a phone facedown on a braided charging cable, a pen, and a folded note tucked under the pen, edges softened as if it had been read more than once. On the lower shelf of the desk, a small go-bag sat zipped, clean and unobtrusive. On the peg by the door, a black jacket hung square, sleeve seams aligned. The window kept its view; the curtain tie-back looped once and tucked so it would release with a single pull.

Most of the room adhered to that measured minimalism, save for two personal indulgences. In one corner, atop a narrow cabinet, was a curated tea bar: a neat row of tins labeled in elegant script, a sleek electric kettle already quietly steaming, and two tea cups set on a tray as if expecting company. And on the wall opposite the bed, a floating shelf displayed a small collection of vinyl records and an old-fashioned turntable. A quick scan of the record spines would reveal an eclectic taste: a Joy Division album nestled right next to a Maria Takeuchi city-pop record, among others.

Under the bed, clear storage bins lived flush with the frame; labels faced inward, not out. A small first-aid kit rested on the shelf within reach but not on display. In another corner behind the desk, a powerful custom PC tower with faint amber LEDs sat alongside two neatly stacked monitors; the case’s styling, black steel with ornate grill patterns, echoed the room’s modern gothic lines.

Two by two, the class stepped in, but this time there was a hush. The room asked for it. Momo’s pencil found a careful rhythm. “Deliberate minimal, edges softened, contingencies contained. Hints of… gothic elegance.”

Iida traced the paths with his eyes. “Chair clearance maintained; no protrusions at shin or elbow; emergency items accessible.” His gaze flicked to the go-bag and first-aid kit, then away, accepting their necessity.

Jiro’s eyes lit up at the sight of the records. “He files post-punk next to city pop and doesn’t apologize,” she murmured, crouching to read the labels. “That’s… my lane.” A delighted grin spread across her face.

Mina raised an eyebrow, playful. “Kinda villain-chic, not gonna lie,” she murmured under her breath. The description drew a delighted snicker from Jiro and a subtle thumbs-up from Toru.

Tokoyami, arms crossed thoughtfully, gave a solemn nod. “Elegance in darkness,” he said approvingly, voice barely above a whisper. It was high praise from him.

Kirishima tipped his chin at the desk’s subtle angle. “You gave yourself a little safety window. Smart.”

Aoyama clasped invisible hands. “Simplicity with grace. Très sobre, très juste.”

Midoriya’s voice was warm and brief. “It’s careful. In a good way.”

Bakugo’s glance checked the kettle cord and the footprint of the bins under the bed. “Don’t trip your own plan.”

“Working on it,” Animus said, and the corners of his mouth acknowledged the joke like a truce.

Hagakure was practically vibrating with excitement beside Mina. “You know,” she half-whispered to the girls, “we could have a full slumber party on that bed.” It was an exaggeration, but only slightly. Mina bit back a grin and nodded vigorously in agreement.

Mina marked her slip, then hesitated, smiling around at her classmates. “Note kept, cup ready, go-bag squared. Vibe: quiet, present, with layers.” She flashed Animus a friendly smile as the last pair tiptoed out. “Very nicely done, newbie.”

Animus guided the final two classmates through with a slight lift of his hand and let the door rest where it preferred. “Thank you,” he said, even, unforced.

For a beat, the rain on the glass sounded like a room full of people remembering to breathe. Then Mina lifted her head, energy bright and contained.

“Slips in,” she said, raising her own filled-out scorecard. “No self-scores, add them up.”

The crescent of students loosened into motion. Papers fluttered as scores were tallied; low voices compared notes. Across the hall, a kettle somewhere clicked to readiness, releasing a soft puff of steam. The contest, and the evening, had turned the corner.

The scores were tallied quickly in the lively chaos of the 10F commons. Pens scratched, pages shuffled, and within minutes, Momo had compiled the results on a clipboard. The class drifted into an easy circle around the sunken U-shaped couch, some perched on the plush arms or cross-legged on the floor. Rain tapped steadily at the windowwall, but inside was all warm light and rising chatter.

Momo remained standing, flanked by Iida, who cleared his throat for quiet. “Attention, everyone!” he announced, excitement threading through his formality. “The contest scores are in.”

A hush fell, broken by a few stifled laughs as Mineta pretended to pray at the mention of scores. Mina bounced on her heels, unable to contain a grin.

Momo held up the clipboard. “First, congratulations to all of us. The room designs were wonderful, no false praise. The improvement from our first year is remarkable.” She paused to let a little cheer pass through the group. “Now for the results. The team totals were within a few percentage points of each other, but…” She traded a look with Iida, who gave a proud nod. “Team Midoriya takes it!”

A whoop went up from Team Midoriya’s side of the couch. Uraraka and Tsuyu high-fived, and Tokoyami allowed himself a small, satisfied nod. Sato’s easy smile broadened, and Midoriya looked quietly proud, a relieved breath leaving him as he met Bakugo’s eyes across the circle. Bakugo clicked his tongue and looked away, but not before a grudging smirk flickered; the contest may have been close, but a win was a win.

“As promised,” Momo continued, “Team Midoriya gets to choose our victory dinner.” She inclined her head toward Midoriya, prompting him.

Midoriya sat up, caught off guard at being the center of attention. “Oh! Um, well, any ideas?” He immediately opened it to the group with a sheepish laugh. “Team Midoriya, what are we in the mood for?”

“Korean BBQ,” Tokoyami suggested under his breath, a hint of enthusiasm in his usually stoic tone.

“Ooh, or hotpot!” Uraraka added, eyes bright. “We can order a bunch of sides and share.”

Yaoyorozu rested a finger on her chin. “Yakiniku could be delivered on portable grills… We’d have to mind the ventilation, though.”

“Sushi platter?” offered Ojiro, flicking his tail gently against the couch. “Easy to share, no smoke.”

Sato clasped his hands in mock plea. “Why not all of the above? I’m starving.” Laughter rippled as he patted his stomach in emphasis.

Midoriya laughed along with them. “We are twenty-two growing heroes… Honestly, I think we can manage a combo.” He looked around to see enthusiastic agreement. “How about a mixed feast? Some sushi, some grilled meat and veggies… something for everyone.”

“Plus dessert, courtesy of our top chef,” Kaminari chimed, pointing at Sato.

At that cue, Sato brightened. “Ah, that reminds me.” He ducked over to retrieve a tin on which he’d written “share after” in big letters. The tape came off with a brisk zip, and as he lifted the lid, a heavenly scent of butter and chocolate wafted out. “Double-chocolate chunk cookies,” he announced bashfully. “Baked last night. I… hoped we’d have something to celebrate.”

He didn’t even finish the sentence before Mina and Kirishima leaned in, inhaling dramatically. “Sato, you legend,” Mina sighed, pretending to swoon against Jiro.

“Legend of the kitchen,” Kirishima agreed, eyes shining cartoonishly.

Within moments, cookies were being passed around the circle. Even Aoyama set aside his lactose concerns to nibble one (“dark chocolate, no cream, très bien!” he declared). The collective hum of delight that followed the first bites could have powered Kaminari’s whole room.

On the opposite side of the couch, Bakugo chewed thoughtfully and gave a single firm nod. “Acceptable,” he pronounced, which, for him, was high praise. Sato beamed at that, looking like he’d won a second contest.

Iida adjusted his glasses, smiling as crumbs disappeared from plates almost as fast as Mineta’s tears in the face of good food. “Before we lose focus entirely,” Iida interjected, raising his voice just enough, “there’s still the matter of the highest individual score.”

“Ooh, room crown time!” Mina sing-songed, brushing cookie crumbs off her hands. Beside her, Hagakure clapped invisibly, her sleeves and scrunchie bouncing.

Momo held up a playful construction paper crown decorated with doodles and tiny star stickers. “Our Room King or Queen gets this… exquisite headpiece, ” she allowed a ripple of laughter, “, and first pick when we order dinner.” She scanned the names with a delighted smile. “With an impressive average score of 95 out of 100… Sato takes the crown!”

“Eh? Me?” Sato nearly dropped the last cookie he was about to eat. The class broke into applause and a few good-natured whistles. Kirishima reached over to clap Sato on the back, nearly knocking crumbs out of him.

“Those cookies really were worth bonus points,” Jiro teased, winking.

“Cheater by charisma!” Sero declared, laughing.

“Come on up, Your Majesty,” Mina giggled, beckoning Sato to stand.

Sato’s cheeks flushed pink as he rose. Momo met him in the middle of the circle and, with a ceremonial flourish that got everyone grinning, placed the silly paper crown on his head. “Speech!” Mineta heckled, prompting another round of chuckles.

Sato adjusted the crown (which sat comically on his fluffy hair) and cleared his throat with an exaggerated ahem. “I’d like to thank the academy, er, my classmates, for their discerning taste in interior design,” he joked. “And I humbly accept the responsibility of first dibs on dinner. Which, by the way, I choose to share with all of you.” He dipped into a playful bow that made the crown wobble.

“Long live the King of Cookies!” Kaminari cheered, raising an imaginary glass. Laughter and cheers went up as Sato returned to his seat, crown slightly askew and a big, embarrassed smile on his face.

The celebration settled into a comfortable murmur after that. Team Bakugo took their narrow loss in stride. Kaminari was already joking that they’d definitely reclaim glory in the next challenge (whatever that might be). Bakugo rolled his eyes and muttered something about “damn tie-breakers,” but the corner of his mouth stayed lifted; he seemed content enough devouring a second cookie.

On the couch’s arm, Mina lounged upside down, legs kicking lazily in the air. “So worth it,” she sighed happily. “Not a single bad room in the bunch. We rock.”

“We certainly improved,” Momo agreed, reclining with a cup of tea. “Even Mineta’s, ” She caught herself. “I mean, especially Mineta’s,” she corrected graciously.

Mineta gave a theatrical thumbs-up. “Heh, I know what I am. But seriously, you guys haven’t seen anything yet. I have plans for a bookshelf, once I buy the wood.”

“Attaboy,” Kirishima laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9 - Roll Call Twenty-Two Voices

In the gentle hubbub, Midoriya’s gaze drifted across the circle to Animus. Animus sat at the end of the U-couch, quietly observing the lighthearted banter with a cup of cooling tea in hand. Sensing Midoriya’s eyes on him, he offered a small, polite smile. He looked content, if a bit reserved, amid the boisterous camaraderie.

Midoriya returned the smile and pushed himself to his feet. “Hey, everyone?” he called, not loudly but with enough warmth that heads turned. “Since we have a new class member joining us, I thought maybe we could properly introduce ourselves, beyond just rooms and scores.”

“Yes! Yes!” Uraraka piped up immediately, sitting upright. “We haven’t done a round table in forever.”

Iida was already standing; he had clearly been about to suggest the same. “An excellent idea. We should each give our name, quirk, and maybe a fun fact or focus for this year.” He looked around at the circle of familiar faces. “It’s only proper we officially welcome Athame to Class 3-A.”

Momo stood as well, hands clasped in front of her. “Iida and I can moderate. We’ll go in seating order to keep it simple.”

Animus blinked, momentarily surprised to be the focus of this sudden attention, then inclined his head graciously. “Thank you. I… would appreciate that.” His voice was measured and quiet, but it carried sincere gratitude.

“Yosh! I’ll go first!” Mina announced, popping up from her inverted sprawl and nearly flinging herself over the back of the couch. In a dramatic pose, she put one hand on her hip and saluted with the other. “Mina Ashido, hero name Pinky! Quirk: Acid!” She gave a playful wink. “I can secrete acid from my skin, strength and solubility controlled at will. This year I’m focusing on agility training and, uh, maybe running Class 3-A’s social calendar.” She shot Animus a dazzling grin. “Fun fact: I won the middle school dance championship twice. So if you ever need dance moves or a pick-me-up, I’m your girl!”

“Plugging her dance skills right off the bat,” Jiro teased, strumming an imaginary guitar. “Classic Mina.”

Mina plopped back down with a self-satisfied beam as Iida scanned for the next person. “Continuing clockwise… Tokoyami?”

Tokoyami adjusted his posture, folding his cape neatly as he rose. He gave a polite half-bow, one hand over his chest. “Fumikage Tokoyami. Quirk: Dark Shadow. I manifest a sentient shadow beast from within me. I endeavor to sharpen my control over darkness and stealth tactics.” He paused, eyes glinting under the brim of his familiar black cap. “Fun fact: I practice poetry by moonlight. The pen is my ally when the sword is sheathed.”

A few smiles flickered around the group; a poetic flourish was very Tokoyami. “It’s good poetry, by the way,” Midoriya added kindly for Animus’s benefit. “He had a piece published in the school literary bulletin.”

Tokoyami’s cheeks darkened a shade, but he accepted Midoriya’s praise with a dignified nod and took his seat.

Next was Shoji. He unfolded his large frame from the couch and inclined his head. “Mezo Shoji. Quirk: Dupli-Arms. I can replicate my senses by growing extra appendages and organs.” He flexed an extra arm briefly, then let it rest. “This year I’m focusing on reconnaissance and rescue synergy… using my quirk to gather intel quietly and help those who might not be easily reached.” His voice, though soft, carried a comforting weight. A subtle smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Fun fact: I volunteer with heteromorph advocacy groups. Sometimes that means bringing a bunch of shelter animals for kids to play with.” His eyes crinkled kindly. “If you ever see a line of little kids following someone with a litter of kittens after class… that’s probably me.”

“Aww, Shoji, that’s so sweet,” Hagakure cooed, clapping even though only her floating gloves showed it.

As Shoji settled, Ojiro stood and gave a small, respectful bow, tail curled politely off the floor. “Mashirao Ojiro. Quirk: Tail.” He pointed back at the strong, prehensile tail extending behind him. “It’s pretty self-explanatory. I use it for martial arts and movement. I’m training to refine my close-combat techniques this year, learning some new throws and counters.” He rubbed the back of his neck, modestly. “Fun fact… I’ve been practicing shodō (calligraphy). It, ah, helps with focus and precision. I can write ‘dedication’ in four different styles now.” A few classmates murmured appreciatively.

“His calligraphy is beautiful, by the way,” Yaoyorozu interjected, remembering how Ojiro’s neat labels had impressed her during the room tours.

With a grateful smile, Ojiro sat down, and it was Jiro’s turn. She stood and flicked one of her earphone jacks forward in greeting. “Kyoka Jiro, hero name Earphone Jack. Quirk: Earphone Jack,” she said dryly. “I plug these, ” she lifted a jack “, into things and channel my heartbeat into devastating sound. I’m working on finer sound manipulation and some leadership stuff, believe it or not.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Fun fact: I play bass and guitar, and I’m trying to learn the keyboard. Music’s kinda my thing.” She added in a softer, humorous tone, “Also, I have a pet cat named Mika who’s way too good at turning off my alarm clock.”

“That’s why you’re late sometimes!” Mina gasped theatrically, prompting chuckles.

“Blame the cat, always blame the cat,” Jiro replied with a grin as she sat down.

Next was Denki, who virtually leapt to his feet. “Denki Kaminari, hero name Chargebolt!” He struck a cheesy thumbs-up pose. “Quirk: Electrification. I can generate and absorb electricity. If I overdo it, I get a little, ” he twirled a finger near his temple, referencing his well-known post-overcharge goofiness, “, loopy. This year, I’m working on controlling it better, so I don’t fry my own devices anymore. Also, if anyone wants to play old school video games, I’m your guy.” He wagged his eyebrows comically. “Fun fact: I’m a pro at retro video games. Seriously, challenge me to Mystery Monster Go! or any arcade classic, guaranteed I’ll win.”

“Facts, unfortunately,” Kirishima called out, recalling many lost gaming sessions to Kaminari.

Denki took his seat to friendly eye-rolls, and Iida gestured to the next student with a polite smile. “Mineta?”

Mineta popped up, straightening an imaginary tie. “Minoru Mineta, hero name Grape Juice!” He gave a theatrical bow. “Quirk: Pop Off. I pull these, ” he tapped the round grape-like orbs on his head “, off and they stick to stuff. Super sticky, super strong.” He flashed a grin. “I’ve been improving my quirk control and, uh, working on creative ways to use it beyond just trapping baddies.” He coughed, as if acknowledging past… mischief. “This year I’m focusing on teamwork tactics and upping my stamina so I can spam grapes all day without keeling over.” He spread his hands sheepishly. “Fun fact: I’ve been working on new ways to use them besides trapping bad guys, and, um, I’ve been practicing my drawing lately. Maybe I’ll show you sometime. I started a little online comic last year, The Grape Vine Chronicles. It’s a gag manga loosely based on our class. Names changed to protect the innocent, of course.” He wiggled his eyebrows, clearly proud of this.

A beat of silence, then laughter broke out. “You what?” Kaminari snorted.

“Wait, are we in it?!” Hagakure gasped, half-delighted, half-mortified.

Mineta just put a finger to his lips cryptically. “I can neither confirm nor deny. But Volume One has five-star reviews.”

p>

Sero face-palmed, laughing. “I'd better be the handsome lead, Mineta.”

“In your dreams,” Mineta cackled, sitting back down.

Iida pinched the bridge of his nose with a good-natured sigh. “Moving on… Koji?”

Koda, who had been trying to sink into the floor during Mineta’s theatrics, rose slowly with Shoji’s encouraging nudge. “I’m… Koji Koda,” he said quietly. “Hero name Anima. Quirk: Anivoice. I… I speak to animals.” He offered Animus a shy smile. “I’m focusing on using animals more in search-and-rescue and recon. They can go places and notice things we might miss.” He paused, cheeks pink. “Fun fact: I’ve been… raising some butterflies in my room. It’s part of a conservation project. Once they hatch, I’ll release them in the school garden.”

A collective “aww” went around. “That’s so wholesome, Koda-kun,” Uraraka said, beaming. Even Bakugo, pretending not to listen, cracked one eye open at that, perhaps imagining rogue butterflies flapping around the dorms.

Koda ducked his head, pleased at the support, and eased back down.

Hagakure practically jumped up next, her uniform floating excitedly. She flourished an invisible skirt hem and introduced herself with a giggle. “I’m Toru Hagakure! Quirk: Invisibility.” She twirled once, apart from the faint outline of her hands and the bobbing of her yellow shoes; she was effectively unseen. “I can bend light around me. It’s great for stealth, not so great for hide-and-seek with friends.” That earned a laugh. “I’m working with the Support Department on a light suit that can help me appear when I want to. It’s still in testing, but fingers crossed!” Toru’s voice turned sing-song. “Fun fact: I love horror movies. I know, I know, the invisible girl likes invisible ghosts, who would’ve thought? But seriously, if anyone wants to binge some spooky films, I’ve got a collection.”

“We should do that for Halloween!” Mina gasped, already imagining a horror movie night.

Hagakure gave two thumbs up (sleeves floating in mid-air) and sat down, her enthusiasm palpable.

It was Iida’s turn, and he executed a crisp stand as if he were behind a podium. “Tenya Iida, class representative. Quirk: Engine.” He pointed to the muffler-like protrusions on his calves. “I have engines in my legs that allow me burst-speed movement. I specialize in fast rescues and interventions. This year, I’m focusing on advanced emergency response and improving my reaction time even further.” He adjusted his glasses, every bit the earnest leader. “Fun fact: I maintain a strict daily schedule, down to five-minute increments. It’s… actually quite fun for me to tick off completed tasks.” A mixture of fond groans and laughs rippled through the class.

“Manual Iida and his beloved checklists,” Sero teased, to which Iida responded with a light chop of his hand and a good-natured chuckle.

Momo went next, smiling with gentle poise. “Momo Yaoyorozu, vice representative. Quirk: Creation. I can create any non-living object from my body fat, so long as I understand its molecular structure.” She tapped her temple lightly. “I’m diving deeper into support equipment and strategic leadership this year, trying to be a hero who can think and plan on her feet.” She exchanged a nod with Iida, their partnership in class leadership evident. “Fun fact: I’ve developed a habit of writing change-logs for my life, after every major event or mistake, I note what I learned. It’s quite… organized,” she chuckled. “And I love historical fiction novels; I have plenty if anyone wants to borrow.”

“That notebook of hers is basically a second brain,” Jiro added, earning a warm elbow from Momo as the class chuckled.

As Momo sat, Bakugo stood, hands jammed in his pockets. His face held its usual intensity, but there was a subtle ease in his posture among his peers. “Katsuki Bakugo. Hero name… still Dynamight,” he said with a little snort, acknowledging the name he’d finally accepted. “Quirk: Explosion. I sweat nitroglycerin and blow it up.” Animus could see the pride restrained behind his ruby eyes. “I’m pushing my limits on control and power, trying to minimize collateral while maximizing impact.” He jerked his chin toward Animus specifically. “Also doing some special training projects with a few of these nerds. Triad drills, combat simulations. We’re gonna run the first year ragged.”

“That’s the plan,” Kirishima interjected with an enthusiastic fist pump.

Bakugo smirked at that, then continued. “Fun fact…” He rolled his eyes upward as if it pained him to think of something personal to share. “I can make beef stew now. It doesn’t suck. Don’t expect me to be your chef.”

Kirishima chuckled. “I had some. It was good, he just won’t admit it.”

A few surprised looks met this confession; Bakugo rarely talked about domestic skills. He quickly rounded on them. “What? I can follow a damn recipe. Don’t make it weird.”

“Actually, it was amazing,” Kirishima vouched, patting his stomach. “Guy’s got a knack for spice balance.”

Bakugo’s ears went a bit red. “Shut it. I just hate crap food.” But the pleased twitch of his lips gave him away. He sat down to scattered applause (and a couple of playful “Yes, Chef!” calls from Kaminari and Sato).

Kirishima took the cue to go next. He sprang up, scarlet hair catching the overhead light. “Eijiro Kirishima, hero name Red Riot! Quirk: Hardening. I harden my body like rock, no, like steel!, and make myself a human shield or battering ram.” He flexed an arm, skin instantly jagged and dark like rough stone, then relaxed it back to normal. “I’m honing my durability even further and working on some tag-team moves with my buddies.” He threw an arm around Bakugo’s shoulders and gave him a hearty jostle. Bakugo clicked his tongue but didn’t protest the camaraderie. “Fun fact: I’m a total history buff for old heroes. Crimson Riot’s my idol, hence the name, and I’ve got a signed poster from him framed in my dorm now. Also,” he flashed Animus a grin, “I might’ve been the one to drag everyone into that room contest in our first year. No regrets, man. Good times.”

“Hear, hear!” Sero laughed, raising an imaginary glass again. “Kirishima’s manly spirit is the backbone of Class A.”

With an embarrassed laugh, Kirishima sat, scratching the back of his head.

Shinso was next. The indigo-haired boy uncrossed his arms and stood with an economy of movement. “Hitoshi Shinso. Quirk: Brainwashing.” His voice was low and even, almost monotone, but not unfriendly. “I can control someone who verbally responds to me, for a while at least. This year I’m honing my close-combat skills and multi-target control, making sure I can handle myself if my quirk only takes out part of a threat.” He scratched lightly at his neck, where a capture-scarf choker might go. “Fun fact: I’ve become something of a cat person. I, uh, feed a couple of strays behind the dorms. If you ever hear me meowing to thin air… that’s why.”

That earned a round of grins. “He acts all aloof, but show him a kitten and he’s all mush,” Kirishima rumbled fondly. “Trust me, I’ve seen it.”

Shinso rolled his eyes with a faint smirk and took his seat amid light laughter.

Next to Shinso, Todoroki rose, hands in his pockets. His heterochromatic eyes swept the group briefly. “Shoto Todoroki. Quirk: Half-Cold Half-Hot. I generate ice with my right side and fire with my left.” He demonstrated briefly by conjuring a small frost patch on one palm and a tiny flame in the other, then dousing both. “This year I’m focusing on refining simultaneous use of both elements, better power economy, and temperature control.” He spoke in a measured, soft deadpan. “Fun fact: I really like cold soba. I know the best soba shops in the city… probably too many, honestly.”

A small wave of chuckles spread around. “He’s not kidding,” Midoriya chimed in. “Shoto dragged me to four soba restaurants in one weekend until we found ‘the one.’”

Todoroki shrugged lightly, a ghost of pride on his face. “What can I say? When it comes to soba, compromise is not an option.” That earned him good-natured laughter as he sat down.

Sero hopped up next, easygoing grin in place. “Hanta Sero, hero name Cellophane. Quirk: Tape.” He flicked his elbows, unspooling a ribbon of tape from each and retracting it just as fast. “I shoot tape from my elbows. Works like super-strong tape for binding or swinging around.” He pretended to be Spider-Man, swinging for a second. “I’m working on creative capture tactics this year, spider-webbing, net traps, maybe a tape trampoline? We’ll see.” He gave Animus a friendly nod. “Fun fact: I’m the self-declared gift-wrap king of Class A. You know those gorgeous tape patterns on your birthday presents? Yep, that’s me. I can gift-wrap anything perfectly with my quirk.”

A few “ooohs” sounded. Mina wagged a finger. “It’s true. My last present from Sero looked professionally wrapped. The man’s got skills.”

“Party trick and practical hero skill in one,” Sero said, winking as he sat down.

Now it was Sato’s turn. He stood, still wearing the paper crown from earlier, slightly askew on his head. “Rikido Sato, hero name Sugar Man. Quirk: Sugar Rush.” He patted his bicep. “I convert sugar into strength. The more sugar I eat, the stronger I get, for a short time, anyway. But I also get sleepy if I use too much.” He chuckled. “This year, I’m focusing on increasing my sugar-processing efficiency and reducing that crash time. More power, less nap.” He spread his hands sheepishly. “Fun fact: I love to bake. But you probably knew that. So hmm… Ah! I started a little cooking channel online over the summer. ‘Sugar and Spice Hero Kitchen.’ I only have like ten subscribers, but it’s been fun.”

Gasps of excitement burst out. “YOU have a cooking channel?!” Mina practically screamed, then cleared her throat as Sato turned pink. “I mean, drop the link later, okay? For research.”

“Absolutely,” Sato laughed.

Aoyama practically leapt up next, doing a little twirl as he did. “Yuga Aoyama, hero name Can’t Stop Twinkling!” He sparkled, literally, as a tiny burst of laser light shimmered off his dazzling smile. “Quirk: Navel Laser. I shoot a fabulously powerful laser from my belly button.” He placed both hands on his slim hips and winked. “I used to get tummy aches if I fired too long, but I’ve improved très beaucoup with my new belt support device. This year, I’m aiming for sustained beams and precision aiming, pew pew!” He mimed blasting a villain in style. Then he flipped his glittery hair. “Fun fact: I consider myself Class 3-A’s fashion consultant. I host a weekly salon de mode in the common room. Anyone who wants tips on costume bedazzling or color coordination, I’m your man.”

Mina cheered quietly. “He really does. He talked me out of clashing pink-on-pink in my hero costume. Life saver.”

Aoyama blew Mina a kiss, then one to Animus for good measure, and sat down to a round of applause as bright as his persona.

Uraraka hopped to her feet, a bundle of positive energy. “Ochaco Uraraka, hero name Uravity! Quirk: Zero Gravity. I make things weightless with a touch of my fingertips.” She pressed her fingers together in demonstration. “I can make myself float, too, if I’m careful. This year I’m focusing on advanced rescue techniques, heavy lifting with minimal collateral damage, and improving my black-out threshold so I don’t, y’know, barf from overuse.” She laughed with self-deprecation. “Fun fact: I’m the best bargain shopper in the class.” She puffed up proudly. “Seriously, I have coupons and discount codes for days. Need a new hero costume piece for half off? Come to me. I once got Iida new running shoes for 70% off with a little coupon-fu.”

“She did,” Iida confirmed, shaking his head in amazement. “It was nothing short of heroic.”

“Her shopping trips are the stuff of legend,” Jiro stage-whispered to Animus, making Uraraka blush and laugh as she sat down.

Next to her, Tsuyu Asui stood with her hands neatly clasped. “Tsuyu Asui, but call me Tsuyu, kero. Hero name: Froppy. Quirk: Frog.” She tilted her head, frog-like. “I have the abilities of a frog, jumping, sticking to walls, long tongue, camouflage…” She demonstrated by extending her tongue past her classmates and snatching a stray cookie crumb off Sato’s shoulder, to laughter and a mock “Hey!” from Sato. Tsuyu retracted it calmly. “This year, I’m working on large-scale aquatic rescue and improving my adaptability in extreme temperatures. Floods, cold water, fast currents, kero, I want to handle it all.” She placed a finger to her chin in thought. “Fun fact: I have a lot of siblings, two little brothers and one little sister. Taking care of them taught me patience. Also,” a tiny smile played on her lips, “I’m surprisingly good at hide-and-seek. Camouflage helps.”

“She’s not kidding,” Hagakure piped up. “She once vanished in the common room during a game, and we never found her until she revealed herself.”

Tsuyu blinked serenely. “Toru, you were looking right at me. I was on the ceiling light, kero.”

Animus’s eyebrows raised, clearly impressed, as chuckles went around. Tsuyu sat down without fuss.

Next was Mineta (who had already gone), so the baton passed onward; actually, the last person left was Midoriya himself. Momo and Iida both turned to him expectantly, and Midoriya realized it with a start.

“O-oh, right! Me.” He rubbed the back of his neck and stood up, smiling bashfully. “I’m Izuku Midoriya, hero name Deku. Quirk: One For All.” He paused, realizing that he might need context. “It’s… a bit of a long story, but basically it’s a power that was passed down to me. It gives me super strength and a few extra abilities I’m still mastering.” He clenched a fist, and the air around it crackled faintly with green energy before he relaxed. “This year I’m focusing on fine-tuning those abilities and improving my situational awareness as a leader-in-training.” He looked around at his friends, clearly proud to be among them. “Fun fact: I’ve filled… um… about thirteen notebooks with hero analysis notes since my first year. If you ever need obscure hero trivia at 3 AM, I’m your guy.” He gave Animus a sheepish grin. “Seriously, I might have something on just about any hero or quirk by now.”

“He really will deliver a dissertation,” Iida affirmed with an affectionate sigh. “We’ve timed him.”

A round of affectionate laughter went up as Midoriya sat down, cheeks a bit red but eyes bright. The circle then turned to Hagakure’s right, where, by process of elimination, Animus himself sat, now effectively the last to introduce.

Noticing this, Iida straightened formally. “And finally, our new class member: Athame-san.”

Twenty-one pairs of eyes fell upon Animus with encouraging expectation. Animus set aside his teacup gently and stood. The rain’s rhythm against the windows seemed to soften as he gathered his thoughts. He inclined his head in a courteous half-bow. “I’m Animus Athame, hero name Embrus. Quirk: Avatar.” He flicked one of the black, steel-like earrings on his left ear, drawing attention to the matching array of piercings along both ears. “The support gear I wear, these seals, allows me to form up to three stable links with other people. Through those links, I can mirror certain quirks to anyone connected and impart an amplification effect similar to a quirk awakening to support the team. Heteromorphic and stockpile-type quirks don’t work with my power, unfortunately. And it’s… costed. There’s a toll on anyone I’m linked with. So I keep it precise.”

A few classmates exchanged impressed looks. Midoriya’s eyes practically sparkled at finally hearing a description; he was undoubtedly already scribbling mental notes a mile a minute.

Animus continued, voice respectful and humble. “This year, my focus is integration. Learning to work as a team, to contribute meaningfully to the group.” His gaze traveled across the familiar faces of Class 3-A. “I have a lot to learn from all of you.”

He paused, then added softly, “Fun fact: I’m something of a tea enthusiast.” A modest smile touched his lips as he glanced down at the cup he’d set aside. “I collect blends and brews from all over. So if you ever see me fussing over water temperature in the common kitchen… that’s why.”

“He made that oolong in his room earlier,” Shinso chimed in, lifting his own cup in a subtle toast. “It’s solid.”

“Oh! We’ll have to have a tea party,” Uraraka said brightly, clapping her hands together. “I’d love to try some.”

Tsuyu smiled and added. “I met Animus one summer when we were all much younger, and he always loved Tea Ceremonies even back then. Like some old man, kero.”

Animus inclined his head in agreement. “I’d be happy to share. Perhaps I can learn your preferences too.”

As Animus took his seat again, Mina let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped against the back of the couch dramatically. “Ahh, our class is officially complete. We have two tea nerds now, sorry, enthusiasts,” she corrected with a wink at Animus and Momo, who was known for her elaborate tea sets. The group chuckled.

Midoriya stayed standing just a moment longer, eyes warm as they swept over his friends. “Welcome to 3-A, Animus. And… I guess welcome back to all of us, too.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish with emotion. “It’s really good to be here with everyone.”

“Hear that? Our resident Midoriya is getting sappy,” Bakugo drawled, though the edge in his voice was fond. “He’s right, though.”

Animus felt a gentle nudge at his elbow, Toru’s invisible hand, lightly tapping. She leaned close and faux-whispered, “Glad to have you with us. We’re only mostly crazy.” Her playful giggle made Animus chuckle under his breath.

“Thank you,” he murmured back, pitching his voice for her ears alone. “I already feel at home.” And strangely, he realized he meant it.

The circle dissolved into relaxed conversations after that. Iida and Yaoyorozu quietly slipped out to coordinate the takeout order (Team Midoriya’s feast was going to be legendary by the sounds of it). Sato’s cookie tin emptied entirely, and Bakugo of all people flicked the last few crumbs out and dusted his hands, looking content.

By the time the food arrived, delivered by a beleaguered but smiling U.A. support staffer, the rain outside had intensified into a steady downpour. The class didn’t mind; they were too busy digging into a spread of sushi rolls, grilled beef, stir-fried vegetables, and even a bubbling hotpot that Yaoyorozu insisted on conjuring a lid for between servings. Laughter bounced off the high ceilings of the common room as they recounted moments from the room tours: Mineta’s dramatic “Welcome!” (complete with mock wine glass flourish), the shocked face Sero made when Kaminari’s sudden guitar chord startled a passerby during a jam session, the poetic way Tokoyami described the lighting in Shoji’s room (“a held note,” he’d said, earning an approving nod from Shoji).

Animus listened as much as he spoke. He found himself between Midoriya and Shinso on the couch, the three forming a quiet sub-group of observers amid the din. Midoriya would occasionally chime in to excitedly connect something Animus said to an anecdote from their first year or something All Might had once told him. Shinso, for his part, would quip dryly now and then, like pointing out how loud the dorms were tonight compared to the near-silence of the old General course halls, a comment that made Animus smile.

Across the circle, Kirishima was animatedly comparing sparring techniques with Ojiro, throwing light punches in the air to demonstrate. Hagakure had migrated (along with her plate) to sit by Tsuyu and Mina, where they were excitedly planning that horror-movie marathon now that they knew of Toru’s collection. Aoyama had fetched a deck of cards from somewhere and was showing Sato a simple magic trick, making a queen of hearts appear from behind his ear. Sato laughed appreciatively and tried to mimic it with far less grace.

Eventually, stomachs were full, and the adrenaline of the day began wearing down. One by one, classmates trickled to their feet to head to their new rooms for the night. The communal cleanup was swift. Yaoyorozu’s efficient system of trash-sorting had everyone disposing of takeout containers and chopsticks in record time, and Iida made sure the common kitchen was spotless (“We will NOT start the year by breaking the cleaning rota,” he declared, pointing to a neatly printed schedule on the fridge).

“Kaminari, lights,” Jiro reminded, nodding to the overheads. He gave a salute and dimmed the common room lighting to a cozy low, leaving only the gentle glow of fixtures along the walls.

A warm contentment settled in Animus’s chest as he took in the scene. Here was a class, his class now, comfortably falling into a familiar rhythm: the little rituals of “good night” being passed around, Mina making sure to remind everyone about weekend plans (and getting a “Yes, mom” from Mineta and a “We’ll be there!” from Hagakure). Tokoyami slipped out to the balcony for a moment, umbrella in hand, to feel the rain; Shoji followed quietly, ensuring his friend didn’t stay out too long in the cold.

“Feels different from the outside, huh?” Shinso’s low voice drew Animus’s attention. The indigo-haired boy was observing him with an understanding half-smile.

Animus, who had been watching the others with a content but wistful expression, blinked. “What does?”

“Belonging,” Shinso clarified gently. “Being in it instead of looking in.”

Animus considered that, a slow smile warming his usually cool features. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It really does.”

Shinso nodded once, a gesture heavy with his own experience. “They’re good people,” he said simply.

Across the room, Midoriya caught Animus’s eye and shot him an encouraging grin as if to say We’re glad you’re here. Animus felt a swell of gratitude.

They were good people. His people, now.

As the last of his classmates ascended the stairs to the dorm floors, Animus lingered a moment in the dimly lit common room. The rain tapped a gentle rhythm on the glass, and he closed his eyes, committing the sound to memory.

Today had been long and overwhelming, but it ended in a way he never expected: surrounded by warmth and camaraderie, in a place that felt strangely like home.

He opened his eyes to find Shinso still beside him, hands in pockets, gaze on the rain. They exchanged a quiet look of mutual understanding before Shinso gave a slight tilt of his head toward the stairwell.

Animus returned a small nod. Together, in comfortable silence, the two made their way toward the stairs, the muffled laughter of their classmates echoing from the floors above.

Tonight, Heights Alliance felt alive with possibility, and for Animus Athame, Class 3-A’s newest member, it was the promising start of not just a school year, but a new life entwined with these vibrant, extraordinary people.

If every day from here on out held even a fraction of the heart he’d felt today, Animus thought as he ascended toward his room, then maybe, just maybe, this place could truly be home.

Rain began as a polite patter and grew into a steady drumming against the glass, the kind that turned city lights into smeared watercolor. Alone in his newly claimed space, Animus thumbed open the final requisition packet left on his desk. A slim note slid out:
Requisition Status: Personal Tea Set , Pending. Compliance review in progress; items retained until full certification.

He stared at the words. The muscles in his jaw tightened. Of course, the tea kit had to clear “regulation testing” when half the class could level a block with their quirks. He exhaled, steady and slow, counting each beat of breath the way his sisters taught him as a boy: four in, four hold, four out, four wait. The calm didn’t chase the heat away, but it gave him something to hold.

On instinct, he reached for the travel kettle he’d unpacked earlier. Empty. No kettle, no leaves. He flicked the edge of his thermometer instead, the little tool Midoriya had noticed at lunch. The steel clicked, a hollow sound in a quiet room.

He drifted to the window. Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped the corner of the dorm like a watchtower; rain ran in rivulets down its face. The courtyard below glittered with reflected pool lights and the soft spill from the commons. Inside, laughter had died down to murmurs; the class split off to their rooms, bellies full and spirits eased. Up here, Animus watched water smear the skyline and listened to the hum of his own pulse. Serenity sat shoulder-to-shoulder with anticipation. Somewhere between them lay his resolve.

A soft knock broke the rhythm. Two measured taps. The kind that announced someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

“Embrus? It’s All Might,” came the low, courteous baritone through the door, not the booming hero bark, but the voice of a man. His silhouette loomed in the hallway light, large and reassuring even in shadow. “If you have a moment… I brought tea.”

Animus’s hand hovered over the knob. Frustration eased; curiosity slipped in its place. He couldn’t help the faint, genuine smile that tugged at his mouth, not born of camaraderie but of anticipation, as he turned the handle.

Appendix , Full Dorm Contest Scoreboard

Scoring per category: Theme & Creativity (max 50), Use of Space (max 25), DIY & Personal Touches (max 25). Totals are averages per judge (out of 100). Team totals are the sum of all 11 members’ scores.

Result: Team Midoriya wins the contest , 19,875 points vs 19,750 for Team Bakugo. Room Crown awarded to Rikido Sato.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 - Dorm Night: Tea & Protocols

Date/Time: Friday, June 1, 2323 - ~21:30–22:15 Quiet Hours Begin 22:00

Rain stitched down the dorm’s glass in even strokes. Toshinori balanced a thermos and a small pouch in one hand and timed two measured taps to the hush between drops.

“Embrus? It’s All Might,” he said, baritone kept low for quiet hours. “If you have a moment… I brought tea.”

A pause; the latch clicked. The door opened on a room that read like intent, not display, clear lanes, curtains drawn, coasters waiting. Frustration had left traces on Animus’s face, but the scent of malted black tea softened the angle of his jaw by a degree.

Set the frame. Don’t take the room from him.

His first impression wasn’t décor; it was triage. The black linens were hospital corners pulled tight. The slatted tea cabinet’s stone top read as an instrument tray, cool, ready, wiped clean.

The room’s grammar spoke in routes: door to balcony, balcony to door; nothing to snag, nothing to sign your name on. Even the two shell-backs sat at an angle that left the exit open, an invitation that didn’t become a trap. Under the bed, a go-bag and first-aid kit lived where a hand could find them without looking, reach, not display.

Curtains drew across the curve of glass like a bandage over an observation window. A single violet LED on the tower pulsed once and went still, monitor, not alarm. He knew the posture; institutions teach it, injuries enforce it.

Craft, not paranoia, Toshinori thought. His throat tightened with something like sympathy. He recognized the egress routes not because he was looking for traps but because he had built spaces like this in hospital rooms and safehouses: lanes for quick exits, lines to cover both entrances, no loose cords to trip over. He had seen heroes, after retirement, fill their walls with awards and photographs, trying to anchor themselves to a past identity. Animus had done the opposite. There was only the present and the next step. It was the room of someone who had never been allowed to collect memories in one place.

Toshinori crossed only as far as the tea cabinet. He set the pouch and thermos on the stone, near but not claiming the coasters, then stepped back and put his hands where Animus could see them. His uniform gloves swallowed the tremor in his left pinky, an old nerve injury he rarely admitted. Rain stitched across the glass. On the credenza, a violet LED pulsed once and went still. Thalia, the dormant AI his sisters had built, voice disabled, had acknowledged the room and gone quiet. Toshinori let his heartbeat settle to that single blink.

Animus’s shoulders lowered by another millimeter. He nodded once, a small, precise motion that carried more weight than his earlier smile. He pointed his chin toward the sitting area. “May we?” Toshinori asked. “Or we can stand, if you prefer,” Toshinori offered, keeping the chairs in his periphery, not his path.

“Please.” His voice was even, sanded by fatigue more than temper. It was the tone of someone who had calculated the cost of each word spoken aloud and chosen to invest carefully. Animus angled his chin toward the nook, permission, not surrender. The swivel of the nearer chair turned a few degrees, a small invitation that still left lanes free.

“Thank you,” Toshinori said. He did not immediately move toward the chairs; he let the map of the room lie over what he knew of the boy’s habits.

Welcome and exit in equal measure.

Instead, he lifted the thermos cap, releasing a coil of steam. In the glass, a digital clock ghosted back 21:50, quiet hours in ten minutes.

He took note of the young man's breathing and found a count, four in, four hold, four out, four wait, the room taking it up as if it had been built for this. The chairs stayed symbols, not seats. The lane to the door remained open in his periphery. Shared calm achieved, he noted, not as triumph but as permission to go on.

Toshinori nodded toward the coasters. “Would you like the marble to stay clean?” A small courtesy, but one he meant. He didn’t reach for the thermos yet; he waited for the nod that would make the table shared.

Animus glanced at the coasters, then back. “Please.” The word released a little of the room’s static. His hand uncurled at his side, fingers no longer counting breath.

Animus touched the edge of a coaster and drew it a thumb‑width toward the center of the table. A respectful stagger of bodies and furniture, the city’s watercolor lights behind a curtain cloth.

He didn’t pour until Animus touched a coaster with one finger, a small consent. Then the malted warmth unfurled, he primed both cups, short lines that respected the cork circles, and set the thermos down before stepping back half a pace, returning the space he’d occupied. He lifted his own cup second, not first. Animus drank; Toshinori followed. Steam curled and was gone.

“Assam from my usual shop in Musutafu, near the campus,” he said quietly. “I like to bring this weather with me.” He turned away from the window to face the young man beside him. “The tea, not the sky.” He had learned, early in his career, that metaphors could be misread as literal claims among those whose lives revolved around the extraordinary. Animus’s right brow lifted in a quick arc, then lowered as he breathed in. The corners of his mouth dipped toward a frown, not because the scent offended him but because he was thinking, testing each possible meaning.

“Assam,” Animus said, tasting the vowel. “Your shop, near the hero course or in the commercial district?”

“It’s on Second and Sumire, next to the stationery store,” Toshinori replied. “The owner keeps a small reserve for cold days.” He noticed, with some small pride, that his hand was steady when he set down the cup. He had poured tea for so many students that the ritual calmed him as much as them. It reminded him of afternoons on a different campus, when his mentor, Gran Torino, had insisted on oden and tea after particularly brutal training sessions. You cannot carry the world on an empty stomach, kid, Gran Torino had said, not as a joke. There will come a day when you have nothing but one bowl and one cup to offer. Make that cup matter.

They stood rather than sat. Toshinori kept a non‑closing line, body angled so the lanes to the balcony and the door stayed open in his periphery. Animus mirrored the stagger; the shell chairs waited, symbols rather than seats.

“You stand with lines open to the door and the balcony,” Animus observed, eyes flicking to Toshinori’s stance rather than his face. “Old habit?”

“It is,” Toshinori said. “And a promise. Before I talk shop, I want to be plain about intent. If at any point you want me to stop, I will. If you want to move this to another day, we can move it. I’m here to make things safer for the class and for you, not to take your rituals from you.”

Animus’s eyes narrowed a notch. “Safer for the class and for me, in that order?”

Toshinori didn’t blink. “Together. If those ever split, I err on not harming the person in front of me.” He let it sit. “You can test that tonight.”

A beat; then the smallest tilt of Animus’s head, permission granted, not surrendered.

Toshinori gestured toward the chairs. “Sit, if you’d like.” He did not move first. The choice belonged to Animus. Every small invitation, every explicit boundary, mattered.

Animus approached the chair nearest to the window. He did not sink into it so much as settle with controlled weight, his spine erect, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. Toshinori took the opposite chair, angling his body slightly so his knees were not aligned with the boy’s, a subtle sign that he did not plan to corner him. The marble table between them held space for the tea and the conversation.

Rain hissed and thudded in uneven measure against the glass. A low rumble of thunder rolled somewhere above Musutafu, muffled by the dorm’s sound-dampening panels. Inside, the air carried scents of malt and damp wood and ozone. Animus’s breathing eased. Toshinori mirrored the rhythm, counting the beats not to control his heart but to sync his presence to the room.

He took a small sip of the tea. The warmth spread down his throat into his chest, unspooling tension. Animus lifted his own cup, held it for a beat beneath his nose, then drank. He closed his eyes. His jaw softened. When he opened his eyes again, the cold indifference that usually lit there had not thawed exactly, but it had gained depth.

“Thank you,” Animus said.

“You’re welcome.” Toshinori let the silence sit. There was a tendency, he’d found, to fill gaps with platitudes. “How are you adjusting to the dorms?”

Animus tilted his head in a small arc. “Fine. The rules are clear. The walls don’t… echo as much as I feared.” He glanced at the ceiling, perhaps listening for the footsteps of his classmates on the floor above. “The quiet hours help.”

No mention of the contest, of Sato’s cookies, or Mina’s playlist. Toshinori wasn’t surprised. Animus had joined a cohort forged by shared risk; he was an insertion. Here, trust isn’t assigned, it’s built: poured by cups, proven by a word that halts the room, earned on ordinary nights like this. It will take more than a day, and that is the point.

Toshinori placed his cup down. “I’d like to talk about some protocols. Your consent is central to all of this. I don’t intend to trap you, Embrus. I need your trust. That doesn’t come from promises alone.”

Animus’s fingers tightened minutely on his cup. “Protocols.”

“Yes. Consent. And the word you can say if you need things to stop. In training, in conversation, in anything that feels like pressure.” Toshinori kept his tone plain. Call it what it is; do not hide behind softer synonyms. “We’ll discuss the monitor bands, but first, this.”

Animus’s chin dipped in a single nod. “I assumed there would be a cut word.”

“What do you use now?” Toshinori asked. He had a list of possible words: Anchor, Cedar, Harbor, Mercy, Redline, Lantern, all nouns with low overlap in Japanese and English. But if Animus already carried one from his past, one that held meaning and therefore weight, it would serve better than any teacher‑assigned code.

Animus did not look away. “Prometheus.”

The name landed between them like a flint striking stone. Toshinori’s chest tightened, not at the myth’s violent end, but at its double resonance: the titan who brought fire to humans and was punished for it; the epithet for stolen light. Prometheus was a noun, three syllables, distinct in Japanese, Greek, and English. Under stress, it would not slur. More than that, it told Toshinori that Animus thought of boundaries in terms of light and consequences, not rope or soil.

He folded his fingers together. “Prometheus,” he repeated. “Effective immediately, if you say that word, everything stops. I will say ‘received.’ We will pause, reset, or exit. If you wish to leave, you may. In class, I’ll formalize the cut‑word adoption tomorrow, but your choice stands now. Understood?”

Animus’s shoulders lowered. “Understood.”

Toshinori decided to test the mechanics. He leaned back slightly, softened his voice to an undertone, and said, “Prometheus.”

Animus’s eyes flickered; his pupils constricted. It was not fear but reflex, a trained response to code. Toshinori set his hands flat on his thighs and said, “Received,” in a clear, audible tone. Then he took two slow breaths before he spoke again. The pause was as important as the words. It signaled that he had truly stopped, not merely acknowledged.

After the second breath, he lifted a hand in a small roll. “Clear,” he said, inviting the conversation to resume only if Animus agreed. Animus’s chin ticked up. They both breathed once more, and the tension that had crept in dissolved. He needed to see me follow the rule, Toshinori thought. Not just hear me say it exists. Years of hero work had taught him that protocols mean nothing without practice. You do not drop out of a dive for the first time when the plane is on fire.

“Thank you,” Animus said quietly. “I appreciate that you wanted to test it.”

“I appreciate that you already had one,” Toshinori replied. “Would you like to know the other options I plan to offer to those who show up for Scrimmage and Monday during block?”

Animus’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”

“It’s important that everyone choose a word that makes sense to them,” Toshinori continued. “Options are Anchor, Harbor, Cedar, Mercy, and Redline. Lantern is a possibility, but I’m leaning toward holding that as a yellow‑zone term for pause, not stop. They’re all nouns; they’re easy to pronounce in an emergency.” He paused. “Students may also choose their own, as you have done. They should be words that don’t come up in normal conversation.”

“Anchor,” Animus repeated under his breath, as if testing the shape. He nodded. “Prometheus suits me. Anchor suits Kirishima. Mercy… would be difficult for Bakugo to say aloud.” His tone carried no judgment, only accuracy. “Harbor is stable. Cedar… Yaoyorozu might like that. Lantern could be a mid‑ground.” He looked up. “If someone wanted to add a new one later, they could?”

“They can. Protocols evolve.” Toshinori smiled. He had not expected Animus to game out the possibilities for his classmates, but it made sense. A field operator always scanned the entire board.

“Tomorrow,” Toshinori continued, “we’ll discuss that as a group, but you will not be asked to explain your choice. If anyone asks you to share or justify, tell me; that’s a breach.”

Animus’s gaze flickered, acknowledging. “Understood.”

Toshinori took another sip of tea. The liquid had cooled enough to be comfortable; it slid over his tongue like silk. He let the warmth sit at the back of his throat before swallowing. “I also want to speak about the monitor band,” he said. “Hatsume designed a wrist device that can give us data on quirk strain and physical stress. We’re considering implementing it in training, on an opt‑in basis. I’d like your thoughts.”

Animus’s fingers tapped twice against the marble, a tiny drumbeat. “Will it be mandatory for students with… unusual quirks?” he asked. He did not say weapons. He did not need to.

“No. It will not be mandatory,” Toshinori answered. “It will be encouraged for anyone whose quirk could cause harm to themselves or others if left unchecked. That includes half the class. Bakugo, Todoroki, Midoriya, Shinso… me, if I still had my quirk. But no one will be forced. Consent will be required. The device tracks heart rate, breathing, and quirk output intensity. It does not record audio. It does not send data to anyone outside the instructor and Recovery Girl. It isn’t tethered to any corporate network.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Hatsume won’t add cameras.”

Animus’s gaze sharpened. “What happens to the data after each session?”

“It is stored temporarily to identify patterns,” Toshinori replied. “After review, it is deleted. Data stays local with a 72-hour auto-purge unless an incident flags it, and there’s a manual privacy toggle on the device. Students may request their own data to understand their bodies’ responses. They may opt out of data collection at any time.”

Animus’s finger tapped the marble once, then stilled; his gaze cut to the violet LED and back.

“No remote archive,” Toshinori added before he was asked. “No vendor mirrors. If someone wants to see your numbers, they come through me.”

“Why is it necessary?” Animus asked.

“Because the line between pushing yourself and hurting yourself is thin,” Toshinori said. “Because our training pushes that line weekly. Because we have students who will hide injuries to appear strong. Because I have seen too many heroes collapse ten years early. If we can teach them to read their own gauges, maybe fewer will run on fumes.”

Animus’s mouth compressed. His eyes flicked to Toshinori’s left side, to the way he sat with his torso angled to relieve pressure on scar tissue. He said, quietly, “Would you have used one?”

Toshinori did not deflect. He let the question land in his ribcage. For a heartbeat, he was back in the hospital bed after Kamino, coughs tearing his lungs, Iida, Uraraka, and Todoroki watching his emaciated form with tear‑bright eyes. If I had been wearing a monitor band at twenty, maybe I would not have coughed blood behind billboards. “I would have tried,” he said honestly. “My pride might have made me rip it off. My mentor might have told me to stop worrying about gadgets and to listen to my body. But I would have tried. And perhaps I would have learned to rest before my body broke.” He looked Animus in the eye. “That’s why I’m not making it mandatory. You can’t save someone by chaining them. You can only invite them to use tools.”

Animus’s expression softened by an angle. “I’ll wear one if you do,” he said. The statement was not a provocation, but an offer to share vulnerability.

Toshinori’s breath hitched. He looked down at his hands. They had shaken a little earlier, but now they were steady. “I don’t have my quirk anymore,” he said. “But if you want me to wear one to model its use, I will. I can program it to track my heart rate and oxygen saturation. When I train with you all, I will wear it.”

Animus’s mouth eased. “Then I’m willing to test it.”

“Thank you,” Toshinori said. Relief and gratitude wove through his ribs. It was not that he needed Animus’s cooperation for the pilot to succeed; he had the authority to implement policies. But consent meant that Animus might trust him a fraction more.

“What data will others see?” Animus pressed.

“Instructors will see color-coded alerts,” Toshinori answered. “Green, yellow, orange, red. Green is baseline. Yellow indicates exertion. Orange signals approaching quirk limit or cardiovascular strain; we pause training. Red means stop immediately. Students will see their own color display. No numbers; no heart rates posted. Recovery Girl can access full metrics. Hatsume can access anonymized metrics for device improvement. No one else. I have no intention of sharing your data with any agency. You’re not here to be studied.”

“You mean I’m not a lab rat,” Animus said flatly, voicing what he had been too polite to say earlier. He lifted his cup and drank. “I appreciate that.”

Toshinori inclined his head. “We are not Advent. We’re a school. Our job is to prepare you to live, not to build weapons.” He did not mention the video he watched in his briefing, the one that had somehow begun to circulate in hushed corners of the internet, showing Animus moving with terrifying precision. He did not need to; the memory hovered between them like the scent of ozone. Instead, he said, “You are not responsible for the design of the band. Hatsume is still refining it. She’ll ask for your feedback. You may decline to answer. If you feel anything is wrong, you may remove it. It will be your choice.”

Animus’s eyes narrowed. “Hatsume trusts you?”

“Hatsume trusts her devices,” Toshinori said with a small smile. “But she does trust me enough to give me the override codes. Recovery Girl has them, too. You will have them as well. No one should wear a device they cannot shut off.”

Animus sat back in his chair. The muscles along his forearms eased. He glanced at the violet LED on his tower. It blinked once and went dark. Perhaps Thalia had pinged the room’s sensors; perhaps it had simply acknowledged a new protocol filed in its logs. Toshinori found himself amused by the thought of a machine keeping track of their boundaries.

He took another sip of tea. It had gone from hot to warm, but the taste remained rich. “There’s another topic I wish to touch on,” he said. “Your… posture toward hero society.” He chose his words carefully. “Not your opinions; those are yours. But your intent in joining this program.” He had read the sealed dossiers, including the transcripts of Animus’s debriefings. They painted a picture of a boy trained to carry out missions without question, then later a young man who turned his sword inward. Toshinori needed to understand what motivated him now.

Animus did not flinch at the shift. He placed his cup on the table and laced his fingers. “You want to know if I plan to kill anyone,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“I want to know if you want to be a hero,” Toshinori countered, equally direct. “Not in the way the media uses the word. In the way we try to live here: with responsibility, with teamwork, with restraint, with the understanding that you protect people even when they aren’t grateful. I saw your display on the first day. I saw how you can move. I also saw how you deferred to others. And you still trust others to lead. That tells me something.” He leaned forward just enough to indicate the importance of the question. “Why are you here?”

Animus’s gaze slid to the rain-slicked window. He watched a drop race another down the glass. “Because I am tired of being a tool,” he said, softer now. “In Advent, they measured my worth by how efficiently I executed an order.”

He drew in a breath as if the room were thinner air. “When I cut myself off, I realized I didn’t know how to breathe without being told when.” A small shake of the head. “Nezu offered a different test: decisions that don’t begin with which artery to sever.”

He looked back. “I don’t know if I want to be a hero. I don’t even fully know what that means here.” The next line landed like a blade set down, not dropped. “But I don’t want to be a weapon anymore.”

Toshinori let the silence hold. Institutional words bruise, he thought, swapping out rehabilitation for classroom in his head and leaving it there.

The confession hung in the room like steam. Toshinori’s chest tightened. He remembered his own early days, the way his quirk had felt like both a blessing and a chain. He remembered the weight of the eyes of civilians who expected him to be invincible. He remembered nights when he wished someone had taught him how to say no.

“Being a hero is hard,” he said quietly. “Not because of the fights; those you can train for. It’s hard because of what you just said: people will try to reduce you to your utility. They will cheer you as long as you provide what they need. They will turn when you falter. Being a hero means carrying that knowledge and still stepping up. It means refusing to become what you fight, refusing to dehumanize yourself or others. It means sometimes stepping back and letting someone else take the lead because their skills suit the task better.” He drew in a breath. His lungs protested, but he ignored the echo of pain. “You said you don’t want to be a weapon. Good. Hold onto that. Here, we will offer you training and choices. We will also hold you accountable if you cause harm. That’s part of trust. Are you willing to accept that?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, “if a drill runs hot and someone calls Anchor, or Prometheus, we stop. I say received out loud. If they add clear, they take the door, and I make the space for it. No speeches in the room; follow-up happens with me, privately.”

He met Animus’s eyes. “If I fail that standard, you file it with Yaoyorozu and me, and we change the plan. That’s what accountability looks like here.”

Animus’s eyes did not waver. “Yes,” he said. The word was simple and absolute.

“Then we’ll work on definitions together,” Toshinori said. “Starting with consent and continuing to team protocols. You will not be alone.”

The boy’s jaw shifted as if he wanted to argue but chose not to. “Teamwork is… not something I’ve done much of,” he admitted. “I was a unit of one for a long time. Then I had a sister watching my back, but she’s far away now. I don’t like being responsible for others’ mistakes. Or trusting them with my life. But you clearly make it work here.”

“Trust is built,” Toshinori said. “Kirishima did not trust Bakugo when they met. Midoriya did not trust Todoroki. They built trust through shared drills, meals, injuries, and laughter. It takes time. You don’t have to trust anyone yet. You only have to commit to not sabotaging trust. The rest will grow if you let it.”

Animus nodded once. He reached for his cup. The tea inside had cooled to tepid. He drank anyway, perhaps valuing the ritual more than the temperature. Toshinori refreshed his own cup from the thermos. The steam swirled like a small spirit ascending, carrying with it the scent of malt and wood.

Outside, the rain intensified. Sheets of water blurred the world beyond the glass. Thunder rolled, then cracked, close enough to make the sound panels hum in sympathetic vibration. The lights flickered once, not enough to darken the room, but enough to make the violet LED pulse again. Animus’s eyes flicked to the tower. A corner of his mouth turned up. There was affection there, directed at the machine. Toshinori felt a pang. For Animus, the AI might have been more consistent than many humans in his life.

“Do you name everything after Greek myths?” Toshinori asked lightly.

“My sisters do,” he replied. “The AI is Thalia. The weapon I used to carry was called Daedalus before I broke it. My sister’s harness is Icarus. Prometheus is mine.” He paused. “There’s one called Selene, but we do not speak of her.”

The violet LED pulsed once and went still, as if the tower had excellent comedic timing.

“I’ll try not to ask about Selene,” Toshinori said.

“That would be best,” Animus answered, perfectly grave, the kind of gravity that made humor easier to share next time.

“Thalia kept training logs,” Animus continued. “I will not let her record voices. But she can ping me if she senses my heart rate increasing. She may help me monitor myself without a band.”

“That’s a good compromise,” Toshinori said. “We can review both metrics and see how they align. Thalia and Hatsume may become pen pals.” The idea of the excitable girl who lived for explosions, corresponding with a calm, idling AI, amused him.

From below came a sudden surge of volume, an announcer’s consonant hitting the ceiling like a thrown coin. “Sorry! Sorry!” Kaminari’s voice chased the spike, followed by the telltale bwoop-bwoop of a volume slider racing to max and then down again. A door on twelve cracked open. “Some people are trying to sleep, you electromagnetic dumbass!” Bakugo’s bark ricocheted through the stairwell and vanished with the soft slam of a door. Toshinori let a smile pass across his face. Some noises didn’t threaten order; they proved it was alive.

A vibration thrummed faintly through the floor as Kaminari struggled to regain control of the situation. The dorm's central media hub that piped television and music into the commons, kept jumping up and down in volume for a moment, the sound of channels shifting; then landing on a news segment. Toshinori often ignored television nowadays; he found modern talk shows loud and vapid. But tonight, as the conversation reached a lull, his ears caught a phrase.

“Groundbreaking ceremony,” the voice said. “Advent Data Center to bring hundreds of jobs.”

Toshinori’s blood cooled by a degree. Advent. The name always did that now. He hadn’t realized how quickly news traveled across the globe. Advent, an American conglomerate with a front in hero support tech, had never truly left Japan, not after the war. They had simply shifted operations offshore, then back again. The dorm TV, always tuned to some news feed by a student studying politics, now spouted cheerful commentary about economic growth.

Animus’s eyes sharpened. He looked over his shoulder, through the wall, as if he could see the screen two floors down. Toshinori watched his jaw tighten. The boy’s mouth opened a fraction, then closed. The word that formed without sound could have been anything, but Toshinori thought he caught the shape of Starrk. The syllables softened the line of Animus’s mouth, even as his shoulders tensed.

Starrk, Toshinori noted, filed under things to ask when trust allowed. He did not voice it. It was a breadcrumb, a clue he could not interpret yet. Starrk could refer to the data center’s facade, to the illusion of transparency corporations offered, or to Animus’s desire to exist as more than a weapon. Let it be a hook, he told himself. Something to ask when trust deepens.

He cleared his throat. “We can ignore the news for tonight,” he said. “You have had enough Advent for one lifetime.”

Animus blinked, as if pulled from a reverie. He offered a smile so small it might have been mistaken for a twitch. “Agreed,” he said. “Though I will have to watch later. Information is armor.” The phrase sounded like a quote from a sibling or a handler.

“It is also a weight,” Toshinori replied gently. “Choose which pieces you carry. You can’t wear all the armor at once.” It was advice he seldom took himself. His provided teacher dorm, much like his old apartment still held stacks of newspapers and printed intelligence reports dating back decades. But he had learned, through trial and pain, to pick which ones to read before bed.

They finished their tea. By the time the cups were nearly empty, 23:15 had come and gone; the dorm had settled around the rain. The thermos emptied. Toshinori wiped the rim of the last cup with a towel from the cabinet. He noted, with approval, that Animus had a small stack of towels prepared and folded, ready for guests. Hospitality mattered in rooms that could otherwise feel cold.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Toshinori said, standing. His knees creaked, a traitorous sound. He glanced toward the door, then back to Animus. “I won’t keep you longer tonight. I look forward to tomorrow. Scrimmage with Class B; review with Power Loader. I noticed your name on the sign-up sheet. I’ll present the cut‑word list and the band pilot. You may choose whether to speak. But you have already done the most important part.”

Animus rose. He stood with the balanced grace of someone who had trained in multiple martial disciplines. “Thank you for bringing the tea,” he said. “And for honoring the word.”

Toshinori inclined his head. “Prometheus it is.” The word felt less mythical now and more like a friend’s name.

Animus’s eyes flicked to his desk. The tea thermometer lay there, unused tonight. He tapped its stainless body with one finger. It gave a soft ring. “Temperature around ninety‑three Celsius,” he murmured, half to himself, half to Toshinori. “Assam prefers that.”

Toshinori smiled. “Ninety‑three it is, then.” It was an unnecessary detail that nonetheless grounded the evening. In a world where both of them had often had to measure danger in heartbeats and shadows, measuring water temperature for tea felt like reclaiming something small and human.

He moved toward the door. Animus followed, not to escort him out but to ensure the path remained clear. They both paused at the threshold mat. Toshinori bent to put on his shoes. When he rose, he reached for the door handle, then stopped.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Sato left extra cookies in the kitchen. Double-chocolate. You might want to grab one before Kirishima finds them.”

Animus’s mouth turned up in what, on another face, would have been a grin. “You mean I should get one before Momo requisitions them for her quirk training,” he corrected. “Kirashima will be in the weights room.”

“True,” Toshinori conceded. “And Kaminari will forget about them because he’s trying to tune his quirk to the TV in the commons. Regardless, you should have at least one. You’re thinner than the diet sheet suggests.”

Animus inclined his head. “Yes, Sensei.”

“If you’re willing,” Toshinori said, “let’s make this a weekly check‑in, tea, and protocols.”

“Fine,” Animus replied. “Same hour.”

“Same hour,” Toshinori agreed.

Toshinori opened the door. The hallway was empty. The distant TV was back at an acceptable volume.. He stepped through and turned back. Animus remained in the doorway, one hand on the frame. The light behind him cut his silhouette into a sharp outline. For a moment, Toshinori saw what many had seen: a weapon unshadowed by a handler. Then the boy reached up and flicked a strand of hair back, and the image softened.

“Good night, Embrus,” Toshinori said.

“Good night, All Might,” Animus replied. He closed the door with the same quiet precision with which he had opened it. Toshinori heard the lock engage.

He exhaled. The tea had warmed his chest, but the conversation had warmed his mind. He would need to write notes for Nezu, protocol proposals, cut‑word adoption, and monitor band trial frameworks before Monday. He also wanted to record his impressions: Animus’s use of “we” and “I,” his focus on strategy over emotion, the way his brow had lifted when Toshinori had called him by his chosen name. Each detail would matter when building the trust the boy needed. He had never been fond of paperwork, but this was different. This was building a scaffolding that might hold someone who had never trusted anyone without a blood tie.

He walked down the hall. The dorm’s lighting sensors brightened as he approached, then dimmed behind him. He passed the tenth‑floor commons. Voices drifted from within: Todoroki murmuring about sauce ratios with Sato; Ojiro reminding Kaminari to keep his cables away from water; Jiro laughing at Mina’s impression of Power Loader. The television mounted on the wall displayed a slick anchor with perfect hair standing before a graphic of a shining tower.

“Advent Data Center groundbreaking is slated for next month, with Musutafu’s mayor and several pro heroes expected to attend,” the anchor said brightly. “Proponents say the facility will provide hundreds of tech jobs and spur innovation. Critics, however, raise concerns about data privacy and the company’s history abroad. In related news...”

“Mute,” Kaminari said from somewhere offscreen. The anchor’s voice cut mid‑consonant. The screen’s closed captioning continued silently for a moment before resetting. Toshinori felt a wash of gratitude. He had not wanted to hear the rest.

He paused long enough to see Sato press a plate of cookies into Kirishima’s hands. “These ones are for Class B tomorrow,” Sato said sternly. “Don’t eat them tonight.”

Kirishima saluted with the arm not holding the plate. “Understood! We’ll respect the rule!” Then he looked at his plate with a glint of mischief.

Toshinori smiled. There was something deeply reassuring about such mundane transgressions. He continued toward his own quarters in the teachers’ wing.

As he climbed the stairs that connected the student dorms to the faculty apartments, he ran a mental checklist. Cut‑word implemented for Animus. Protocol debrief tomorrow for those that attend. Monitor band pilot consent forms. Advent news on the horizon. Must speak with Nezu about security. His mind, always partial to lists, added a softer item at the end: Ask Embrus later why he chose “Prometheus.” He had a feeling the answer would reveal more than any briefing.

Within the teachers' dorms, he found his room. He set the empty thermos on the counter. He pulled out his notebook, a battered thing with pages creased and stained from years of field notes, and began to write. He recorded the time, the weather, the names of all present, and then the conversation in summary: Animus’s room layout; his posture; his precise speech; the way he had cued his cut‑word without any overt emotion; the way his eyes had sharpened at the mention of Advent; the word “Starrk” formed without sound; the faint smile at the mention of cookies. He wrote everything in case some small piece, later, would connect to a larger pattern. He had learned, through years of piecing together villain plots and rescue missions, that sometimes the smallest details saved lives.

His hand cramped. He switched to his right and continued. When he had finished, he added a final line: Trust is built; never assumed. He closed the book.

Outside, the rain thinned to a whisper. Toshinori watched it thread the glass and let the day settle: students decorating, Sato’s chocolate, a violet pulse in a bare room, Assam’s malt, a cut-word accepted. He wasn’t battle-tired, just the steady fatigue of rebuilding. He smiled and let that be enough for tonight.

“We’re getting there,” he murmured to no one. “One cup at a time.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11 - A Street-Level Incident

Timeline: Saturday, June 1, 2323 (morning). Second day back on campus.

It was the kind of morning that seemed to belong to somebody else’s memory. A gossamer mist hung over the quiet streets around U.A. like a shawl thrown over a sleeping child; the pre-dawn light diffused into a soft blue haze, making the campus look dreamlike.

From her dorm room window on the twelfth floor, Ochaco watched that dreamlike blue haze cling to the paths below, then slung her running shoes over one shoulder and stepped into the hall. The stairwell’s echo felt kind in the early hour; she moved down to the tenth, palms tucked into her hoodie sleeves to keep the morning chill off.

The commons was already waking in pockets. Steam curled from a rice cooker; Sato moved like a practiced line cook, a quiet “morning” punctuating the clatter as he set out miso, tamago, and toast. Momo sat a few seats down, annotating what looked like a rubric; Bakugo and Ojiro compared plate math and gym reps under their breath; Iida’s eyes tracked the news crawl without blinking; Mina and Jiro sprawled across the couch in a tangle of blanket and earbuds. Ochaco slid between the stools at the island, eyeing the freshly washed and arranged fruit, took an apple and let the cool, crisp, refreshing flavor wake her senses as she bit into it with a crunch.

Ochaco turned to leave and Kaminari rounded the corner into the hall and nearly bumped into her, stopping short at the sight of the shoes. “Going out in this weather?” he asked, yawning.

Before she could answer, Momo glanced up. “Kirishima and Sero headed out not long ago,” she said, calm as tea. “A little rain shouldn’t stop a hero in training.”

Ochaco smiled, finished the apple, cheeks briefly puffed like a chipmunk, then thanked Sato with a wave for the quick fuel. “Duty first, then the day. See you guys at the scrimmage later!”

She turned down the hall toward the stairs and the elevator, rode it to the entry level, and stepped into the main foyer. Boxes and luggage were stacked along the corridors, a testament to the weekend move-in that still consumed not just her class but students across the dorms. Attendants on the first floor helped organize and receive orders that were still being delivered.

She made her way to the doors. They parted, revealing a courtyard rinsed clean. Rain from the night before had been drawn into the air, a barely perceptible coolness that curled around Ochaco Uraraka’s cheeks as she stepped outside. The air smelled of wet stone, fresh grass, and a distant thread of bread rising in the cafeteria kitchens. Everything felt like it was waiting for someone to breathe first. The dorm’s windows were beaded with moisture, each pane catching the glow of the security lights. Beyond the gate, the perimeter avenue lay mostly empty save for a delivery truck rumbling past; the driver lifted two fingers in a sleepy hello.

It was her second day back at U.A., and she wouldn’t let the change interrupt her early-morning routine. Ochaco tightened her laces, rolled her shoulders the way Gunhead taught her, and stepped out toward the loop.

Ochaco eased into her run along the East Gate loop, breath syncing with the damp hush of morning. The rain that had come and gone since yesterday left a fine gloss on every surface; droplets pearled along the railings like notes held between beats. This was the part of campus that always felt like a runway; straight sightlines, measured pavers, guard posts that nodded her through with familiar indifference. She rolled her shoulders the way Gunhead had taught her: loosen first, then tighten what you need. Hips tall, feet under you, scan corners, scan exits. Being back inside these walls helped, but it didn’t fix the ache that lived under her sternum.

She thought about Izuku the way you think about a song you’ve overplayed, each memory both comfort and static. A year apart, while U.A. shuttered, had turned easy habits into awkward choreography. During the closure, they barely crossed paths: Izuku lived on traffic maps and evac rosters with All Might, keeping his profile low while moving people to safety; she logged shelter rotations with Tsuyu, napped on vinyl cots, and caught trains home to help her parents.

Messages turned practical, time-stamped, polite. Dates became promises, after this drill, after that briefing, then shrank to a sticker, a quick ganbatte. She meant it when she told herself hero work came first; he did, too. It wasn’t resentment so much as physics, two good trajectories with too little overlap.

He’d grown in a hundred ways she was still cataloging, and she’d grown too. Maybe living in the same building again would give them time to relearn each other’s rhythms. She wanted that. She wanted to be visible to him without having to perform for him, not homework he squeezed between debriefs, not another item on a checklist. This morning, her message had drawn three dots, then gone quiet.

Visible, she tried the word in her head, testing its fit.

By the time the arch of the East Gate rose from the mist, the city beyond was waking. Ochaco tapped the side of her comm as she passed the gates checkpoint and jogged out into the park that separated U.A. and the city itself. She made her way through the winding trail of the park, then off campus into the maze of streets, where Musutafu went about its business.

Shutters clattered up like yawns. A bakery’s exhaust curled warm and sweet into the chill; a convenience store clerk stacked bottled tea in neat pyramids; a cyclist hissed by, rain cape snapping. Delivery scooters threaded the wet street, their taillights smearing into pink ribbons each time she blinked. The air had a faint scent of iron and yeast. She cut across the street, where a row of awnings made a little arcade over the sidewalk and an old woman watered crates of mizuna with a battered tin can.

Her pace settled into a patient cadence: three soft strides, one longer, the way she’d trained to manage nausea when she leaned on Zero Gravity for too long. The afternoon scrimmage with 3‑B tugged at her thoughts; optional attendance, but she’d already decided she was in. Who else would show? Kirishima, always. Bakugo, most likely. Iida and Momo would definitely be there. Kaminari if he could be talked out of napping. Maybe Jiro, if she wasn’t helping Toru decorate still.

Her thoughts turn to 3-B. Would it still be all the same people from before? Shinso was in her class now, so she wondered what else had changed. She rehearsed what she’d do against Tetsutetsu if he came: don’t fight the mass, change the angle; use Zero Gravity to float obstacles into his path or give herself safe elevation, then reset the range. Gunhead’s voice clicked through her spine: Hands up, thumbs to the outside, eyes on the hips; you read the hips, not the mouth.

The rain thickened for half a minute, one of those odd June pulses, and then let up. Ochaco watched it bead and run down the letters on a hand‑painted sign: Hibi Market, Fresh Since 2205. She smiled without meaning to. The city felt like it was stretching, flexing joints that hadn’t moved in a while. She hoped they all were.

A sudden, sharp cry cut through the morning mist, panicked “Fire!”

Ochaco cut her pace and shouldered through a knot of early shoppers. Under the green awning of Hibi Market, flame crawled along the cobbles like living paint. Someone had dumped more than a fryer’s worth of oil into the gutter; water hissed and spread it in a shimmering sheet, the burn line snaking between crates and rain boots. A clerk waved a jacket at it in futile panic; another vendor hurled a bucket of water, and the mixture only spat and widened.

“Move back, lane here!” Ochaco called, tapping two fingertips to a toppled bike rack and a plastic crate. Both rose off the ground, hovering just high enough to clear the way. The gap became a safe channel, and people hurried through, eyes on her gloves, not the fire.

She stepped to the edge of the heat, breath steady. Too much oil. This wasn’t a kitchen spill. The iridescent smear pulsed in ribbons; fed, not born. Through the wavering heat on the far side of the blaze, a woman’s voice cut thin: “Please, my case!”

Ochaco’s eyes found her: rain-dark blazer, black umbrella half-melted by sparks, a matte-black briefcase hugged to her ribs. Between them, the fireline thickened. Beyond the woman, a lanky figure in a hood skated the slick with eerie ease, boots whispering across the oil like blades on ice.

The hood dipped, trajectory set. Distraction, Ochaco realized. This wasn’t about the market. She raised her comm, eyes never leaving the scene. “Uraraka, reporting ignition on an oil film near East Gate, off campus, Third and Aoba. Civilian at risk. Unknown assailant present. Requesting assistance.”

Confirmation crackled, distant. The hooded skater lashed out at the woman as she desperately tried to hold onto the case. A sharp tug; the case resisted, then slid free with a wet squeal of buckles. The woman stumbled, palms scraping stone.

Ochaco measured the fire gap. Too wide to jump clean, the heat savage at ankle height. She snatched a fallen display board, tagged it, and floated it low across the hottest lane as a makeshift bridge, but the oil caught its underside and flared, eating the margin she needed. Steady, she told herself as nausea washed over her. Not enough time.

“On your six!” A voice from above, bright and close.

Tape snapped out of the rain. It wrapped the woman’s torso in a smooth, practiced cinch, and Sero swung her free on a clean arc to the safe side of the awning. He landed light, elbow casings clicking. “Got you,” he said, grinning as her shoes skated harmlessly a few centimeters above the cobbles. He eased her down onto dry stone, between upended baskets and the bike rack Ochaco had hovering.

Across the blaze, the thief hugged the case and looked up, calculating. He flicked something small against a belt buckle: a shower of white sparks kissed the film at his feet, and the fireline jumped, crawling faster along the gutter and licking toward a tangle of cords under the awning.

“Ochaco, cords!” Sero warned.

“I see them.” She slapped a palm to a stacked crate; it rose and drifted, settling as a firebreak between flame and wiring. “Cut the power, kill the sign, drop your shutter!” She called out to the clerk. A hand found the main switch; the neon coughed and died, the shutter stuttered down halfway, and metal clanged.

From the dorms’ direction came the slap of bare feet. Kirishima, hair spiked, track pants rain-spotted, jacket unzipped, rounded the corner, eyes alight. “Uraraka! I got your call!” he shouted, skin already roughening. “Lane’s good! I’ll hold left!” He planted himself where the fireline funneled, forearms hardened into a wedge as he braced.

The thief didn’t engage. He dipped his shoulder and pushed off, skating the oil down a service alley, the briefcase clamped under one arm. The act was professional, no taunts, no time wasted.

From the far end of the street, the rising wail of sirens crested into view as Backdraft and a crew of responders sprinted in with extinguishers and reels. One barked over the commotion: “Students, step back! We’ll handle the blaze. Secure the thief!” The order snapped the pivot into place.

“Got it,” Ochaco said, already moving. “Sero, civilian handoff to Backdraft’s team. Kiri, go left and handle the hazard. I’ll hold right. Then we pivot to the alley.”

Sero nodded, already guiding the shaken woman behind the shutter. “Yes, ma’am.”

The fire line found a puddle and sputtered. Rain fell harder for a moment, buying them seconds. Ochaco tagged a metal basket and floated it above the foot traffic like a bobbing buoy, a beacon that coaxed the last cluster of shoppers through the gap. Nausea reset, two in, two out. The heat on her shins prickled; she stepped back, kept her eyes on the alley mouth. The slick there gleamed like a cheap trick, pretty, hungry, and angled straight for them.

Hoses hissed behind the drizzle; radios crackled.

The trio moved with practiced precision in the same breath. “Sling maneuver!” Ochaco called, already tapping her collarbone. Zero Gravity: on.

“On it.” Sero split twin lines to a balcony brace and a street sign, forming a sling.

“Get ready!” Kirishima said, bracing under the tape with a pivot as he spun on his heels.

On the count, they loaded and released; Ochaco shot up, weightless, clearing the roofline for a fast scan. The slick trail cut right, then doglegged left toward the service lane behind a small shop. She keyed the comm: “Visual: right, then left, heading towards Sumire.”

“I’ll block the exit,” Sero called, angling ahead to bar the far mouth with a taut tape span.

“I’ll flank,” Kirishima said, pounding along the parallel walkway.

Ochaco bled altitude in a controlled drop, nausea reset, and hit the ground running to rejoin.

Ochaco’s lungs protested with exertion as she raced across the rain-slicked pavement, her focus fixed on the fleeing figure ahead—an individual clutching a silver briefcase who maneuvered through the street at a perilous speed. His flight endangered a bystander, compelling the civilian to retreat hastily toward a parked vehicle. As adrenaline surged, Ochaco consciously assessed the immediate stakes: their foremost responsibilities were the retrieval of the compromised briefcase and the protection of all civilians whose safety had been threatened by the unfolding crisis. In this moment, her internal resolve crystallized around these dual imperatives, underscoring the critical nature of her decisions and actions.

"I am at the exit on Sumire. I've got the exit blocked off." Sero's voice rang out in their comms.

"Great work, we are coming up right behind you!" Ochaco said in calm confirmation.

Kirishima sprinted past Ochaco’s left. He used the slippery oil as momentum to catapult forward, gliding across the surface using his hardened skin like a pair of skates. He quickly approached the suspect, now only a few steps ahead. Rain dripped from his spiky red hair as he charged forward, fists clenched and skin hardening. He threw himself into the thief’s path like an unbreakable wall, watching as he skidded at the weaving rows of tape.

The thief’s eyes flicked over, and he smirked.

Kirishima lunged forward, throwing a hardened punch.

The villain ducked with casual grace and drove a precise kick into the back of Kirishima’s knee, using Kirishima’s own momentum against him.

Even with his quirk-fueled durability, Kirishima staggered as his leg buckled.

The thief slipped past him in a flash, aiming for a narrow side alley.

Sero was ready. He fired a ribbon of tape that wrapped around the thief’s arm and the briefcase, yanking him to a sudden halt.

With a snarl, the thief struck a spark. The oil and water on the pavement ignited in a rush of flame, and Sero’s tape burned away in an instant.

A tongue of fire raced along the ground at their feet, forcing Sero to spring back. The sudden flare painted wild shadows on the wet walls. A few bystanders at the far end of the street screamed and ducked for cover, as Sero's tape walls burned away to nothing.

Ochaco’s eyes widened at the surge of flames.

Ochaco immediately identified a small child immobilized by fear as flames advanced rapidly across the pavement. Responding without deliberation, she raced forward and extracted the child from imminent danger, narrowly escaping the encroaching fire. The air was consumed by a sudden surge of heat, reminiscent of volatile fumes igniting in a confined space. Once behind the partial protection of a parked vehicle; Ochaco positioned herself as a barrier, instinctively sheltering the child as the car's windows shattered from thermal shock. "Stay down!" she commanded, her voice unwavering despite the physiological effects of adrenaline. In the brief aftermath, as the child clung to her in silent terror, Ochaco experienced an acute awareness not only of her success in averting harm but also of the profound vulnerability underlying her own courage. The moment compelled her to confront the emotional toll her responsibilities exacted, reinforcing both the gravity and the necessity of her role as a protector amid chaos.

Across the street, the thief used the fiery distraction to reposition.

Sero’s quick action had failed, and Kirishima was recovering from that well-placed kick.

Ochaco gritted her teeth. They had to coordinate now. She had the child safe for the moment, so the priority was stopping the villain from escaping with that case. “Kirishima, press him! Sero, Plan B!” she shouted, calling out one of their practiced moves.

Kirishima shook off the sting of the kick and charged again with a determined roar, herding the thief back toward a brick wall. Sero understood instantly: he fired multiple tape lines in a wide arc, stringing up a web of sticky traps to cut off the alley exit once more. In seconds, the narrow alley mouth was crisscrossed with glistening tape strands reinforced with the support gear adhesive.

Skidding to a stop, the thief realized he had made a mistake. He spun around only to find Kirishima closing in from the other side with another heavy swing. The villain raised the briefcase defensively.

Kirishima’s hardened fist slammed into the metal case with a dull clang. The steel dented inward, and the impact sent the thief stumbling back a step.

Ochaco saw a flash of alarm on the man’s face; clearly, he hadn’t expected that kind of raw power.

Snarling, the thief wasn’t finished yet. He stomped a foot, spreading a slick of oil under Kirishima’s feet. Kirishima’s feet lost traction on the suddenly glassy ground, and the villain seized the opening. He drove a palm into Kirishima’s gut, knocking the hardened hero off-balance and toppling him to one knee with a splash. Kirishima wheezed – more from surprise than pain – as the thief whirled to make a last desperate dash.

"Not so fast!" Ochaco had sprinted back to rejoin the fray. Seeing the thief break for freedom, she dove low. Her hand slapped onto his calf, and her fingers splayed wide. In an instant, the man’s leg lost its weight. The thief’s leap turned into an ungainly lurch as his weightless leg swung out from under him. “What!?” With a yelp, he crumpled sideways, crashing to the wet pavement and into a stack of wooden crates by the wall. The briefcase flew from his grip, clattering onto the sidewalk a few feet away.

For a heartbeat, Ochaco felt a fierce surge of triumph. Got him! A familiar nausea tickled at the back of her throat from the overuse of her quirk, but she swallowed it down. They had their opening.

But the thief was nothing if not persistent. Gritting his teeth, he scrambled up from the rubble of crates and spotted the silver briefcase lying loose.

Ochaco’s eyes widened as he snatched it up again with a wild, determined glare.

Cornered and out of options, the man chose his final gambit. He thrust his palms toward a power box on the sidewalk and bellowed in rage.

A pressurized blast of oil slammed into the utility box. BOOM! A burst of white-hot sparks erupted as the transformer blew, and a shockwave tore through the street. Ochaco had to throw her arms up as the concussive force hit her; the next thing she knew, she was on her back on the pavement. Glass shattered in nearby shop windows, and the early morning erupted in a cacophony of car alarms and crackling electricity. Ears ringing, Ochaco pushed herself onto her elbows, trying to reorient. Smoke and steam mingled in the air, turning the street into a haze of neon-lit chaos.

Through the ringing in her ears, Ochaco became aware of a new danger. Her gaze snapped toward an older couple. The earlier blast had sheared through the base of a streetlamp, and now that lamp was beginning to teeter. Sparks danced along its severed wires as the tall pole swayed directly above the spot where the two elders shuffled as fast as they could out of their burning shop. Ochaco’s blood ran cold. She forced her legs to move, desperation giving her speed. Get to them! But even as she tried to sprint, Ochaco knew she was too late; the streetlamp was already falling, hurtling down with a groan of tortured metal.

Suddenly, a dark figure blurred past Ochaco. A tall young man in a black coat leapt in front of the falling streetlamp. With one arm, he swept the elderly couple out of its path, and with the other, he caught the crashing lamppost on his shoulder. Metal struck muscle with a dull crunch, but the newcomer didn’t buckle. He eased the broken lamppost aside, and it crashed to the pavement with a wet clang, spraying sparks into the morning fog.

Rain misted around them as Ochaco skidded to a halt, heart in her throat. It took her a second to process what she was seeing. Their savior set the civilian woman gently back on her feet, then turned to face the stunned villain.

Animus stood there as if he’d been part of the fight all along. Tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair plastered to his forehead, he fixed the thief with a pair of piercing violet eyes. Animus’s usual laid-back air was gone, replaced by an aura of quiet authority that seemed almost tangible in the smoky morning air.

The thief gaped at this sudden interloper.

Animus put the briefcase underfoot as he watched the thief.

The thief's plan was in shambles. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled, eyes darting nervously between Animus and the approaching figures of Ochaco’s team recovering behind him.

Animus didn’t respond. He watched, eerily unfazed by the crackle of residual electricity skittering over the wet asphalt. For a moment, neither spoke. The only sounds were the patter of drizzle and the distant wail of alarms.

With a furious cry, the thief hurled a whipping tendril of oil at Animus’s chest. Animus moved like a shadow, one subtle sidestep, and the liquid lash whipped past him harmlessly. The panicked villain roared and swung the whip back at Animus’s head. In a blur of motion, Animus’s hand snapped up and caught it in mid-air, halting the viscous lash cold. The thief’s eyes went wide.

“Now, centerline!" Animus yelled.

Ochaco pushed herself back to her feet, his voice cutting through the ringing in her ears. The team was already moving.

Kirishima, shaking off the daze of the explosion earlier, charged with a determined roar. He hardened his entire body and slid, creating an unbreakable wall of stone to block.

The thief released his tangled hold on the whip, turning to face the charging young man, but it was too late. Kirishima's punch hit center mass and caused the slick oil villain to careen into the hardened wall, grunting in surprise. He clutched his ribs and squinted as he pushed oil from his legs down to the ground.

Sero's tape dispensers whirred. In a practiced, coordinated move, he fired multiple lines of tape in a web-like pattern, expertly wrapping the thief's feet and one arm to prevent a counterattack. The man was a fly caught in a sticky web, his struggle only tightening the bind.

The thief tried to use the slick ground again, stomping his foot to spread the film, but Ochaco was faster. She sprinted the final few steps and slapped her palm onto the man's chest. "It's over!" she yelled, her fingers splaying wide. The thief’s body, already bound and cornered, suddenly lost all of its weight. His feet lifted from the ground, his struggle useless as he floated, bound and helpless, a few inches above the asphalt.

The team had him. Kirishima lowered his hardened arms, a relieved grin on his face. Animus watched from a distance, the briefcase now safely on the ground beside him, his gaze unreadable as he simply nodded. The sirens grew louder, and the flash of red-and-blue lights danced on the wet pavement.

The fight was over, and they had won it as a team.

Ochaco stood frozen, chest heaving, trying to process the abrupt turn of events. We… we did it. A shaky laugh of relief escaped Kirishima as he pushed himself back to his feet. Sero staggered over from where he had ducked the explosion, eyes wide at their new ally. The two boys exchanged astonished grins.

Kirishima let out a relieved laugh.

Sero gave a low whistle, eyeing the unconscious villain. “Morning,” he puffed with a grin. “Didn’t think we’d get action before breakfast.”

Ochaco stumbled forward, adrenaline still thrumming in her veins. “Thank you,” she said softly, looking up at Animus. Her voice trembled with earnestness. “You were great!”

Animus finally lifted his gaze from the defeated villain and regarded Ochaco and her friends. In the dim morning light and smoky fog, his purple eyes were steady and unreadable. Then he gave a small nod. “Just glad everyone’s okay,” he murmured.

The wail of sirens cut through the fading adrenaline, and within minutes, the street was swarming with police. Leading them was the pro hero Gunhead. He scanned the scene once, the taped-off alley, the clear fire lines, the shaken but unharmed civilians, then strode to Ochaco. “Uraraka,” he said, voice even, “good lane management and clean priorities. You kept the civilian first. That’s pro work.” He tipped his chin to Sero and Kirishima. “Solid support and containment.” To Ochaco again, lower: “You look steady, any nausea? Hands?”

She flexed her fingers and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Don’t chase glory; you made the right calls. Give the sitrep to Dispatch and log your touches for evidence. I’ll take the formal handoff.” The words were simple, but the weight behind them wasn’t; Ochaco felt herself stand a little taller.

One officer retrieved the victims' fallen briefcase. As he secured it, Ochaco caught a glimpse of the now dented, beyond recognition logo, glinting under the streetlights. She wondered what could be inside that was worth all this trouble, a thought that lingered in the back of her mind, hinting at mysteries to unravel. Still, there was no time to dwell on it now.

With the red-and-blue police lights painting the lingering puddles, Ochaco felt the weight of what had happened settle in her bones. The authorities moved in to take statements and haul the groaning thief away in cuffs. The dawn’s chaos was finally subsiding.

Ochaco noticed Animus standing off to the side, in front of one of the storefronts that had been a casualty of the fire and panic. He was quiet and distant as the flames were extinguished and as the police and firefighters finished up. The red-blue lights flickered across his face, highlighting a shadow in his eyes that seemed out of place amid the victory. Everyone was safe now, but something about this encounter clearly weighed on their mysterious classmate. Ochaco couldn’t help but wonder what emotions churned beneath his stoic exterior. Was it regret for the damage done, or a deeper worry that some battles leave scars not immediately visible to the eye? She saw an echo of herself in his silence, a reminder that even heroes sometimes carry burdens heavier than any briefcase.

Then a pungent smell arose from the remains of the shop. Ochaco glanced at the tattered sign on the ground: Colds Comfort Tea Emporium. She remembered All Might recommending it to him. Realization clicked, the tea he’d been hunting for, the comfort he hadn’t been able to get through the committee. The shop was gone.

For the first time since the fight, Animus’s composure slipped. His jaw tightened, nostrils flared once, and he let out a sharp breath that was almost a laugh, almost a growl. He muttered something under his breath that Ochaco couldn’t catch, but the look was clear: frustration, loss, disbelief, all over tea.

Ochaco’s lips twitched despite herself. After flames, oil, and chaos, seeing the stoic Animus undone by a burned‑out teashop was absurd and, somehow, deeply human. A quiet laugh escaped her, easing the tension in her chest as the sirens wailed on.

As the tension of the morning's events ebbed away, Ochaco took a moment to breathe in the rain-kissed air. Amidst the lingering chaos and the rhythm of raindrops, she felt a strange sense of peace. The mission had been a success; each team member played their part, and an unexpected ally had shown the depth of teamwork. Yet, in the tranquility that followed the storm, she couldn't shake the feeling that something deeper was underway. A change in her, in them, in the very world they were striving to protect. A quiet resolve settled within her; whatever came next, she was ready to face it. With a small, hopeful nod to herself, she turned back toward the retreating figures of her friends, feeling the warmth of camaraderie in the damp morning light.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12 - Null Result

The rain in Musutafu was a steady, fine mist that blurred the viewports along the corridor, beading on the glass in long silver threads. Neito Monoma paced it out with theatrical precision, coat collar turned up against the morning chill, heel clicks echoing off polished tile. Around him, the world of U.A. in its third year buzzed with restrained energy.

He arrived early, of course, fifteen minutes before the appointed call time, because arriving early meant being seen. He noted the damp footprints trailing behind Shoji, the low murmur of Class 3-B students comparing modifications to support gear, and the way Kendo smoothed her hair back into a ponytail without thinking. A dozen little vignettes, all of them fuel for commentary later. He skimmed over them, filed them, and kept moving.

The sign-in table was stationed just beyond the translucent gate where the corridor met the training bay. Aizawa had insisted on a proper check-in process, and so Iida stood at parade rest with a clipboard, reciting policy cadence like the captain of a ship. “Name, class, cap-band assignment,” he intoned to each arrival. Beside him, Yaoyorozu worked the cap-band dispenser with effortless grace, scanning names and affixing the slim devices to outstretched wrists. On her lap, a tablet blinked with a long list of names, vitals, and consent flags.

Monoma paused three steps short of the table, theatrically cleared his throat, and swept his capelet back. “Ah, the bureaucracy of heroism,” he announced, loud enough for the students behind him to hear. “Never let it be said that our school lacks for parchment, ”

“Neito Monoma, Class 3-B,” Iida cut in, deadpan. The blue-haired class rep didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Confirmed consent for telemetry?”

Monoma placed his hand flat on the table and leaned in as if whispering a secret. “Why, Tenya, I consent to nothing less than glory,” he declared, then slid his wrist forward for the band. He caught a flicker of amusement in Yaoyorozu’s eyes as she buckled the device around his arm. The band hummed softly and flashed green, linking to his suit’s telemetry interface.

“Sign here,” Momo said gently, passing him the stylus. “Remember, caps flash yellow at seventy percent output. If it hits red, remove yourself immediately and report to Hatsume’s booth.” Her voice was warm, the reminder a mantra they’d all heard before. Monoma signed with a flourish anyway, adding a looping flourish to his surname.

Beyond the table, the corridor opened into the high vaulted interior of ICG-2. The space was all gleaming polymer walls and dynamic light panels, configured now into four long lanes separated by soft barriers. Through the transparent roof, fat raindrops smacked the panels in muffled percussion. Students milled along the sidelines, stretching, adjusting gloves, checking comms. The air smelled faintly of ozone and wet turf.

Monoma made a show of running his fingers along the barrier wall, feeling the give of the material. He turned to the cluster of 3-B students behind him, Shiozaki with her vine-wrapped hair pinned up neatly, Awase tightening his tool belts, Komori humming softly under her breath. “Observe,” he said sotto voce, “the arena of our glorious interplay. Remember, we are not here merely to spar, we are here to demonstrate the superiority of Class B’s teamwork and adaptability.” He let the words hang, then smiled brightly as if he believed them.

In truth, his stomach fluttered with nerves, though he would never show it. He’d spent months honing his quirk copy cadence, rehearsing the swagger that kept his classmates simultaneously amused and exasperated. Today he intended to copy Animus, the mysterious transfer student whose presence had become the buzz of the dorms earlier this morning. Monoma shook off the thought; first came the warm-in, the lanes, the sign-in ritual that gave his hands something to do.

He drifted down the corridor toward the warm-up area, eyes darting to other lanes. On Lane A, Midoriya murmured quietly with Uraraka and Iida, their heads bowed together. Lane B saw Tokoyami adjusting his cloak’s weight while Koda nodded along to Shoji’s gentle instructions. Lane C was a swirl of pastel as Mina Ashido stretched, her acid-pitted boots squeaking softly. Lane D, his lane, eventually, remained quiet, the trio scheduled later for the mixed rounds.

“Neito!” Kendo called, jogging up to him. She flicked him lightly on the forehead. “Cut the monologue and stretch. You’re up after the warm-in.” Her tone was sharp but not unkind. Monoma blinked and affected a wounded look, then gave her a little salute. “As you wish, class president. I suppose I must prepare for my inevitable triumph.” She rolled her eyes and moved on.

He exhaled, then began his warmup routine: rolling his shoulders, twisting his torso, lunging to test the tension in his suit’s seams. The cap-band pulsed once, syncing with his heart rate. The training bay around him hummed with similar routines, each student a point of focus in their own story. Monoma allowed himself a brief smile. He may not have had the raw power of Midoriya or the silent ferocity of Bakugo, but he had something else: a voice, a stage, and the ability to adapt. For now, that would be enough.

For all his bravado, Monoma treasured structure. The sign-in gave him a moment to catalogue the day: Phase 0 warm-in with its stretches and calibrations; Phase 1 with four simultaneous 3v3 bouts; Phase 2’s cross-class matchups; the free-scrimmage chaos to follow. It soothed him the way memorizing a script did. He could measure expectations against reality and adjust his performance accordingly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hatsume Mei bouncing toward the telemetry booth, pink hair bobbing, goggles askew. She dragged a rolling cart loaded with spare cap-bands and haptic cuffs. “Power Loader!” she called, vanishing behind a bank of monitors. A moment later her voice crackled over the intercom, distorted and enthusiastic: “Heads up! Band feedback is live. If you feel a buzz on your wrist, that’s me telling you to chill!” Students chuckled; Bakugo scowled.

Aizawa’s voice followed, amplified but somehow still dry. “Caps hold or you sit. Capture over crush. I don’t want to see any of you pushing through a redline.” Vlad King stood beside him, arms crossed, his demeanor more lenient but no less firm. “Reset. Hydrate. If your band blinks yellow, you’re benched one round,” he added.

Monoma absorbed the admonitions with one ear while performing knee pulls and torso twists. He snuck a glance at Animus, who stood near Lane C with arms folded, expression unreadable. The transfer student’s uniform was immaculate, his cap-band already glowing green. He exchanged a nod with Bakugo, who responded with a curt jerk of the chin. The economy of that gesture told Monoma everything: mutual recognition, mutual challenge, no wasted motion. The sight sent a ripple of anticipation through him.

“Bet you’re thinking about copying him,” Rin remarked, as if materializing at Monoma’s elbow. “Animus, I mean. Are you planning to monologue? Even though you have no idea what his quirk is yet?”

Monoma clicked his tongue. “Perhaps. Perhaps I’m planning a demonstration of adaptability so grand that the teachers will rewrite the curriculum. Perhaps I’m simply here to remind Class A that charisma is a quirk unto itself.” Rin laughed, low and musical.

“If your band goes yellow,” Rin said, “I’ll drag you off the floor myself.” There was affection in the warning.

The warm-in concluded with a quick dry capture drill. Students paired off and practiced throwing the padded capture tape used in the ICG. Monoma let Sero loop his arms and legs in a mock bind, then showed off by slipping free with a twist of his shoulders. “You see,” he announced, “even without copying a binding quirk, I am uncontainable.” Sero rolled his eyes and snapped the tape lightly across Monoma’s arm; the cap-band pulsed yellow for a heartbeat as he flinched.

“Watch it,” Sero said, though there was a grin on his face. “You tap out early and we’ll never hear the end of it.”

By the time Iida called for teams to line up at their assigned lanes, Monoma’s muscles were loose and his mind buzzing. He stepped into position behind the starting line, flanked by his first match partners Shoda and Awase. He bounced on the balls of his feet, feeling the give of the floor, the press of the cap-band snug around his wrist. Rain hammered the roof above, a steady drum that underlined his heartbeat.

He took a breath, rolling his tongue over the top of his teeth, feeling the coppery ghost of adrenaline building. He glanced once more at Animus, then at the barrier separating his lane from Lane A. The coin of anticipation dropped inside his chest with a soft, satisfying clink. The match was about to begin.

The warm-in began as a controlled choreography of bodies and routines. After the sign-in, Class 3-A and Class 3-B filtered into the open space between the lanes, forming loose circles around their respective captains. Aizawa signaled with a raised hand, and the murmur of conversation faded into the rhythmic cadence of dynamic stretches.

Monoma took his place beside his classmates, mirroring Kendo as she led them through shoulder rolls and hip swings. The air was cool, scented with the faint tang of ozone from the environmental scrubbers. Rain pattered on the roof above, but inside, the sound was muffled beneath instructions.

“Quadriceps stretch. Count to eight,” Iida called from his lane, his voice cutting clean through the hum. Midoriya and Uraraka mirrored his motions with precision. Across the way, Tokoyami’s cloak swished as he lunged, Dark Shadow emerging briefly to mimic him before dissolving back into shadow at his shoulder.

Each class’s warm-up had subtle differences. 3-A favored efficiency, short, sharp stretches and functional movements, while 3-B allowed for more theatrics. Shiozaki weaved her vine hair around her arms like a ribbon, testing flexibility. Komori crouched, fingertips brushing the floor, humming softly to ground herself. Rin rotated his wrists in quick circles, a prelude to the arcs he’d carve later.

Monoma watched and catalogued. He noted Todoroki’s quiet focus, the way Jiro tapped her foot in time to an internal rhythm, Kaminari shaking out his hands to avoid static build-up. He saw Animus again, standing at the edge of the warm-in area, performing each motion with deliberate control. There was no flourish in his movements, no wasted energy. Bakugo, two paces away, rolled his shoulders and shook out his arms like a fighter stepping into a ring. Their proximity crackled with unspoken competition.

Once bodies were loose, cap-bands were calibrated. Students lined up at a waist-high console operated by Hatsume. One by one, they tapped their bands to a scanner and watched the display flash green. “You’re good,” Hatsume said brightly each time, passing out tiny adhesive sensors for those who’d opted in to additional telemetry. Monoma affixed one behind his ear, feeling the cool gel against his skin.

“Telemetries sync,” Hatsume announced over the intercom. “If you feel a buzz, throttle back. Remember: these bands adjust for fatigue and quirk strain in real time. Trust them.” Power Loader stood behind her, arms folded, watching the line. His presence radiated quiet authority.

With warm-ups complete, Aizawa gestured toward the chalkboard at the far end of the bay where the lane assignments were listed. A holographic interface shimmered into view, projecting the names of each trio and their lanes. Phase 1 would pit Class 3-A against Class 3-B in four simultaneous matches: Midoriya, Uraraka, and Iida versus Kendo, Shoda, and Awase in Lane A; Tokoyami, Shoji, and Koda versus Shishida, Shiozaki, and Komori in Lane B; Todoroki, Jiro, and Kaminari versus Tsuburaba, Manga, and Tetsutetsu in Lane C; Ashido, Aoyama, and Hagakure versus Pony, Tokage, and Bondo in Lane D.

Monoma felt a familiar thrill at seeing the names appear. It wasn’t his turn yet, his trio with Shoda and Awase was scheduled for Phase 2’s mixed rounds, but he relished the vicarious tension. Lane assignments determined matchups, strategies, reputations. He watched his classmates react: Kendo squared her shoulders, eyes flicking to Midoriya; Shiozaki clasped her hands together in a prayerful gesture; Tsuburaba pumped his fist in the air.

“Remember,” Aizawa said, stepping in front of the hologram, “the objective is clear captures, safe ring-outs, or a teacher-called stalemate. No ultimates. If your cap-band hits yellow, throttle. If it hits red, freeze.” Vlad King added, “Between bouts, you’ll have sixty seconds to hydrate and reset. We’ll do wellness checks. This is training, not war.”

As the first teams moved toward their lanes, Monoma took a position at the barrier to watch. The warm-in had loosened his muscles and sharpened his focus; now he shifted into analyst mode. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the padded barrier, and studied the trifecta of 3-A on Lane A. Midoriya wore a new version of his costume, the hood down, his green hair damp from the mist outside. Uraraka adjusted the straps on her gauntlets, flexing her fingers; the small movements betrayed a readiness to react. Iida stood tall, calves tensing, his muffler engines gleaming.

On the opposite side, Kendo tightened her gloves and exchanged a nod with Shoda, whose hands crackled with energy. Awase flexed his quirk anchors, small tools clicking into place along his forearms.

The lane assignments set the stage, but Monoma knew that variables would shift once the bouts began. Rain made the roof panels slick; humidity affected grips; adrenaline had a way of throwing off calibration. He tucked these thoughts away. Warm-in done, assignments posted, all that remained was to see how the first exchanges would unfold.

Phase 1 — Lane A opened with a soft echo of sneakers against polymer flooring and the low whir of cap-bands syncing. Lane A stretched long and narrow beneath the transparent roof, rain streaking above like shooting stars. The trio from Class 3-A, Midoriya, Uraraka, and Iida, took their positions at one end; opposite them stood Kendo, Shoda, and Awase from 3-B.

From the sidelines, Monoma tracked the initial spacing. Midoriya crouched slightly, weight centered, eyes flicking over the opposing team. His gauntlets flashed with faint green as he tuned his output. Uraraka stood off to his right, gloves hovering near the release switches on her wrists, ready to lift whatever she touched. Iida held the back line, engines on his calves idling quietly, his role clear: anchor and interceptor.

Kendo raised her hands, palms expanding into oversized fists, a grin pulling at her lips. Shoda flexed his palms, tiny sparks of condensed energy forming. Awase’s forearm connectors clicked as he rotated the tools he could attach; today he wore a spool of capture tape and a set of detachable clamps. They advanced in a staggered line, testing the footing.

The match began on Vlad’s whistle. For a heartbeat, both teams held, reading each other. Midoriya darted forward first, a burst of green lightning in his wake. He closed distance with Shoda, feinting left before springing right, tapping his shoulder just long enough to divert his attention. Uraraka used the distraction to fling a padded grappling hook at Awase’s ankles; the hook clamped on, and she tapped her fingertips together, activating her quirk. The hook and rope lightened instantly, pulling Awase off balance. He laughed and detached the clamp, rolling to absorb the momentum.

Kendo surged toward Iida, oversized fists swinging in controlled arcs. Iida revved his engines and strafed sideways, using Recipro Burst in short pulses to avoid being ringed out. He countered with quick jabs of his forearms, aiming to tag Kendo’s wrists and reduce the effective range of her strikes. For a moment, the two exchanged rapid blows, each testing the other’s reactions without committing fully.

Shoda recovered from Midoriya’s feint and launched a palm-thrust that condensed his energy into a narrow beam. Midoriya tucked and rolled, letting the beam sizzle over his shoulder and scorch the lane barrier. He used the roll’s momentum to pop up beneath Kendo’s reach, touching her elbow and giving Uraraka a clear line. Uraraka tapped the lane floor, lightening a strip of material; when Kendo’s front foot hit the spot, she skated forward involuntarily. Iida capitalized, using the opening to tag Kendo’s shoulder with a cap-band-registered touch. Kendo’s band flickered yellow, prompting her to throttle down. She smiled wryly and took a step back to reset, not out but momentarily contained.

On the 3-B side, Awase adapted quickly. He snapped a grappling tape from his wrist, aiming it around Midoriya’s waist. Midoriya grabbed the tape mid-air and anchored it to the floor, preventing his own capture and causing Awase to yank himself forward. Shoda used that moment to angle a concussive pulse at Uraraka. She lifted a broken chunk of lane debris, one of the foam barriers cracked earlier, and sent it spinning to intercept the pulse. The debris exploded into harmless confetti, buying her enough time to float another hook toward Awase.

Midoriya shifted into a low gear. He flicked three fingers forward, releasing a blast of compressed air that curved deliberately away from Shoda and toward Awase’s feet, stirring up dust and forcing a reposition. At the same time, he mouthed a quick count to Iida. The two had developed a silent language over years of training; on three, Iida dashed in, engines flaring, to sweep Shoda’s legs out from under him. Shoda reacted by converting his fall into a backward roll and firing off a burst of energy at Iida’s calves. The shot connected, triggering Iida’s band to blink yellow. He stumbled but stayed upright, resetting his throttle.

The first capture came when Uraraka, timing her moment, tagged Awase’s shoulder after he overcommitted to a counter-swing. She immediately clapped her hands together, releasing the quirk’s effect. Awase, now normal weight, stumbled into Midoriya, who seized the opportunity to wrap him in a length of Sero-style tape provided by the lane’s equipment. With Awase immobilized and his band flashing red, Vlad called a freeze on Awase. The 3-B student nodded, conceding that exchange.

Kendo and Shoda regrouped at the lane center. Aizawa shouted a coaching cue from the sideline: “Angle your approach! Don’t line up for Midoriya’s air shots.” Vlad echoed with, “Reset positions. Hydrate.”

The teams retreated to their halves for a quick cooldown. Sweat beaded on Midoriya’s brow, and his breathing was controlled but heavier. Iida flexed his calves, checking the cap-band’s status. It remained yellow for another second before returning to green. Uraraka shook out her arms and sipped from her hydration pack. On the other side, Kendo laughed and punched her own palm lightly, adjusting to the rhythm. Shoda sat cross-legged for a moment, eyes closed, centering himself.

From the barrier, Monoma nodded appreciatively. The first exchange had been clean and controlled, each move purposeful. It highlighted Midoriya’s tactical improvisation, Uraraka’s utility with the environment, Iida’s anchor role, and Kendo’s adaptable power. It also underscored 3-B’s quick counters and teamwork, even if they had been the ones captured this time. The bout would reset in seconds, and Monoma could already see Shoda whispering adjustments to Kendo while Awase rolled out his shoulders in preparation for round two.

Phase 1 — Lane B. On the north end of the building, Lane B presented a contrast of textures and quirk palettes. Tokoyami stood with his cloak draped over his shoulders, Dark Shadow coiled like a living shadow at his feet. Shoji flexed his multi-armed frame, tentacles extending and retracting as he tested his range. Koda crouched low, fingers pressed to the floor, murmuring soft encouragements to unseen critters in the ventilation shafts. Across from them, Shishida rolled his shoulders and let out a low growl, his Beast quirk sharpening his senses. Shiozaki wove her vine-like hair between her fingers, coaxing tendrils into readiness. Komori bounced lightly, mushrooms already sprouting between the cracks in the lane floor.

The whistle snapped them into motion. Tokoyami sent Dark Shadow surging forward in a broad sweep, creating a zone of intimidation. Shishida met it head-on, claws out, the collision of quirk manifestations sending ripples through the air. Shoji used the distraction to extend two dupli-arms to either side, each tipped with an eye and ear to cover flanks. He relayed information with a quick code: two taps to signal an approach. Koda whispered, and a pair of doves fluttered from a ceiling vent, circling over Shiozaki’s head. She blinked, vines swatting gently at them.

Komori’s mushrooms erupted, tiny spores drifting toward Tokoyami and Shoji. Dark Shadow recoiled at the unfamiliar smell, and Tokoyami had to wrestle with his partner, commanding restraint. Shoji, anticipating, used a spare limb to scoop up a foam training board and fan the spores back toward the 3-B trio. Shiozaki responded by extending her vines in a sweeping arc, capturing the board and snapping it in half. She sent a tendril snaking toward Koda, who widened his eyes but maintained his soft calls. In response, a stray raccoon dog scampered from a maintenance hatch and gnawed at the vine, buying him a reprieve.

Shishida leveraged his enhanced strength to push through Dark Shadow’s zone, forcing Tokoyami to call his partner back defensively. The shift left an opening. Komori launched a volley of mushrooms at Shoji’s ankles. He leaped, but one spore burst, releasing a slick film. His cap-band flashed yellow as his balance faltered.

Shoji adapted quickly, using a spare arm to anchor himself to Koda’s shoulder while swinging another to grab Dark Shadow’s trailing edge. Tokoyami, understanding immediately, whipped Dark Shadow in a circular motion, creating a wind current that scattered the spores and gave Shoji time to regain footing. Koda, seizing the moment, directed his newly arrived pigeon squadron to dive-bomb Komori. She squealed, ducking, mushrooms popping harmlessly.

The capture came when Shiozaki overextended a vine in pursuit of Tokoyami. Dark Shadow looped around the tendril, pulling it taut. Shoji then used two dupli-arms to bind the vine with capture tape, drawing Shiozaki toward the lane boundary. Koda, with surprising strength, grasped Shishida’s wrist just as a family of alley cats skittered in to mewl at his feet. Distracted, Shishida stumbled. Tokoyami darted in, tapped Shiozaki’s shoulder with a cap-registered tag, and Aizawa called a freeze for her. She bowed her head, acquiescing gracefully.

The teams reset, breathing hard. Dark Shadow retreated, muttering about mushrooms; Tokoyami patted its shadowy head. Shishida huffed a laugh, clearly enjoying the contest. Komori brushed spore dust off her sleeves and signaled readiness for the next exchange. From his perch at the barrier, Monoma scribbled mental notes: Lane B’s bout showcased environmental control and quirky counters, Shiozaki’s vines vs. Dark Shadow’s reach, Komori’s spores vs. Shoji’s adaptability, Koda’s gentle influence turning animals into allies. It was messy and whimsical, but effective.

Phase 1 — Lane C. The battle felt like a rhythm game layered with elemental tests. Todoroki stood at its center, one side of his costume frosted with chill, the other shimmering with heat. Beside him, Jiro adjusted the headphone jacks extending from her earlobes, her fingers poised above the amplifier dials on her wrists. Kaminari rolled his shoulders, tapping the side of his head to focus, static crackling faintly at his fingertips. Their opponents, Tsuburaba, Manga, and Tetsutetsu, spread out with a swagger that only 3-B could muster. Tsuburaba spun a translucent disc of solid air in his palm, Manga flexed his vocal cords and whispered test syllables, and Tetsutetsu slammed his fists together, steel ringing on steel.

At the whistle, Tsuburaba hurled his disc of solid air, creating an instant wall in front of Kaminari. Kaminari grinned and tapped his index and middle fingers together, sending a controlled jolt into the air disc. Electricity spiderwebbed across its surface, grounding itself harmlessly. He used the feedback to gauge its density, then called out, “Fifteen centimeters thick!” Jiro nodded and pivoted, planting one ear jack into the floor. She sent a pulse of sound along the surface, using the returning vibration to map out the lane.

Manga inhaled deeply and shouted “BOOM!” The onomatopoeic quirk manifested as a physical shockwave that rushed toward Todoroki. He raised his right hand, releasing a sheet of ice that met the shockwave and shattered, dissipating much of its force. Simultaneously, he slid forward on the ice like a skater, closing distance with Manga. Tetsutetsu intercepted, arms crossed in front of him, absorbing the collision with a metallic grunt.

Tsuburaba began shaping solid air into narrow corridors, trying to herd Todoroki into predictable lines. Kaminari saw the trap forming and shouted a quick code. He then unleashed a low-voltage burst that traveled along the moisture on the floor, leftover condensation from Todoroki’s ice, arcing up the walls of solid air. The electricity made the constructs visible and temporarily brittle. Jiro took advantage, slamming a heel into the weakened wall and shattering it with a resonant thump.

Jiro’s quirk turned into the key pivot. She tapped both jack plugs to the floor and sent a rhythmic beat pulsing through the ground: dum dum, a signal to Kaminari. He timed his discharge with the beat, releasing bursts of electricity in sync. The pattern forced Tetsutetsu to match the rhythm to predict when to brace. Manga attempted to disrupt by shouting “CRACKLE” and “THUNDER,” but the nature of his quirk meant the sounds manifested physically rather than affecting Jiro’s internal tempo. Todoroki, seizing the pattern, unleashed alternating waves of fire and ice timed between Kaminari’s bursts. Heat forced Tetsutetsu back; cold slicked the ground under Tsuburaba’s feet, causing him to scramble for grip.

The first ring-out happened when Manga, focusing on projecting a barrier with “WALL,” didn’t see Todoroki’s ice creeping toward his boots. The ice sheet lifted slightly, tipping Manga over the lane boundary. His cap-band blinked red, and he laughed even as he rolled out of bounds. “Nice timing!” he called. Aizawa signaled a freeze for Manga, leaving Tsuburaba and Tetsutetsu to continue.

Kaminari overcharged, the edges of his hair spiking. His band flickered yellow, warning him to throttle back. He took a steadying breath and redirected his output through Jiro’s amplifier jack; she winced but channeled the energy into a concentrated sonic cone aimed at Tsuburaba’s latest wall. It shattered cleanly, sending shards of solid air scattering like glass.

Todoroki closed in on Tetsutetsu, using short, controlled bursts of heat to soften the metal hero’s guard, followed by spikes of cold to freeze his footing. Tetsutetsu grinned and muscled through, but his foot stuck fast to the icy patch for a second. Jiro dashed in and tapped his shoulder with a capture tag. His band blinked red, and he froze, acknowledging the capture. The round reset, leaving both teams breathing hard and grinning.

Monoma, still watching from the barrier, couldn’t help but respect the interplay. Lane C was a study in timing and synergy: Jiro’s beat, Kaminari’s surge, Todoroki’s control. Tsuburaba’s constructs and Manga’s sound constructs created obstacles, but Class 3-A danced through them. He jotted mental notes about the clever synchronization, a template he might repurpose later.

Phase 1 — Lane D. The matchup promised unpredictability and misdirection. Ashido grinned wide, acid-pitted boots planted firmly, pink hair already damp from the humidity. Beside her, Aoyama struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other pointing dramatically with his Belt Lasers primed. Hagakure adjusted the band around her wrist, visible only as a shimmering distortion in the air where her hands moved. On the opposite side, Pony bounced lightly on her hooves, horns gleaming; Tokage’s eyes flicked from side to side, her body segments already twitching with anticipation; Bondo flexed his fingers, viscous glue bubbles forming at each tip.

The opening seconds were a dance of reveals and feints. Ashido sprinted forward, sliding on a thin layer of acid she secreted to reduce friction. She skated past Bondo’s initial glue blobs, splashes of acid neutralizing the sticky patches. Aoyama hung back, feet planted, unleashing a quick laser beam toward Pony. She deflected it with a tilt of her horn, sending the beam ricocheting off the barrier harmlessly. Hagakure, invisible, ghosted along the right flank, leaving only slight depressions in the mat.

Tokage responded by dividing her body into eight floating segments, each segment hovering independently. Three pieces darted toward Ashido, while two circled wide to flush out Hagakure. Bondo flicked his wrists, launching arcs of glue that splattered across the lane, creating hazardous zones. Pony lowered her head and charged, horns aimed at Aoyama.

Ashido giggled and spun, spraying a semicircle of acid that ate through the glue patches and forced Tokage’s segments to veer off. She executed a cartwheel and tapped one of Tokage’s body parts with a cap-tag; the segment blinked red, momentarily immobilized. Tokage grimaced but quickly regrouped, reassembling her body minus the tagged segment. “Clever!” she called.

Hagakure used the distraction to sneak up behind Pony. A slight shimmer appeared as she tapped the back of Pony’s horn, a legal capture point. Pony’s band blinked yellow, cautioning her to throttle. She whirled, horns slashing through empty air as Hagakure darted away, invisible giggles trailing behind.

Bondo found his rhythm, laying down strips of viscous glue like trap lines. Aoyama, unperturbed, executed a ballet-like pirouette and fired a precise laser at Bondo’s feet. The beam cut through a glue line, causing Bondo to stumble. He recovered by shooting a glob of adhesive toward Aoyama’s midsection. Aoyama yelped dramatically, twisting his torso to avoid the blob; his band pulsed yellow as he overexerted his core. He placed a hand to his forehead in exaggerated distress, then winked at Ashido.

The capture sequence culminated when Ashido used her acid to carve a narrow, safe path through the glue field, allowing Hagakure to sprint unseen straight at Bondo. At the last second, Hagakure revealed her presence with a quick, whispered “Gotcha!” and tapped Bondo’s shoulder. His band flashed red, and he froze, hands up. Pony, still throttled to yellow, attempted a final horn thrust at Aoyama, but he slid aside with surprising grace and tapped her elbow. Her band flickered red as well.

Tokage, the sole remaining 3-B fighter, reassembled fully and eyed Ashido and Aoyama. Vlad signaled the reset before a full 2-on-1 could unfold, citing time. “Cooldown, reset, and we’ll rotate lanes,” he called. Students laughed and clapped as the fighters jogged back to their marks.

Monoma scribbled another mental note: Lane D’s round was equal parts slapstick and strategy. Acid versus glue, invisible taps versus floating body parts, lasers ricocheting off horns. It highlighted the creative chaos possible within the safety constraints. He tucked the observations away, perhaps there was something to be learned from Hagakure’s stealth or Ashido’s mobility.

Intermission — Phase 1 ➜ Phase 2. While fighters rotated lanes and students rehydrated, Monoma saw his chance. Animus stood near the edge of Lane C, speaking quietly with Aizawa about cap-band readouts. The transfer student’s hair was damp with sweat from stretching and small spars as he waited for his turn on the lane, his brow uncreased. He exuded an ease that irritated and fascinated Monoma in equal measure.

Monoma approached with feigned nonchalance, wiping his forehead theatrically. “Don’t overwork yourself before you even step on the mat,” he drawled. “Your restraint in your spars is almost as impressive. Too shy to use your quirk? I’d love to, ah, compare notes.” Without waiting for permission, he reached out and brushed Animus’s forearm with his fingertips.

The familiar sensation of quirk-copying, a brief flicker of circuitry and arcs in his mind, did not come. Instead, he felt… nothing. No surge of power, no echo of sealed networks. For half a second, his brain registered an inert anchor, a blank placeholder. His own quirk returned a null result. Monoma’s eyes widened before he masked the surprise with a flourish, flipping his hair back and laughing loudly.

“Ah, as expected! I’ve… confirmed your quirk’s stability,” he announced, improvising the phrase. He clapped Animus on the shoulder as if bestowing a blessing. Animus’s expression didn’t change. If anything, a small crease of bemusement appeared.

Aizawa’s gaze snapped to the contact point. His eyes narrowed, and for an instant his irises turned red as if his quirk activated reflexively, though he didn’t erase anything. He made a mental note: the copy quirk returned nothing. Curious. He tucked the observation away for a conversation with Nezu later. Aloud, he said only, “Enough theatrics. Save it for your lane.”

Monoma took two steps back, performed a small bow, and pirouetted away, talking loudly about anchors and calibrations to anyone who would listen. Internally, his mind raced. He had never encountered a quirk he couldn’t at least taste. Even Eraserhead’s nullification left a signature of void. Animus’s anchor was inert, like touching polished glass. The anomaly thrummed in his bones. He filed the sensation away with equal parts frustration and intrigue.

Rin sidled up to him moments later. “How did it go?” he whispered. Monoma waved a hand airily. “Perfectly. Our friend Animus has a quirk of secrets, but secrets are merely stories waiting for the right narrator.” He laughed again, louder, hoping the sound would drown out the disquiet he felt.

Up in the catwalk, Aizawa murmured to Vlad, “Did you see that?” Vlad nodded. “I’ll log it,” he said. “Better mention it at the debrief.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 13 - Marquee Trio

Bakugo cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders as he watched the last bouts of Phase 1 wrap up. The rain still hammered the roof panels, but inside, the air thrummed with residual quirk energy and the sharp scent of sweat. His eyes tracked Midoriya's retreating form, then slid to Animus at the far end of the bay.

He inhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, tasting the ozone. A mental click, like a coin dropping on metal. It was time to reset his lens. No more Monoma theatrics, no more lane-hop commentary. Bakugo's world narrowed to heat vectors, blast angles, and the weight of expectations he'd put on himself since the first day of U.A.

He flexed his hands, feeling the familiar tingle of nitroglycerin seeping through his palms. Aizawa's admonition echoed in his head: caps hold or you sit. He wasn't worried about redlining; he was worried about wasted movement. Bakugo had always equated power with speed and ferocity, but watching Animus in the previous rounds had shifted something. The transfer student moved with an economy Bakugo hadn't appreciated until he saw it in action. It wasn't restraint born of fear; it was an understanding of output and consequence. Control, not flash.

"You're up," Kirishima said, clapping him on the back. Bakugo grunted in acknowledgment. His trio, himself, Kirishima, and Animus, would face Monoma, Rin, and Kodai next. He didn’t care about the spectacle; he cared about winning clean and fast. He watched Animus approach, a flicker of assessment in his gaze. Animus met his eyes, a silent challenge and a shared, unspoken desire to simply 'do this right.

As they lined up at Lane A for Phase 2, Bakugo shook out his arms one last time. The world sharpened. He could hear the soft whine of cap-bands calibrating, the distant cough of Dark Shadow in cooldown, the faint click of a pen as Monoma prepared for his next monologue. Bakugo smiled; a thin, feral line. Let them talk. He would let his actions speak.

Animus Athame stood calm at the center of the Main Gym floor, rolling his shoulders as the roar of student onlookers echoed off the high ceilings. The optional cross-class scrimmage had drawn most of U.A.’s third-years to the stands. High above on a catwalk, Aizawa’s dark silhouette and Vlad King’s bulk signaled that the teachers were in position to supervise. The air hummed with anticipation. This was a public evaluation of teamwork and mettle, a chance for Class 3-A’s newly formed triad to prove themselves against Class 3-B’s best.

Katsuki Bakugo cracked his knuckles to Animus’s right, explosions sparking in his palms in impatient pops. To Animus’s left, Eijiro Kirishima bounced on his toes, red hair vibrant under the gym lights as he smacked a fist into his palm. Across from them waited their opponents: Neito Monoma with a theatrically smug grin, Hiryu Rin with his arms already peppered in a sheen of hard reptilian scales, and the ever-stoic Yui Kodai adjusting her gloves. All wore the standard UA training gear with small metallic bands on their wrists, power-limiters issued for safety, meant to cap quirk output to non-lethal levels. “Remember: capture over crush,” Vlad’s voice boomed in reminder, emphasizing that a clean disable or immobilization would determine victory, not excessive force.

Animus closed his eyes for a breath, centering himself. He felt the faint weight of the piercings lining his ears and lower lip, his support gear and the key to his quirk. The matte gunmetal disks lay flush against his skin, inert for now. Each was a sealed conduit to power he kept carefully restrained. He flexed his fingers and opened his eyes, his gaze flicking to his unfamiliar teammates. “Clear heads. We’ve got this,” he said quietly, his voice an attempt at calm amidst Bakugo’s simmering aggression. Bakugo merely huffed, crimson eyes locked forward, a flicker of surprise at Animus's declaration. Kirishima, after a brief hesitation, gave Animus a quick, if slightly uncertain, thumbs-up.

On the opposing side, Monoma’s grin broadened as he caught Animus’s eye. The blond Class 3-B student bowed with overdone flourish. “Try not to disappoint, Class A!” he called out, voice dripping provocation. Animus didn’t bite; he simply slid one foot back into a ready stance, hands loose at his sides. He had no intention of starting this fight flashy. Low-profile mastery, that was his style. Let Bakugo’s ferocity and Kirishima’s solidity draw the eye; Animus would find the cracks to exploit. A faint mirage-like heat shimmered around his shoulders as he exhaled, a tiny tell of the contained energy within.

A digital buzzer sounded the start. In the heartbeat before chaos, Animus’s focus sharpened. His dark eyes tracked every opposing movement, and the thin violet limbal rings around his irises brightened subtly as he prepared to react. The Marquee Trio showdown was on.

The instant the buzzer blared, Bakugo blasted forward with a howl of exhilaration. “Let’s go!” he roared, an explosion propelling him in a sudden lateral burst. The floor tiles blackened under his palms as he launched, leaving a crackling burst of smoke in his wake. His target was Hiryu Rin, Class B’s durable powerhouse. Scaled armor or not, Bakugo intended to hit him hard and fast. He remembered facing Rin in their first year’s joint training; those razor scales could be fired like bullets and made for decent armor, but Bakugo was confident he had the firepower to smash through.

“Haah!!” With a twisting mid-air spin, Bakugo let fly a clustered barrage of explosions aimed at Rin. The blasts flashed orange and white, concussive booms rolling across the gym. The first blast forced Rin to cross his scaled arms in front of his face. Scales flew off from the impact, Rin snarled, dented but still standing. The second explosion followed immediately, but Rin had already reacted. A fan of glittering scales shot from his forearm in return fire, glinting like a storm of throwing knives as they streaked toward Bakugo.

“Tch!” Bakugo clicked his tongue and threw himself into a tight barrel roll mid-leap, narrowly evading the lethal rain. A couple of scales grazed his sleeve and one nicked his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. Bakugo’s eyes widened, Rin’s aim had improved since last time. But Bakugo wasn’t deterred; if anything, the sting on his cheek only fueled his adrenaline. He hit the ground in a crouch, using one palm blast against the floor to arrest his momentum and skid back a few meters safely out of range.

Smoke curled from Bakugo’s fingertips. He flashed a feral grin. “Not bad, scales! Let’s see you handle this!” With a swift sweep of his arm, he lobbed a controlled stun grenade blast high. The explosion popped bright and loud above Rin, a flashbang meant to daze. At the same time Bakugo rocketed forward at ground-level, aiming a follow-up explosion at Rin’s midsection to exploit any opening.

Across the court, Monoma looked less composed now that the fight had begun in earnest. Bakugo could see the Class B mimic flanking to the side, perhaps hoping to catch someone off guard. As Bakugo closed in on Rin, he kept Monoma in his peripheral vision. If that copycat tries something… Bakugo thought, teeth bared in anticipation. He hadn’t forgotten how Monoma loved to target 1-A’s strongest for his quirk. The idea of Monoma stealing Explosion made Bakugo’s blood boil. “I’ll blast him to bits if he even tries,” he growled under his breath.

But first, Rin. The stun grenade had made Rin flinch, a brief falter in the other boy’s stance. Bakugo capitalized, diving low and releasing a concentrated blast aimed upward like an uppercut. The fiery explosion caught Rin under the ribs. Even through sturdy scale plating, the force lifted Rin off his feet with a gasp of pain. He crashed back a few meters, boots scrabbling for purchase.

“Take that!” Bakugo barked, triumphant spit flying. Yet even as he said it, he saw Rin skidding to a stop, planting one scaled hand on the ground and using the momentum to pivot back upright. The guy was tough, his scales had partially cracked from the blast, smoking at the edges, but Rin’s eyes were fierce. He coughed, then grinned through the pain. “That all you got, Bakugo?” he panted. Clearly, Rin wasn’t down yet.

Bakugo cursed under his breath. This wouldn’t be a one-and-done knockout; Class B was putting up a fight. Fine by him. His palms crackled eagerly as he prepared to drive the assault onward. But before he could close the distance again, a blurred shape interposed itself protectively between Bakugo and Rin.

Monoma had been waiting for his moment. As soon as Bakugo’s blitz had drawn Rin and everyone’s attention, Monoma skirted around the flank with theatrical lightness to mask his true intent. His pale eyes darted, analyzing positioning. Bakugo was busy with Rin. Kirishima had moved toward center field, uncertain whom to assist first. And Animus… Monoma’s lips curled into a smile. The new transfer student hung slightly back, focused and poised but untested in Monoma’s eyes. An unknown quirk. How delicious, Monoma thought. Copying Animus could give him a wild card advantage that Class A wouldn’t expect.

While Bakugo hammered Rin with explosions, Monoma signaled sharply to his teammates. “Ko-dai!” he hissed under his breath, slicing a hand toward Bakugo’s blind side. Kodai caught the cue. With her characteristic calm, she pressed her fingertips together, activating her Size quirk. At Monoma’s earlier urging, Yui Kodai had come prepared: she slipped a tiny metal sphere from her pocket, a ball bearing no larger than a pea, and rolled it along the ground toward Bakugo. In the chaos of fire and smoke, Bakugo didn’t notice the small object clinking to a stop near his foot. Kodai’s eyes narrowed; she spread her fingers in the release motion. The ball bearing instantly expanded, swelling to the size of a bowling ball right under Bakugo’s next step.

Bakugo’s boot hit the suddenly enlarged orb and slid. “What the?!” He windmilled an arm to keep balance, momentarily thrown off as the heavy ball rolled. Rin, recovering from the blast, capitalized by lunging in with a wide arc of his leg bristling with scales aimed at Bakugo’s midsection. A sweeping kick to return the favor from Bakugo’s earlier strike.

But an armored figure intercepted. “Kirishima!!” With a guttural kiai, Eijiro Kirishima dashed in front of Bakugo, Hardening his body in the blink of an eye. His skin turned to solid, rock-like flesh just as Rin’s scaled kick connected. A sharp crack resounded, Rin’s hardened shin met Kirishima’s literally rock-hard block. Kirishima slid back a half-step from the impact, but he did not falter. “Haha! Nice try, Rin!” Kirishima grinned fiercely, teeth clenched as he absorbed the blow. The redhead’s forearms were raised in a guarding X, looking a bit scuffed but intact. Rin staggered back, momentarily stunned that his powerful strike hadn’t budged the human rock before him.

Monoma saw his opening. With Bakugo stumbling and Kirishima occupied shielding him, Animus stood a few paces behind them, alone for this second. Monoma’s heart pounded as he sprinted lightly around the skirmish. The thrill of a well-laid plan electrified him. Copy was a quirk that demanded timing and boldness, and Monoma had both in spades. “Pardon me, just going to borrow that!” he chimed as he reached out to snatch Animus’s wrist in passing.

His fingertips brushed Animus’s skin. Monoma’s quirk activated in an instant, invisible but felt, a siphoning sensation as he attempted to seize Animus’s ability for his own. Monoma expected the usual rush of foreign power flooding his system. Instead, a spike of feedback hit him like grabbing an exposed electrical outlet. His breath caught; it felt like he’d grabbed something red-hot and inert at the same time, a sealed vault with no key. What? Monoma’s eyes widened in confusion. Animus’s quirk came back to him as an anchor without a chain, an empty weight dragging at Monoma’s consciousness. He felt… nothing usable. No new power ignited in his veins.

Animus reacted instantly, ripping his arm free and pivoting. Monoma found himself staring into eyes ringed by a sudden sharp violet glow. A cold mirage of heat rippled off Animus’s form and a thin wisp of steam curled from one of the metal studs on his ear. The sight sent a jolt through Monoma, had his copy attempt triggered something in Animus?

For a split-second, predator and prey reversed. Monoma hastily backpedaled, scrambling to mask his failure. “Ahaha, nothing there worth copying after all?” he taunted, forcing a cocky smirk even as a numbing tingle danced across his hand from the odd feedback. Inside, Monoma seethed. No quirk of value? Or did I just not get it to work? He refused to believe he’d misjudged, perhaps Animus’s quirk required equipment or had some block. Regardless, Monoma decided he’d simply overplay it as intentional. “I expected more!” he said loudly, hoping to save face.

Animus’s dark gaze didn’t waver. He stepped forward and Monoma tensed, but Animus surprisingly didn’t press an attack. Instead, Animus’s hand rose to touch a small device on his neck, a comm or switch, Monoma couldn’t tell. With calm clarity amid the fray, Animus spoke, seemingly to no one, “Executing Plan Apollo.” The words were a gamble, a desperate attempt to bring his unfamiliar teammates into a coordinated effort he hadn't yet explained.

Plan Apollo? Monoma’s stomach sank. Whatever Animus was initiating, Monoma needed to disrupt it fast or risk losing control of the match’s momentum.

He whirled to find Kodai. She was already a step ahead, Kodai had retrieved the now-large metal sphere with effortless strength and shrunk it back down for another shot. Monoma caught her eyes and nodded sharply toward Animus and Bakugo. They still stood near each other after Kirishima had intervened. Kodai understood: target the cluster. Rin was exchanging blows with Kirishima now, scaled fists against hardened punches in a flurry of clangs and grunts, so he would keep Kirishima busy for a moment. It fell to Monoma and Kodai to break the trio’s formation.

Monoma dashed back into the fray, this time angling toward Bakugo from behind while Kodai flicked her tiny sphere into the air behind Animus. In sync, Kodai splayed her fingers to enlarge the projectile mid-flight. It grew from pebble to boulder-sized, hurtling toward Animus’s back as a sudden looming threat.

“Look alive, newbie!” Monoma crowed, lunging toward Bakugo with arms outstretched, aiming to tag him and copy his explosive quirk next. If Animus’s power wouldn’t serve, Monoma would gladly take Bakugo’s famed Explosion for himself.

Kirishima’s muscles burned, but he was elated. This was the kind of fight that got his blood pumping, man against man, strength against strength. He ducked under a slicing swipe of Rin’s scaled hand, countering with a hardened straight punch to Rin’s chest. The impact thudded; Rin grunted, skidding back a step. They were evenly matched so far in close quarters, and Kirishima couldn’t help but flash a wild grin. “Hell yeah! This is a real brawl!” he laughed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima caught chaos unfolding behind him. Monoma was trying to get his grubby hands on Bakugo now, darting around like an annoying gnat. And Kodai, when had she pulled out a boulder?! Kirishima’s eyes widened as he saw a massive sphere of metal hurtling toward Animus’s blind side from Kodai’s quirk. Animus was locked on Monoma and Bakugo, likely unaware of the incoming crush.

“Animus, heads up!” Kirishima shouted, but he wasn’t sure his voice carried over the cacophony of clashing quirks. In that split second, Kirishima made a snap decision. Rin saw his distraction and capitalized, a volley of scales shot toward Kirishima’s torso like dagger-like bullets. Kirishima reflexively hardened further, bracing. A couple of the scales shattered against his abs, one lodging painfully in his side between plates of hardened skin. Kirishima hissed at the sting, but he didn’t falter. Ignoring the pain, he charged toward Animus, determined to intercept the boulder if Animus couldn’t.

His legs powered forward, arms pumping. He felt the tug of exhaustion from prolonged hardening and the cumulative hits he’d taken, but Kirishima’s resolve was like iron. Protect your team, that was Kirishima’s core. Bakugo and Animus needed covering, and he would be the shield.

As Kirishima barreled closer, he saw Animus react in the nick of time. Animus had half-turned at Kirishima’s warning. The huge metal orb was mere moments from slamming into him. Animus’s stance dropped, one foot sliding back, his right arm sweeping up with palm out. Kirishima saw a brief flash of something cross Animus’s features, not fear, but intense concentration.

Then, impact. The boulder met Animus’s outstretched hand, and halted. Kirishima’s jaw fell open. Animus had caught the enlarged sphere, or rather, stopped it with an open palm glowing faintly violet at the edges. The force of the object’s momentum shuddered through Animus’s frame, visible strain in the tautness of his arm, but he held fast. A resonant clang echoed as the metal vibrated against an unseen barrier just shy of Animus’s skin. For a split second, Kirishima thought he saw a thin outline of black-violet energy around Animus’s hand, like an aura blade or shield, before the glow dissipated. Animus grimaced, muscling the boulder aside where it crashed to the floor with a gym-shaking thud.

Kirishima whooped in relief, but there was no time to celebrate. Monoma was on Bakugo, fingertips about to clamp onto Bakugo’s shoulder from behind. “Bakugo, behind you!” Kirishima yelled.

Bakugo reacted with feral instinct, twisting and letting off a concussive blast at the ground that sent him vaulting up and away from Monoma’s grasp in a burst of smoke. Monoma stumbled, his hand grasping empty air where Bakugo had been a millisecond before.

Kirishima skidded into position between Monoma and Animus now, broad shoulders heaving. He interposed himself as a barrier, daring Monoma to try getting past him. “Not so fast!” he barked at Monoma. Kirishima’s skin was still fully hardened, a living bulwark. A trickle of blood from the lodged scale in his side dripped down his costume, but Kirishima ignored it. He gave Monoma a toothy grin. “You’ll have to go through me first!”

Monoma’s confident façade showed a flicker of irritation. He danced backward a few steps, recalculating in the face of an unwavering Kirishima and a now-alert Animus behind him. Nearby, Kodai was withdrawing, likely to retrieve or shrink her spent projectile for another go. Rin was approaching at Kirishima’s back, slower, he was nursing one arm, scales regrowing there after Kirishima’s punches had cracked a few.

“Eijiro, status?” Animus’s voice came from behind Kirishima, calm but with an undercurrent of urgency. Kirishima realized Animus was checking on him. He appreciated that, but he felt even better than fine. He felt strong. More than adrenaline, a physical vigor coursed through him. Even the ache of his bruises and the sting of the embedded scale had dulled unexpectedly.

“I’m good, bro!” Kirishima called back, flashing a thumbs-up without taking eyes off the opponents. In truth, Kirishima felt great. He rolled his shoulders and clenched his fists, hardness intensifying with a fresh burst of energy. Something had changed, Animus’s intervention perhaps? Kirishima wouldn’t have guessed that Animus’s quirk could reinforce him, but there was no time to ponder. However it happened, he’d use it. “Let’s finish this fight!”

Animus’s heart pounded with exertion and focus. The battle had escalated rapidly, and now was the moment to shift gears. Kirishima’s timely warning had saved him from a crushing blow, and in that same moment Animus had tipped his hand by using a fragment of his quirk, channeling aura to deflect Kodai’s boulder. Sloppy, he chided himself. The whole point was to avoid drawing attention, but necessity had forced him. There was no taking it back. Now Monoma’s sharp gaze was dissecting him with renewed interest, likely realizing Animus was more than he seemed.

No more holding back. Animus tapped the communicator at his neck, a desperate gamble. “Bakugo, Kirishima: linking now!” he said tersely, his voice strained. This was a first, a leap of faith. He hoped they would understand, or at least trust his judgment in the heat of battle.

“Do it!” Bakugo shouted from above, having taken perch on a chunk of broken concrete wall. Kirishima braced himself on the ground, calling, “No worries, I’m ready!” Both, surprisingly, trusted him, Bakugo with an impatient confidence, Kirishima with an enthusiastic faith that Animus hoped to earn."

Animus inhaled deeply. With a focused mental command, he activated two of his seals simultaneously. Tiny cool-blue rings of light glowed at the micro-seams of twin piercings, one on his left ear’s helix, one on the right lobe, before the disks shot forth like bullets. These two metal studs streaked through the air on directed paths, one toward Bakugo, one toward Kirishima.

Kirishima’s seal zipped to him and clipped onto his earlobe, latching on firmly. The flat disk adhered as if magnetized, its cool-blue ring light flaring once then settling. Kirishima gave a brief start at the sensation, eyes widening as he felt the link take hold. Up in the air, Bakugo’s seal zipped to him and clipped onto his earlobe. “Hah!” Bakugo barked in surprise at the attachment, twisting as if to swat a bug, but he stopped himself, he remembered to tolerate this “support item.” The seal’s blue gleam reflected for an instant against Bakugo’s ash-blond hair before dimming to an integrated glow.

Animus felt the links snap into place in his mind, like circuits completing. A coin of heat ignited under his collarbones where the central node of his gear sat. His body surged, releasing two seals was like taking weighted gloves off. The world around him seemed to clarify as suppressed power flooded back into his limbs. His hair, already tousled from the fight, gained a few new streaks of shimmering silver among the black as heat conduits awakened along his conductive pathways. Animus clenched his fists; his strength and reaction speed both notched upward noticeably.

At the same time, he now touched the edges of Bakugo’s quirk and Kirishima’s quirk through the links. Information and potential streamed in, a dizzying surge. It wasn’t an instantaneous mastery, more akin to finding new limbs attached to his body, requiring immediate, frantic coordination. Animus could feel Bakugo’s explosive sweat sparking at his palms, and Kirishima’s hardening ability available like an extra layer under his skin, both at reduced intensity compared to their owners, but now, astonishingly, his to command so long as the seals remained.

He also felt the strain begin, the Power Debt ticking lightly now that the external piercings were active. It was still minimal, well within safe tolerances, but Animus’s physiology noted it. A faint tremor wanted to start in his fingertips from the initial link strain, but he steadied it. Not yet, he told his body. He needed a few more minutes at most; he would not let the debt climb far.

“Kirishima, boosting you,” Animus said through gritted teeth. He mentally shunted one of the 15% power pips from the link into Kirishima. The effect was instant: Kirishima practically glowed with renewed vigor. The Class A brawler flexed and laughed, the cuts and bruises bothering him seemingly forgotten. Animus knew Kirishima’s durability and strength would now run even higher, roughly a sixth stronger than before. Enough to make a difference.

Bakugo landed back to the ground with a thud, eyes darting from the sensation of the blue-lit seal on his earlobe to Animus. “If this screws with my explosions, ” he started to snarl.

“Check your six later. Just feel it now,” Animus interjected firmly. He didn’t have time for Bakugo’s protests; better to let the results speak. Through the other link, Animus decided to hold the second boost for himself rather than immediately feeding it to Bakugo. The truth was, Bakugo already output massive power and the limiters were in place; an extra 15% raw might push near what the safety cap allowed. Instead, Animus kept that pip to stabilize and amplify his own usage of Bakugo’s quirk, ensuring he could wield Explosion effectively without injuring himself.

Bakugo rolled his shoulders, then his eyes widened a fraction in genuine surprise. He did feel it, his next breath came easier, muscles felt primed, a foreign surge of energy. “What the—,” he started to snarl, but a quick, almost involuntary, vicious smirk told Animus he approved, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.

Across the way, Monoma’s face had fallen into something between awe and outrage. “What was that? What can’t you do, Class A?!” he spat, though his eyes belied a spark of anxiety. He had clearly not expected Animus to suddenly supercharge his teammates mid-fight.

Animus responded not with words, but action. Fueled by Kirishima’s fortifying power and Bakugo’s explosive might, he surged forward to initiate the next exchange, a strange new strength coursing through him. He sprinted at Monoma, each step covering meters effortlessly. Monoma yelped and backpedaled, but Animus closed the gap with blink-quick speed. At the last second Monoma raised his arms in a feeble guard. Animus feinted low then swung a hardening-enhanced punch aimed at Monoma’s gut, the unfamiliar sensation of Kirishima’s quirk vibrating through his fist.

Monoma had managed to copy Kirishima’s quirk in their scuffle moments ago, his skin flickered into a coarse hardened state just as Animus’s fist struck him. Even so, the blow landed with enough force to double Monoma over, the copied hardening mitigating only a portion of the impact. Monoma wheezed, stumbling back. Animus didn’t pursue further; he flowed past Monoma toward Kodai, trusting his teammates to handle the rest of Monoma and Rin.

Kodai had her hands on the large boulder she’d thrown, likely intending to shrink it down for reuse. She looked up just as Animus bore down on her. Kodai’s eyes went wide, her calm demeanor finally cracking. She flung her hands forward, fingertips pressed, presumably to enlarge something as a shield or weapon. But Animus wasn’t going to give her the chance.

He skidded low, slamming a Bakugo-copied explosive palm into the ground at her feet. The resulting blast was controlled but potent, a shaped detonation that uprooted the floor mats and sent Kodai tumbling back with a cry. Concrete dust and smoke billowed, obscuring her. Animus felt a slight sting in his hand from the unfamiliar recoil of using Explosion, but it was minor, his own careful output modulation instinctively preventing self-injury from the raw power. Still, the jolt up his arm told him it was about a 70% strength version of Bakugo’s typical blast. More than enough.

Kodai was down, not out, Animus could make out her silhouette already scrambling up, coughing, likely to withdraw and regroup. But she’d be smart enough not to re-engage immediately after that blow.

Animus pivoted back to the center of the gym. Through the haze, he saw Kirishima and Bakugo double-teaming Rin now. Bakugo unloaded another barrage of explosions at Rin’s front while Kirishima dashed behind Rin and delivered a hammer blow to the back. Rin, overwhelmed, took the hit full-force. With a final pained grunt, Rin collapsed to one knee; Kirishima quickly cinched one of the capture tape bands around Rin’s arm, marking him effectively caught.

Only Monoma remained fully in play, and he was furious.

Hiryu Rin’s vision blurred as he knelt, trying to suck in breath past the ache in his ribs. One of Bakugo’s explosions had left his ears ringing, and Kirishima’s last punch had nearly cracked his back armor. Rin had given it everything, his scales were strewn around him like fallen leaves, many shattered by the relentless assault from two directions. Damn… so strong… he thought, frustration and admiration swirling. He’d trained for close and long-range versatility, but being cornered by Bakugo’s sheer firepower and Kirishima’s tenacity was a nightmare matchup. Still, Rin had held on as long as he could, determined to prove Class B’s mettle.

Now, however, Rin’s body wasn’t obeying. His muscles trembled when he tried to push off the floor. Kirishima’s well-placed capture tape sealed the deal; even if Rin could stand, the match rules considered him detained. He slammed a fist on the floor in vexation, scales clinking off. “Damn it…” he muttered.

Through the clearing smoke, Rin squinted to see how Monoma and Kodai fared. Yui was down near the wall, coughing but seemingly intact, wiping dust from her face. Their eyes met. Kodai gave a small shake of her head, a silent apology or perhaps frustration at being outmaneuvered.

Rin’s gaze then found Monoma. The Class B leader was in the center, facing down all three Class A members now by himself. Rin knew Monoma’s pride would never let him surrender, not until he’d tried every trick. But even Monoma looked beleaguered, he was clutching his stomach where Animus had struck, and his stance betrayed fatigue.

Still, Monoma’s voice rang out, dripping defiance. “Is that all you Class A heroes have?!” he taunted, coughing once mid-sentence. “I expected a true spectacle!”

Rin grimaced. He admired Monoma’s pluck, but the situation was dire. From his kneeling vantage, Rin noticed something about Animus, thin wisps of silver now streaked the black of Animus’s hair, and his previously composed face looked drawn with effort. Rin also caught a slight unsteadiness in Animus’s last step. He’s getting tired… or something’s affecting him. Rin’s analytical mind whirred, Animus’s quirk likely had a cost or drawback that was showing itself. If Monoma could prolong things, maybe Animus would falter.

But Kirishima and Bakugo showed no signs of slowing. Kirishima in particular looked somehow fired up beyond his second wind, Rin didn’t know Animus had boosted him, only that Kirishima seemed to be reveling in adrenaline. As for Bakugo, his palms were popping with small idle blasts, that trademark feral grin on his face as he stalked toward Monoma. It was 3-on-1.

Rin grit his teeth. He hated feeling helpless. With a groan, he tried to peel the capture tape off, unsuccessfully, as it was adhered with a mechanism. He could only watch the final moments unfold, hoping Monoma might pull off a miraculous strategy or at least go down with dignity.

Monoma noticed Rin’s state and Kodai’s hesitation and realized he stood alone. “Yui! Get back in here, ” he barked, but his usual commanding tone cracked. Kodai shook her head subtly and pointed to the scoreboard display where her name and Rin’s both showed as “captured.” If she rejoined, it would technically break the exercise rules. They had lost, essentially. But Monoma, blind to defeat, just snarled, “To hell with that, we can still, ”

He never finished. Bakugo had heard enough.

Bakugo had long since run out of patience for Monoma’s speeches. Seeing Monoma still posturing, Bakugo decided to shut him up Bakugo-style. “Oi, loudmouth!” he yelled, drawing Monoma’s attention, and then Bakugo was suddenly airborne again, vaulting on an explosion to close the distance. Monoma raised his arms as if to react, but too late.

Bakugo feinted one way, then spun in mid-air and released a controlled AP Shot explosion, a focused blast, right at Monoma’s feet. The detonation was sharp and narrow, kicking up a burst of debris and knocking Monoma off-balance. Monoma yelped as he was flung backward, arms flailing.

Before Monoma could even hit the ground, Bakugo was above him, gauntlet fist cocked. He’d pulled his punch just short of a strike, but it was clear, Bakugo could have blown Monoma sky-high in that moment. “It’s over,” Bakugo growled, smoke rising from his readied fist inches from Monoma’s face. Monoma, sprawled on his back, stared up with wide eyes, sweat trickling down his temple.

For a half-second, Bakugo considered actually firing, just a little blast to hammer in the lesson. But a firm voice cut through his haze of victory. “Enough, Bakugo,” came Aizawa’s command from the sidelines. Bakugo clicked his tongue and lowered his fist. He grabbed Monoma by the front of his shirt and hauled him up roughly instead.

Monoma grimaced, clutching at Bakugo’s arm as he was lifted. In a last burst of spite, or perhaps desperation, Monoma slapped his palm against Bakugo’s wrist where skin was exposed. Bakugo felt the touch and tried to yank away, but too late, Monoma’s quirk activated in that split instant.

Bakugo’s eyes widened. “You little!” he shouted, shoving Monoma back down. But now Monoma’s grin resurfaced despite his bloody lip and battered state. “Got you,” Monoma croaked. A crackle of energy sparked in Monoma’s own palms as he stumbled to his feet. He had copied Explosion.

Monoma’s arms trembled as he raised them. It was clear he was near his limit, but sheer willpower and vindictiveness pushed him. “We go down together, Bakugo!” he cried, and ignited a blast. An orange explosion burst forth from Monoma’s palms, wild and less controlled than Bakugo’s versions. The blast hurtled toward Bakugo at close range.

Bakugo instinctively braced, but Kirishima was faster. In a red blur, Kirishima threw himself between Bakugo and Monoma’s last-ditch attack. “RAAAGH!” Kirishima roared, crossing his hardened arms to absorb the explosion head-on. Fire and force engulfed him. Bakugo staggered back from the shockwave, momentarily blinded by the flash.

When the smoke cleared, Kirishima was still standing, braced and unbroken. His hero costume was singed black in patches, and bits of hardened skin had cracked away from the force, but Kirishima shook off the soot and gave a thumbs-up, coughing. “I’m okay!” he wheezed, smiling toothily. The boost from Animus had done its job, without it, that blast might have done more than just crack his armor.

Monoma looked utterly spent, and horrified. Bakugo saw the realization dawn in Monoma’s eyes: his copied explosion hadn’t downed Kirishima, nor even touched Bakugo. It was over. This time, truly over.

Bakugo wasted no time. With a swift motion, he whipped out a capture tape band from his belt and lunged at Monoma. Monoma tried to dodge, sluggishly, but Bakugo was relentless. He grabbed Monoma’s wrist and spun behind him, binding Monoma’s arms together with the tape in one fluid move. Monoma let out a cry of protest, struggling for a moment before the binding tightened.

“And stay down,” Bakugo hissed, giving Monoma a slight shove forward. Monoma fell to his knees, hands tied behind him.

A klaxon blared from the gym speakers, followed by Present Mic’s amplified cheer: “That’s it! Bout over – victory to Team 3-A!” The watching students erupted in applause and gasps; some had been holding their breath in those final moments and only now released it in a collective exhale.

Bakugo rolled his shoulder, trying to hide the fact his hands were shaking slightly from exertion and adrenaline. That was more intense than he’d expected. He cast a side-glance at Animus, who stood a few paces away, arms lowered. Animus had deactivated the links, the glowing seals detached themselves from Bakugo and Kirishima and flew back to Animus’s waiting palms with a metallic clink. Bakugo felt a slight drop in that extra edge of energy, but otherwise was fine. He watched Animus catch the piercings between his fingers with practiced ease. The transfer student then subtly reinserted the seals onto his earlobes with a calm exhale, as if reloading a chamber.

Bakugo approached Animus, clapping a hand on Kirishima’s shoulder as he passed his friend. “Good block, Shitty Hair,” he muttered, which in Bakugo-ese was high praise. Kirishima beamed despite his sooty face. “Anytime, man!”

Stopping in front of Animus, Bakugo crossed his arms. “Not bad, newbie”, he said gruffly. His eyes flicked over Animus appraisingly. Animus’s hair was noticeably more silvered than at the start and his face was a touch paler, but he was standing steady. Bakugo had noticed how clean and efficient Animus’s moves were, especially catching that boulder and the way he’d blown Kodai off her feet. Discipline and economy in motion, as Aizawa would say. Bakugo gave a sharp nod. “Ya did good. That boosting thing…pretty handy.”

Animus offered a faint, tired smile. “You two made it count,” he replied, voice a bit raspier than before, Bakugo picked up on the strain in those words, likely a consequence of Animus’s quirk usage. Animus inclined his head respectfully to both of them. “Hell of a job out there.”

Bakugo just grinned a wild, canine grin. “Heh, of course it was. We’re awesome.” Behind them, Kirishima laughed and slung an arm around both of their shoulders in a moment of exuberance. “That was teamwork at its finest, bros!”

As the dust settled, support medics jogged in to check on the fighters. Recovery Girl wasn’t present, this was a supervised spar, not an all-out battle, but the school nurse aides handed out ice packs and quick-fix spray for minor burns and cuts.

Animus stepped back from the spotlight while Bakugo basked in the adulation of some classmates who ran up to congratulate him. Kirishima was immediately surrounded by a couple of 3-A friends fussing over the lodged scale in his side and the cracked skin on his arms (which he proudly declared “just a scratch!”).

Monoma, still bound, was helped to his feet by none other than Itsuka Kendo, Class B’s rep, who had come down from the stands shaking her head. “Alright, Neito, that’s enough”, she sighed, undoing the capture tape. Monoma winced, freed, and opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, but Kendo preemptively bonked him (lightly) on the head. “Ow!” Monoma rubbed his scalp, then finally slumped. “I nearly had them…” he muttered petulantly.

“You nearly had a trip to the infirmary”, Kendo retorted, but she patted his shoulder kindly. “Come on, you did well. Class B is proud of all three of you.” Kodai walked up quietly and offered Monoma a small nod of agreement, placing the now re-shrunken metal ball back into his hand. Rin, arm draped over another 3-B student for support, added, “Yeah… we gave ‘em a fight. Next time, we’ll win.” He managed a fang-toothed smile, and Monoma straightened slightly at that camaraderie.

On Class A’s side, a cluster of their classmates swarmed the winners. Mina Ashido bounced with excitement, pink arms flapping. “Kirishima! That was so manly how you took that blast for Kacchan!” she squealed. Kaminari was nudging Bakugo with a grin. “Dude, you and the new guy did a combo move! Never thought I’d see the day.” Bakugo brushed him off with a tch, but didn’t completely deny it.

Shoto Todoroki offered a quiet congratulatory nod to Animus from a distance, arms folded. He had been watching intently, Animus could tell Todoroki was analyzing every detail, perhaps comparing this new dynamic to his own team experiences. Even Aizawa, up on the catwalk, gave a subtle nod of approval as he made notes on a tablet.

Animus stood a bit apart, catching his breath. Now that the adrenaline was fading, he felt the Power Debt he’d accumulated nag at him. His fingers were indeed trembling faintly at his sides and there was a persistent ringing in his ears, signs of the lower-tier strain. He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice, which came out rough from exertion. The afterimages from his earlier aura burst flickered at the edges of his vision; he blinked them away. Debt around 4 or 5, he mentally assessed, recognizing the telltale rasp and tremor. It would pass with a short rest and hydration.

Kirishima noticed Animus standing alone and broke from the crowd to jog over (wobbling only slightly from his own fatigue). “Hey man, you alright?” Kirishima asked, concern evident despite the grin still plastered on his face. He had an ice pack pressed against his side now where a nurse aide had pulled out the embedded scale. “You look a little out of it.”

Animus lifted his hands and realized they were shaking just enough for Kirishima to see. He curled them into fists to stop it. “I’m fine. Just the cooldown”, he said evenly. Kirishima raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced. Animus remembered the guidance: show costs every time. He exhaled and offered transparency. “Using my quirk like that… it has a price. I’ll be feeling it for a few minutes. But nothing serious, I promise.”

Kirishima’s eyes flicked to Animus’s now-darkening hair (the silver strands already fading back to black) and then to Animus’s eyes, where the violet ring had dimmed to a soft afterglow. “Roger that”, Kirishima said with a gentle pat on Animus’s back. “You did amazing. And thanks for the boost, I felt like I could punch through a wall!”

Animus allowed a small chuckle. “You practically did. Nice block back there. I owe you one; that explosion Monoma threw… I might not have reacted in time.” He flexed his fingers, the tremor subsiding gradually.

“Anytime, bro. We’re a team, right?” Kirishima flashed a thumbs-up, repeating his earlier gesture. Animus bumped his fist lightly against Kirishima’s offered thumb, a quiet gesture of solidarity that made Kirishima beam.

Nearby, Bakugo had extricated himself from the congratulations and strode over, arms still crossed. “Alright, break’s over”, he barked, though it clearly wasn’t; this was the last match of the scrimmage event. That was just Bakugo’s way of dealing with warm fuzzy moments: by bulldozing through them. “We showed those B-listers what real teamwork looks like. Good job or whatever. Now don’t let it get to your heads.”

Kirishima and Animus exchanged an amused glance. “You got it, Kacchan”, Kirishima teased, knowing full well Bakugo hated that nickname from anyone but Deku. Bakugo scowled, but there was no heat in it.

As the trio began walking off the arena floor together, Animus allowed himself a final look back. Monoma was limping toward the exit with his team, pride likely more wounded than his body. Yet even Monoma gave a begrudging half-salute when he caught Animus looking. It was almost respectful in its acknowledgment. Animus returned a polite nod.

The stands buzzed with lingering excitement. Class 3-A had proven their cohesion spectacularly in front of everyone. Animus, the newcomer, felt a weight lift from his shoulders. This was his first real test with his new classmates, a chaotic, exhilarating plunge into the unknown, and it couldn’t have gone much better. They were walking away not just victorious, but as a nascent, stronger unit forged in the heat of battle.

Aizawa’s voice came over the mic, calling an end to the session and instructing everyone to clean up and head out. As Animus left the battlefield alongside Bakugo and Kirishima, he heard Kirishima already chattering about how they should review the match footage later to improve, and Bakugo grunting that he’d rather train than watch tape. Animus found himself quietly smiling at their banter.

His body was exhausted, the Debt making his limbs heavier by the minute, but his spirit was light. In this marquee trio showdown, they had not only showcased their individual quirks, but, against all odds and for the first time, demonstrated true teamwork, covering each other’s weaknesses and amplifying each other’s strengths in a way none of them could have predicted. In the grand scheme of becoming pro-heroes, this was one small step, but an important one.

Animus walked on, shoulders proud but relaxed, ready for whatever trials awaited next, knowing he had allies at his side who he could trust, and who trusted him in return.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14 - The Voluntary Scrimmage

Weary or not, students slipped into the familiar post-training ritual; gear gathered, exits in sight. A buzz still hung in the air, a bright hum against the quiet exhaustion settling over a few. Animus, Bakugo, and Kirishima were angling toward the locker rooms when the intercom cracked to life. The announcement cut through the murmurs.

It was Vlad King’s voice this time, less dry than Aizawa’s, but equally firm. “Attention, all third-year students. Due to exceptional data collected during Phase 1, and to further assess adaptive strategies, a voluntary free scrimmage will commence in Training Gym Gamma in thirty minutes. Caps remain required. Bands stay on. Live telemetry will be monitored from the Gamma booth by Hatsume and Power Loader. This session will focus on mixed-class matchups and individual problem-solving. Participation is optional but highly encouraged for those seeking additional combat experience. Report to Gym Gamma in your training gear if you intend to participate. Hydration and rest are advised for those who opt out.”

Aizawa's voice followed, a low, almost imperceptible addition, “Consider it an extension of data collection. And don't be idiots.”

A notice flashed across the hallway screens: caps hold or you sit remains in effect; bands stay on, and Hatsume with Power Loader will be monitoring live telemetry from the Gamma booth.

The announcement sparked a fresh wave of murmurs and excited whispers. The idea of a “voluntary free scrimmage” immediately shifted the mood. For some, like Bakugo, it was a renewed challenge, a clean chance to push limits and erase any doubt left on the floor. Kirishima, despite his fatigue, visibly brightened at the thought of being the shield for his friends. It always gave him a second wind. Animus, however, faced a pivotal decision. He ran a quick systems check: Debt a steady thrum, breath even, fingers mostly calm. Intrigue braided with caution. The chance to rehearse team trust pulled at him, but his priority hardened: manage the meter. He set a firm rule: no new debt today. He visualized the SABLE kiosk’s color bars and remembered Aizawa’s steady gaze. If he chose to participate, he’d follow a simple decision tree, linker last, spotter first; seals holstered; deploy only to prevent a hit or to stabilize a teammate; abort on first glassy tremor. He picked a focus: stand at the far barrier, feed clean callouts, keep timing for others, no showboating. His micro-goal was clear: leave the gym with Debt no higher than five. That was the question driving this moment: could he reinforce trust and timing without taking on new Debt, and still walk out at five or less? If it crept higher, he pictured a seal skittering in his grip. That glassy tremor turned fine control to static. The SABLE kiosk would flip him to orange, then he would be benched. Worse, the thin trust Bakugo and Kirishima had handed him would fray. The opportunity to observe, learn, and solidify bonds was invaluable. It shaped his resolve to keep all seals holstered unless it kept someone safe.

As they reached the locker room, the energy shifted. Some students peeled off for rest; others, including Midoriya, Uraraka, Iida, and a practically vibrating Ashido, traded quick nods and started pairing up. The gym was clearing, but the work wasn’t. With ICG-2 resetting for tomorrow, staff had already shifted the voluntary scrimmage to Gym Gamma; anyone staying grabbed gear and headed that way.

For those who chose the latter, the move itself reset them: out of ICG-2, across the mezzanine, and down into Gym Gamma. The annex was a deliberate downshift from the gleaming bay, lower ceiling, scuffed polymer, softer, diffused light. It read workshop, not stage: a place to try things where a misstep counted as data, not failure. Animus felt his breath settle; the lived-in scratches steadied him. Kirishima’s shoulders loosened, as if the weight he liked to carry was finally shareable. Even Bakugo’s jaw eased a fraction, the rigid calm promised effort over theatre.

Midoriya, after a quick, rehydrating sip from his water bottle, found himself drawn to the center of the gym. He’d seen Shiozaki's precise control of her vines in the earlier bouts, a defensive and tactical quirk that intrigued him. This was a chance to test his own abilities against a unique, non-combative quirk, pushing his agility and evasive maneuvers without the pressure of an all-out offensive.

“Shiozaki-san,” Midoriya called, approaching with a slight bow. “Would you mind a quick spar? I'd like to practice navigating... well, your vines.” He gestured vaguely, a blush rising on his cheeks.

Shiozaki turned, her expression serene, her vine-like hair already beginning to unfurl from its neat pin-up. “Midoriya-kun. Of course. It would be an honor to assist in your training.” Her vines, thick and verdant, seemed to ripple with a gentle life of their own. “What aspect would you like to focus on?”

“Evasion,” Midoriya admitted, flexing his fingers. “And maintaining momentum against a dynamic obstacle.” He activated Full Cowl, a faint green lightning crackling around him, a soft hum accompanying the surge of power. “I'll try to get past you to the other end of the lane.”

Shiozaki nodded, a small smile gracing her lips. “Then let us begin.” They set simple goals: Midoriya would test evasion and route-mapping with live callouts; Shiozaki would rehearse lane modulation, non-damaging restraint, and clean releases the instant his band buzzed.

She spread her arms. Vines unfurled. The open gym folded into a verdant labyrinth, floor, pillars, scaffolding. A living curtain.

Midoriya breathed in. Eyes map, then move. He launched a blur of green. Slip. Weave. Duck. Vault. Twist. A whip-lash of vine. Turn past it. Feet whispering on polymer. Breathe out. Reset. Go. Eyes closed. Shiozaki was listening to the whole room. Her vines answered, shifting, sealing lanes. One corridor erased. Another born. Not an attack, pressure. Relentless. Gentle. Everywhere.

Midoriya's body seemed to thrum. Air dragged his sleeves. The floor tremored under each landing. He fed every signal into the math of escape.

“I'll vary the lanes, call what you see,” Shiozaki said, voice even. “Archway opening. Pillar lane closing.”

“Copy. Switching,” Midoriya puffed, folding her cues into his route.

Next pass, he gifts her a bind. She takes it. Tightens. Buzz. Release.

“Reset.”

Grins on both sides; a drill, not a duel.

Across the gym, reinforced bags rattled as Kaminari crackled toward Tetsutetsu, 3-B’s steel wall with a grin. First, a pit stop, Jiro. Ten seconds. A tap to his wrist: lower voltage, shorter bursts. “Go.”

Goals set: Kaminari to work sub-burst precision and sustain without tipping into “Whey”; Tetsutetsu to call impact quality and practice grounded dispersal; Jiro to spot output creep and kill the drill if he drifted.

“Aim joints, not plates. I’ll call what lands,” Tetsutetsu said, lifting a hand.

Kaminari exhaled. Fingers spark. A clean tick of current to the forearm. Blue skittered over steel; Tetsutetsu grunted, steady.

“More!”

He charged. Metal blur. Kaminari slipped outside the swing, pop, wider arc to the chest. Ozone bloomed. The hit slid Tetsutetsu back a step. Good. Not too much.

Kaminari kept moving. Zap. Breathe. Count. Joints. He watched for telltale fuzz at the edge of his thoughts, back off before bliss. Jiro’s eyes stayed on his band; two fingers ready to cut him if the line climbed.

“Tetsutetsu-kun!” Kaminari called, jogging over, a faint crackle of static accompanying his steps. “Mind if I... uh... electrify you a bit? For training purposes, of course!”

Tetsutetsu let out a booming laugh, his steel skin glinting under the gym lights. “Bring it on, Sparky! My steel's ready for anything! Just try not to fry my brain, yeah?” He slammed his fists together, a metallic clang echoing through the gym.

“No promises on the brain part,” Kaminari muttered under his breath, then grinned. “Alright, here goes!” He spread his hands, a controlled arc of electricity sparking between his fingertips. He aimed for Tetsutetsu's arm, a quick, low-voltage burst designed to test his opponent's reflexes and his own precision. Tetsutetsu grunted as the electricity hit, a faint shimmer of blue light dancing across his metallic skin, but he barely flinched.

“More!” Tetsutetsu roared, charging forward, a blur of steel. “That's all you got, Class A?!”

Kaminari yelped, quickly dodging a wide swing of Tetsutetsu's arm. “Whoa there, big guy! Just warming up!” He unleashed a wider, slightly stronger burst, aiming for Tetsutetsu's chest. The steel hero absorbed it, a faint scent of ozone rising from his body, but the impact pushed him back a step. Kaminari realized this wasn't just about precision; it was about sustained, controlled output against a highly resistant target. He began to move, a dance of dodging and zapping, each electrical pulse a deliberate experiment in power and placement. He focused on targeting the joints, the less dense areas, trying to find the chinks in Tetsutetsu's formidable armor, all while carefully monitoring his own internal energy levels, determined to avoid his “Whey!” state.

Near the far wall, where a few climbing ropes hung idly, Uraraka Ochaco found herself observing Tokage Setsuna, Class 3-B's segmented hero. Tokage's quirk, “Lizard Tail Splitter,” allowed her to divide her body into multiple pieces, a fluid, unpredictable ability that fascinated Uraraka. She saw an opportunity to refine her own quirk, “Zero Gravity,” in a dynamic, multi-target scenario.

“Tokage-san!” Uraraka called, waving. “I’d like to test my float ability on you, is that okay?”

Tokage, who had been stretching, her body segments already twitching with anticipation, grinned. “Ooh, a challenge! I'm always up for a good float. But you'll have to catch me first, Uraraka-chan!” With a mischievous wink, she divided herself into six floating segments, each piece hovering independently, darting around with surprising speed.

Uraraka giggled, a determined glint in her eyes. “You're on!” She activated her quirk, her fingertips hovering near her release switches. This wasn't about simply touching a single target; it was about tracking multiple, agile segments. She focused, trying to anticipate Tokage's movements, her eyes darting from one floating piece to another. She lunged, tapping one segment, which instantly lightened and drifted upwards. But before she could secure it, another segment darted in, distracting her. It was a game of cat and mouse, or rather, gravity and anti-gravity. Uraraka found herself using the gym's environment, tapping the floor to create temporary zones of zero gravity, trying to herd Tokage's segments together, or isolate them for a cleaner touch. She even tried a few quick, improvised grappling hook throws, aiming to snag a segment and then apply her quirk. The challenge was exhilarating, pushing her to think creatively and react with lightning speed. Her laugh thinned into the general hum of Gamma as she reset her zones for another pass.

Meanwhile, at the far side of Gym Gamma, Todoroki stood with his arms folded, observing the various matchups. His own training often involved intense, focused exercises, but the free scrimmage offered a different kind of learning: the observation of others, the analysis of their quirks in unpredictable scenarios. As he tracked the flow, he noticed Kodai, Class 3-B’s stoic hero, retrieving a small metal sphere she had just used to create a temporary barrier. Her “Size” quirk, while seemingly simple, held immense tactical potential.

Todoroki approached, his voice calm and even. “Kodai-san. May I observe your quirk in a controlled setting? Perhaps a demonstration of its limits?”

Kodai, surprised by his directness, blinked. She nodded, her expression unreadable as ever. “Of course, Todoroki-kun. What would you like to see?”

“Its maximum expansion,” Todoroki replied, his dual-colored eyes focused. “And its speed of contraction. I believe it could be an effective tool for both offense and defense.” He gestured to a clear section of the gym floor. “If you would not mind.”

Kodai nodded again, and with a quiet grace, she placed a small pebble on the floor. With a focused press of her fingertips, the pebble began to swell, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, until it was a smooth, grey boulder, easily the size of a small car. The floor’s support grid gave a low, even hum as load-distribution engaged, and Kodai’s cap-band blinked yellow for a beat before settling as she throttled to the training profile. “Impressive,” Todoroki murmured. “Now, its contraction.” Kodai reversed the process, her fingers splayed, and the boulder rapidly shrank, returning to its original pebble form with a soft clink on the floor.

“Thank you,” Todoroki said, a flicker of something akin to a smile on his lips. “I believe I have gained a new perspective on its applications.” He then, without a word, created a small, intricate ice sculpture of a rising phoenix, a silent acknowledgment of her power and a subtle challenge to her stoicism. Kodai, for her part, stared at the ice phoenix for a long moment, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to her lips.

Mina Ashido, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. She’d seen Bondo's “Cemendine” quirk in action during the earlier bouts – the viscous glue bubbles, the sticky traps. It was messy, chaotic, and utterly perfect for her acid. She spotted him near a wall, meticulously cleaning some residual glue from his fingers.

“Bondo-kun!” Mina chirped, sliding over on a thin layer of acid she secreted to reduce friction. “Mind if I... melt your stuff? For science!”

Bondo, a gentle giant with a perpetually worried expression, jumped slightly. “Oh! Ashido-san! Uh, melt my... glue? I suppose, if it’s for training...” He looked hesitant, but Mina's infectious enthusiasm was hard to resist.

“Awesome!” Mina declared, already spraying a small, controlled arc of acid onto a patch of dried glue Bondo had just created. The acid sizzled, dissolving the sticky substance with a satisfying hiss. “See? Perfect! Now, let's see if I can get past your traps without getting stuck!”

Bondo, still looking a bit flustered, began flicking his wrists, launching arcs of glue that splattered across the gym floor, creating hazardous zones. Mina giggled, her acid-pitted boots dancing across the floor, leaving trails of neutralized glue in her wake. It was a playful, yet challenging, spar. Mina focused on her mobility, her ability to navigate and neutralize, while Bondo tried to anticipate her movements, laying down increasingly complex patterns of adhesive. The gym floor became a canvas of dissolving and reappearing sticky patches, a testament to their contrasting, yet surprisingly complementary, quirks. For scrimmage, Bondo’s Cemendine was a training formulation, and Ashido’s acid was buffered on the mats, Maintenance would live to see another day.

Animus, after his brief but intense conversation with Kirishima, found himself drifting to the periphery of the scrimmage. His “Power Debt” was still a dull thrum beneath his skin, a persistent reminder of his quirk's cost. He watched the various matchups, his dark eyes still faintly ringed with violet, taking in every detail. He saw Midoriya's agile dance through Shiozaki's vines, breath timed to Shiozaki's calm cues; without thinking, Animus mouthed the switches with him and felt the small pride of seeing Midoriya choose control over flash. Kaminari's focused electrical bursts against Tetsutetsu's steel made Animus count under his breath, one, two, off, relaxing when Jiro's raised fingers tracked the same cadence; restraint had weight, and Kaminari was carrying it. Uraraka's gravity-defying pursuit of Tokage's segments drew a quiet nod; her herding zones snapped into a mental diagram of lanes he could support later with a single, well-placed deflection. And Todoroki's quiet observation of Kodai, terrain as a tool, clicked something practical into place: cover he could lend without stealing focus. Each interaction was a lesson, a piece of a larger puzzle, and he let the studs at his lobes cool his pulse, hands still, saying nothing and choosing to learn.

He noticed Monoma, still nursing his pride, attempting to engage with different Class 3-A students, a desperate attempt to copy a quirk that might give him an advantage. Animus watched him with a detached interest, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. Monoma's ambition, his need to prove Class 3-B's superiority, was a potent force, even in defeat.

Animus felt a strange blend of exhaustion and satisfaction. The free scrimmage, though optional, was proving to be an invaluable extension of the day's training. It allowed for a different kind of observation, a more organic understanding of his classmates' quirks and personalities. He saw the genuine joy in Kirishima's hardened punches, the focused determination in Midoriya's movements, the playful creativity in Mina's acid trails. These were the allies he was learning to trust, the individuals with whom he was forging a nascent bond.

He touched the metal studs on his earlobes, feeling the cool, inert surfaces. The power was contained, the Debt slowly receding. He knew there would be more challenges, more tests, but for now, in the controlled chaos of Gym Gamma, he felt a quiet sense of belonging. The day was far from over, and the lessons, both in combat and camaraderie, were still unfolding. The sun dipped below the distant city skyline, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet as the last echoes of the free scrimmage faded from Training Gym Gamma. Aizawa, ever the pragmatist, had given them a hard stop, reminding many of them of their obligations and tomorrow's full day fashion event. The very thought brought a mix of groans and excited whispers.

In the Class 3-A locker room, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and the low hum of conversation. Most of the class had opted for the optional scrimmage, and the shared experience had left them both physically drained and mentally buzzing. Midoriya, still slightly flushed from his intense evasion practice with Shiozaki’s vines, sat on a bench, meticulously re-taping his fingers. Uraraka, a faint smile playing on her lips, was carefully coiling her grappling hooks, a testament to her gravity-defying pursuit of Tokage. Iida, ever the picture of discipline, was already in his street clothes, polishing his glasses with a focused intensity.

“Man, that was something else,” Kaminari said, shaking out his hands as he walked over, his hair still a bit spiky from lighting up on Tetsutetsu. He rubbed the spot on his wrist where Jiro had tapped earlier, lower voltage, shorter bursts, then plopped down beside Kirishima like he was choosing the shade of a shield. “Tetsutetsu's a tank, seriously,” he added, the joke landing half-brag, half-check-in. “Thought I was gonna short-circuit trying to get through that steel.”

Kirishima chuckled, rubbing a spot on his bicep where a faint red mark bloomed. “Yeah, but you kept him on his toes, Sparky! That sustained output was manly as hell. And you didn't even go ‘Whey!’”

“Small victories, my friend, small victories,” Kaminari sighed dramatically, then brightened. “But seriously, the main event... that was insane! Bakugo, Animus, Kirishima... you guys were a force.”

Ashido, who had just finished a quick shower and was now braiding her damp pink hair, bounced over, her eyes sparkling. “Right?! Kirishima, that block for Kacchan at the end? So manly! And Animus, he just... appeared and then boom! Kodai was toast!”

Midoriya looked up, his green eyes thoughtful. “Animus-kun's quirk is really something. When he deflected Kodai's boulder... it looked like a barrier, almost an aura. And then the way he linked with Kacchan and Kirishima, boosting them... It's incredibly versatile.” He tapped his chin. “What hit me most was how it got stronger when it connected; their roles gave him safe vectors, and his link made their execution cleaner. I noticed his hair went silver for a bit, and he seemed pretty drained afterward. It definitely has a cost. It also proves something: we don't just add up, we multiply when we trust each other.”

Iida adjusted his glasses. “Indeed. The data collected from his cap-band readings, if I recall Aizawa-sensei's earlier comments correctly, indicated a significant energy expenditure. His ‘Power Debt,’ as he called it, is a clear drawback, but his ability to amplify his teammates' quirks and even utilize aspects of them himself is a strategic advantage of the highest order.”

“Yeah, but what is his quirk, though?” Kaminari asked, scratching his head. “Monoma tried to copy him and got nothing, that's wild. Even Eraserhead's quirk leaves a ‘void’ signature, right? Maybe it's gear-locked, those seals are the key, so Copy touches skin and gets no circuit to grab.”

Todoroki, who had been quietly drying his hair with a small burst of heat from his left side, spoke up, his voice calm. “It appears to be a form of energy manipulation, perhaps related to internal reserves. The ‘seals’ he uses to link are fascinating. It suggests a structured, controlled release of power, rather than an inherent, always-on ability. And the way he integrated with Bakugo and Kirishima's quirks... It's a level of synergy I haven't seen before.”

Uraraka nodded. “He's really good at reading the flow of a fight, too. When he called out ‘Plan Apollo’ and then linked up, it was like they instantly became a single unit. It was really inspiring to watch.”

Kirishima grinned, flexing his bicep. “He's a good dude. And that boost... man, I felt like I could punch through a mountain! My hardening was off the charts. He really helped us pull through when Monoma was getting all sneaky.”

The mention of Monoma elicited a collective groan.

“Don't even get me started on Monoma,” Bakugo growled, striding into the conversation, a fresh towel draped over his head. He'd clearly just come from the showers, but his usual scowl was firmly in place. “That bastard tried to copy my Explosion. The nerve!”

Ashido giggled. “But he failed with Animus, right? And then Kirishima took his copied explosion like a champ! It was epic!”

“Damn right,” Kirishima said, beaming at Bakugo, who merely ‘tch'd’ in response, but a faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips.

Midoriya, ever the analyst, thumbed a single line into his phone’s notes app, then tucked it away. “It's interesting how Monoma's quirk interacted with Animus-kun's. A null result, an inert anchor... it implies a unique type of quirk, perhaps one that isn't easily ‘read’ or replicated. It adds another layer of mystery to him.”

“Mystery or not, he pulled his weight,” Bakugo grunted, grabbing his uniform from his locker. “Didn't waste a single move. Discipline and economy in motion. Aizawa would approve.” He glanced at Animus, who was still a bit apart, leaning against a locker, quietly rehydrating. “That boosting thing was actually pretty handy. Don't tell him I said that.”

Kirishima laughed. “Your secret's safe with us, Kacchan!”

The conversation drifted to other matchups from the free scrimmage. Kaminari recounted his struggle with Tetsutetsu's steel, Ashido boasted about melting Bondo's glue traps, and Uraraka described the challenge of chasing Tokage's segmented body. Even Todoroki offered a rare, almost wistful comment about Kodai's “Size” quirk, admitting he'd gained a “new perspective on its applications” after seeing her control.

“It was a good day for learning,” Iida concluded, pushing his glasses up his nose. “The unstructured environment allowed for a different kind of growth. We saw new strategies, unexpected synergies, and the resilience of both classes.”

“For me,” Midoriya said, “Shiozaki's cues taught me to sync my reads with a partner, faster than going solo.”

Uraraka smiled. “Tracking Tokage made me think in zones, not targets, I'm going to practice herding instead of chasing.”

Kaminari scratched his neck. “Jiro's calibration, shorter bursts, kept me from frying my brain. Control over power.”

Todoroki nodded once. “Kodai reframed terrain as a tool; I should plan dynamic cover, not just ice and fire.”

Kirishima thumped his chest lightly. “Being the shield works even better when I know the line's counting on me.”

Bakugo grunted. “Economy. No wasted motion.”

“And now for the ultimate challenge,” Ashido said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “The fashion challenge! Okay, confirmed: it’s tomorrow and it’s fashion. Everything else is me guessing. I bet it’s a mystery-theme pull, hero duty wear, undercover casual, or red-carpet decoy, with, like, a 40-minute build window and maybe Support scrap-bin only materials. Think quirk-safe fabrics, no ‘boom’ or ‘melt’ on the runway, and extra points if it actually works with your quirk. If Aizawa-sensei is judging, function and safety beat pure flash. And I wouldn’t be shocked if there’s a surprise function demo at the end, lights cut, obstacle cones, something that proves it moves and helps a teammate. Speculation… but epic, right?”

Kaminari groaned. “Oh man, I totally forgot about that! Fashion? I'm doomed. My sense of style is... electric.” He mimed a shock.

Uraraka giggled. “I'm sure it'll be fun, Kaminari-kun! Maybe it's about creativity and showing off our personalities through our outfits.”

Midoriya, however, looked a little nervous. “I wonder if it's a team challenge or individual. And if it ties into our quirks somehow...” He trailed off, already overthinking it.

Bakugo, pulling on his jacket, scoffed. “Who cares? It's just some dumb dress-up. I'll blast whatever they give me into something ‘awesome.’ Just watch.” He stomped out of the locker room, leaving a faint scent of nitroglycerin and ozone in his wake.

Kirishima, still smiling, clapped Midoriya on the shoulder. “Don't worry, Midoriya! Whatever it is, we'll face it head-on. It'll be manly!”

As the rest of Class 3-A began to trickle out, the laughter and chatter echoing down the corridor, Animus remained for a moment, listening to the fading sounds. He felt a strange sense of warmth, a quiet belonging that had been absent for a long time. These were his classmates, his allies. And tomorrow, they would face a “fashion challenge.” He allowed himself a small smirk before shaking his head. It was certainly going to be... interesting. The locker room, once a cacophony of chatter and the clang of lockers, slowly emptied. Animus lingered, the last one to pull on his street clothes, the quiet hum of the ventilation system a stark contrast to the earlier roar of the gym. He ran a hand through his hair, noting the faint, almost imperceptible silver strands that still clung to the black, a lingering echo of his quirk’s recent exertion. The “Power Debt” was a dull thrum beneath his skin, a persistent reminder that power, even when contained, always demanded its due. His fingers, though no longer visibly trembling, still felt a phantom tingle, and the distant ringing in his ears was a constant, low-level companion. Debt around 4 or 5, he mentally assessed, the familiar internal gauge a part of his very being. It wasn't debilitating, not yet, but it was a drain, a subtle siphoning of his reserves that would require a full night's rest to truly dissipate.

He touched the metal studs on his earlobes, now reinserted, cool and inert against his skin. They were the anchors, the conduits, the key to his restraint and his release. He remembered the brief, exhilarating surge when he’d activated two seals, the world sharpening, his senses heightening, the raw potential of Bakugo’s explosions and Kirishima’s hardening flowing through him like a second bloodstream. It was a dizzying, intoxicating feeling, a dangerous dance on the edge of his own limits. He’d pushed it, perhaps more than he should have in a training exercise, but necessity had dictated. Monoma’s relentless pursuit, Kodai’s unexpected boulder… he’d had to commit.

And it worked.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He hadn't just won; he had connected. Bakugo’s impatient confidence, Kirishima’s enthusiastic faith – they had trusted him, a newcomer, with a quirk they barely understood. That silent challenge in Bakugo’s eyes, the shared, unspoken desire to “do this right,” had resonated with something deep within Animus. And Kirishima… Kirishima’s unwavering loyalty, his willingness to throw himself in front of an explosion for a teammate, was a rare and powerful thing. The punch to Monoma, the controlled blast at Kodai’s feet – they were calculated moves, but they were also fueled by a nascent sense of protectiveness for his new allies.

He thought of Monoma, sprawled on the floor, his pride more wounded than his body. The copy handshake had come back blank, an inert anchor, a shape with no weight. Even Erasure left a void you could feel; this was nothing, polished glass where a keyhole should be. He replayed the beat in his head: Monoma flexing a numbed hand, Aizawa’s eyes narrowing, his own seals giving a single, quiet thrum as if refused. It matched what he dreaded and depended on, his ability wasn’t a vein of power to tap but a keyed system of containment and release. Why had Copy found no purchase? A failsafe he’d forgotten? A lock that recognized only him? Questions nested inside questions. He kept the answers guarded, the burden his, and his alone. But today, for a few exhilarating moments, he hadn’t felt so alone.

The conversations in the locker room echoed in his mind. Midoriya’s analytical observations, Uraraka’s genuine admiration, Iida’s structured assessment, even Bakugo’s gruff, backhanded compliment – they were all pieces of a puzzle, slowly forming a picture of acceptance. He was no longer just the “mysterious transfer student.” He was Animus, a part of Class 3-A, a member of a team. The weight on his shoulders, the ever-present pressure of his past, felt a fraction lighter.

He knew the “Power Debt” was more than just physical exhaustion. It was a constant reminder of the delicate balance he maintained, the fine line between control and chaos. Each activation, each link, each surge of borrowed power, chipped away at his reserves, a slow, inevitable erosion. He had to be careful, always. But today, the cost felt worth it. He had seen the potential, the raw, untamed power of his classmates, and he had helped them amplify it. He had been a catalyst, a conduit, and in doing so, he had found a small measure of his own strength.

He picked up his bag, the familiar weight a comforting presence. The fashion challenge tomorrow… he allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. It was a stark contrast to the battles of today, a different kind of test. But he would face it, just as he faced everything else, with a quiet determination and the knowledge that he no longer stood entirely alone.

High above the now-empty training gym, in the quiet solitude of his observation booth, Aizawa leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the holographic projections that shimmered before him. Lines of data, intricate graphs, and real-time biometric readings from the students' cap-bands scrolled across the interface. The air in the booth was cool, sterile, a stark contrast to the lingering scent of ozone and effort that still permeated the gym below.

He took a slow sip of his lukewarm coffee, his gaze narrowed on a specific cluster of data points. Animus Athame. The transfer student was an enigma, a variable he hadn't fully accounted for. Monoma's failed copy attempt had been the first red flag; a quirk returning a null result was almost unheard of. Aizawa had made a mental note then, a subtle flicker of his own quirk in response, a reflex born of years of dealing with the unpredictable.

But the “Marquee Trio Showdown” had provided a wealth of new information. He replayed the sequence: Animus deflecting Kodai's boulder with that faint, black-violet aura, the visible strain on his face, the immediate linking with Bakugo and Kirishima. The energy transfer, the “boosting” as the students called it, was undeniable. He saw the spikes in Kirishima's durability readings, the subtle increase in Bakugo's explosive output, all directly correlating with Animus's activation.

Aizawa didn’t speak. In the booth’s hush, his pen hovered, tapped once, and he typed a spare note: support-class profile with offensive applications; “Power Debt” significant, currently managed.

He paused the playback, focusing on Animus's biometric data after the fight. The elevated heart rate, the subtle tremors, the rapid energy depletion, followed by a slow, steady recovery. It was all there, a clear indication of the cost. Animus hadn't lied to Kirishima; his quirk truly did exact a price. But the control, the precision with which he wielded it, even under duress, was impressive. He hadn't overexerted, hadn't pushed past the red line. Discipline. Economy in motion. The very tenets Aizawa preached.

He scrolled through the data, comparing Animus's performance with the other students. The way he had seamlessly integrated with Bakugo's aggression and Kirishima's defense, turning a chaotic situation into a coordinated attack. It wasn't just about raw power; it was about understanding, adaptation, and trust. Aizawa had seen the silent communication, the unspoken understanding that had developed between the three of them in the heat of battle. It was the kind of teamwork that couldn't be taught in a classroom, only forged in the crucible of real-time combat.

He made a note on his tablet: Animus Athame – Quirk: Avatar. Initial Analysis: Appears to function as an ‘Aura Conduit’ (tentative). Capabilities: Energy deflection, quirk amplification, linked execution/borrowed-channeling via seals (requires further observation). Drawbacks: Significant energy debt. Potential: High, particularly in team-based scenarios. Requires careful monitoring. He added a reminder: SABLE checkpoints resume Monday; today’s telemetry would help calibrate thresholds.

He then shifted his attention to the overall data from the free scrimmage. Midoriya's improved evasion, Kaminari's refined control, Uraraka's multi-target tracking, and Todoroki's quiet analytical prowess. Even Monoma, for all his theatrics, had pushed his limits, albeit with predictable results. The students were growing, evolving, pushing each other to new heights.

Aizawa allowed himself a rare, almost imperceptible sigh. The path to becoming a pro-hero was long and arduous, filled with countless trials and tribulations. But watching them today, seeing their resilience, their determination, their burgeoning camaraderie… it gave him a flicker of hope.

He closed the data files, the holographic projections fading into the dark glass of the viewport. The gym below was silent now, bathed in the soft glow of the emergency lights. Tomorrow, a different kind of challenge awaited them. The fashion challenge. Aizawa, for his part, merely sighed and marked “potential for chaos” in his notes for Class 3-A. He knew, with a certainty born of long experience, that with these students, chaos was never far behind. The rain had finally ceased, leaving the U.A. campus glistening under the nascent moonlight.

Down in the dorms, the last of the chatter faded. Animus, having finally shed the lingering thrum of his quirk's exertion, stood by his window, a cup of freshly brewed tea warming his hands. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a serene counterpoint to the day's explosions and hard-fought victories. He thought of the “fashion challenge” tomorrow, a stark contrast to the battles of today. It was a different kind of test, one that would likely push his comfort zone in entirely new ways.

He remembered the brief glimpse of Toru in the scrimmage. The strange girl who only wore gloves and boots and nothing else. He wondered what her quirk was and why she needed to be exposed to use it, and why no one else was bothered by her blatant disregard for common decency in public. But seeing her, truly seeing her, was something that made his face fluster and warm in a way he wasn’t accustomed too. “I should ask someone about that later.” He mumbled to himself.

He knew the path ahead was fraught with challenges, both personal and external. SABLE checkpoints resumed Monday, U.A.’s weekly stress-and-overuse screen: a five-minute kiosk scan and quick checklist (Power Debt, tremor, focus) that returns a color code, green, yellow, orange, red, and can bench you on the spot. He could still hear the kiosk’s chime and Aizawa’s flat, “Cool down.” Tonight, the dorm window was cool against his knuckles; tea steam fogged a pale crescent on the glass; the campus smelled of wet asphalt and cut grass.

Today, he’d found something unexpected: allies. Bakugo’s gruff acceptance, Kirishima’s unwavering support, the pulse of Class 3-A, solid under his feet like the floor after rain. He let the heat seep into his palms and allowed himself a small smile.

Tomorrow, a different kind of stage awaited: the fashion challenge, explosions traded for creativity, captures for attention. Animus was ready to face it with quiet determination and a new sense of belonging. He set the cup down with a soft ceramic click and watched the city lights blur through his breath on the glass.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15 - The Alter Ego Line

Morning light spilled across Mina Ashido’s hallway, turning the rain-washed window into gloss. A faint, comforting scent of breakfast—something eggy and something sweet—drifted up from the 10th-floor commons, pulling her gently from the last tendrils of sleep. It was going to be a good day. She felt it in the hum that vibrated through the floorboards, a low, expectant thrum that matched her own internal rhythm.

“Morning, bedhead,” Jiro’s voice, a low, playful rumble, cut through the quiet. Mina blinked, pushing a stray pink curl from her eyes to see Jiro leaning against her doorframe, one headphone cup snug over her ear, the other pushed back off her hair. Jiro’s own dark hair was a charming mess, a testament to a battle with sleep that she clearly hadn’t bothered to win.

Mina grinned, stretching languidly. “Says the girl who looks like she wrestled a static-charged hedgehog.” She reached up, playfully tugging at the headband of Jiro’s headphones. “Earbud check? Already prepping the soundtrack for City Day?”

Jiro swatted her hand away, a small smile playing on her lips. “Someone has to bring the good vibes. And the good tunes. You, on the other hand, look like you just rolled out of a glitter factory.”

Mina glanced down at her pajamas, which, to be fair, did have a suspicious amount of iridescent shimmer clinging to them from last night’s impromptu dance party. “It’s called sparkle, Jiro. You wouldn’t understand.”

A soft giggle echoed from down the hall, and Toru’s invisible form zipped past, a blur of movement. “I promise to wear slippers today!” Toru called out, her voice a bright, airy chime. A star-shaped sticker, a vibrant yellow, flashed briefly on the wall where Toru had been, then peeled off and drifted to the floor.

Mina felt a surge of captain-like energy. City Day! It was going to be epic. But first, the great descent. Getting downstairs without being late was the immediate mission. A tiny obstacle, she knew, would be the usual morning chaos: a scattering of classmates, still half-asleep and prone to distraction, and the inevitable elevator congestion. She could already hear the distant, impatient ding of the elevator two floors below, a coin dropping on metal, signaling the start of the daily struggle. The scent of citrus sanitizer, a sharp counterpoint to the lingering breakfast smells, wafted from a dispenser near the stairwell. A kettle hissed somewhere on the 10th floor, and she imagined the gentle steam curling upwards. Mina took a deep breath, a small, determined smile on her face. Time to rally the troops.

The 10th-floor commons, usually a riot of morning chatter, had settled into an expectant semicircle. At the front, a faculty clipboard table stood like a minimalist altar, presided over by Aizawa-sensei, whose perpetually dry demeanor was somehow even drier this morning, and Yaoyorozu, radiating an almost intimidating level of organization. Mina found herself a spot next to Jiro, a quiet hum of excitement still thrumming beneath her skin.

“Alright, listen up.” Aizawa’s voice, a low rasp, cut through the last whispers. “City Day guardrails. Standard procedure, but pay attention. No streaming faces without explicit consent. No live IDs. Support Tech Governance is active on all pop-up modifications to your gear—anything you build or buy, it gets a quick scan. And meet-points every hour on the hour. SABLE stands at each checkpoint—scan in; your bands ping green. Don’t be late.” He gestured vaguely at a large digital map projected onto the wall, dotted with glowing checkpoints.

Momo stepped forward, a stack of laminated cards in her hand. “To elaborate on Sensei’s points,” she began, her voice clear and precise, “we’ve also implemented a system for ‘street snaps.’ If you wish to share your experiences online, please ensure all individuals in your photographs have provided consent, and that any identifying features are anonymized. This is crucial for maintaining privacy and safety.”

Kaminari, ever the enthusiastic one, bounced on the balls of his feet. “Oh, oh! Can I volunteer for a mall stream? I’ve got this great idea for a ‘Fashion Fails of the Future’ segment!” He grinned, already imagining the viral potential.

Momo offered a gentle, but firm, smile. “While your enthusiasm is appreciated, Kaminari, a live mall stream poses too many variables for consent and identification. However,” she continued, holding up one of the laminated cards, “we encourage anonymized ‘street snaps’ after approvals. Think of it as a curated fashion blog, rather than a live broadcast.” Kaminari deflated slightly, but then perked up at the mention of a "curated fashion blog."

As the briefing continued, Mina watched as City Day pairings began to form organically. Friends gravitated together, but a few "oddballs," as she affectionately thought of them, found themselves grouped in unexpected combinations. It was all part of the fun.

“Okay, everyone!” Mina’s voice, bright and infectious, cut through the dispersing crowd. “Tonight, back at the dorms, I’m calling for a fun ‘micro-contest’! Best City Day ‘look’ of the day. Low-stakes bragging rights, obviously, but still. Get creative!” A ripple of excited murmurs went through the class.

The window bench at the corner of the commons, usually a quiet alcove for solitary study or hushed conversations, had transformed into an impromptu stage. Sunlight, now a softer gold than the morning’s brazen splash, filtered through the glass, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The lingering scent of citrus sanitizer and breakfast had given way to the faint, almost metallic tang of anticipation, a nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface. The class, fresh from their mini-briefing, had gravitated towards the bench; a collective curiosity sparking in their eyes, eager to shed the formalities of the morning.

Mina, ever the instigator of fun, clapped her hands together, her voice bright and infectious, cutting through the low hum of chatter. “Alright, fashionistas! City Day is practically here! So, before we dive headfirst into the chaos, let’s brainstorm. What kind of vibe are we going for with our looks today?” She swept her gaze across the semicircle of expectant faces, a wide grin stretching across her own.

A beat of silence stretched, not awkward, but thoughtful, as everyone considered the question. Then, a ripple of murmurs began to spread through the group, like a slow-burning fuse igniting individual sparks of creativity.

Kirishima, always eager to jump in, flexed a bicep, his grin wide and earnest. “Manly! Definitely manly! Something that screams ‘hero’ but also ‘ready for anything’!” He glanced at Bakugo, who merely grunted in response, a familiar, almost affectionate sound that Kirishima understood perfectly.

Sero, leaning against the wall with his usual chill demeanor, chimed in, a thoughtful finger tapping his chin. “I’m thinking practical, but with a pop. Like, maybe some cool utility vests, but with a splash of neon. Easy to move in, easy to spot in a crowd, you know?”

Kaminari, bouncing on the balls of his feet, practically vibrated with excitement. “Ooh, a pop! I like that! What about something electric? Like, subtle glowing accents? We could be walking light shows, literally illuminating the city!” He mimed a dazzling display with his hands, a faint, almost imperceptible crackle of static accompanying his rhythmic tapping.

Jiro, ever the dry wit, raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “And risk shorting out the entire City Day grid with your enthusiasm, Kaminari? No thanks. I’m thinking more… understated cool. Like, a band on tour. Leather, dark tones, maybe some subtle tech integration that only true fans would notice.” She nudged Mina playfully. “You, on the other hand, look like you just rolled out of a glitter factory.”

Mina laughed, glancing down at her pajamas, which did, to be fair, have a suspicious amount of iridescent shimmer clinging to them from last night’s impromptu dance party. “Again it’s called sparkle, Jiro! But ‘band on tour’ has potential! What about a ‘rock star rebellion’ theme? We could all have our own album covers!”

Uraraka, ever the optimist, tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with an idea. “I was thinking something more… floaty and light! Like, airy fabrics, pastel colors, but with a strong, grounded base. Something that says ‘I can save you, and I’ll do it gracefully,’ almost like a superhero ballet!”

Momo, always the pragmatist, pulled out a small notebook, already envisioning possibilities. “Those are all excellent starting points. For a cohesive class aesthetic, perhaps we could consider a unifying element. A ‘heroic casual’ approach, perhaps, allowing for individual expression within certain parameters?” She looked around, her gaze thoughtful. “For instance, a base of comfortable, durable materials, with personalized accessories that reflect our quirks or hero personas. It would be both practical and stylish.”

Tokoyami, perched by a window, seemed to be narrating the shadows that danced across the passing buildings, his low, almost inaudible murmurs a dramatic monologue about the urban landscape. “The urban sprawl, a canvas for the hidden depths. Dark Shadow demands a certain… gravitas. Perhaps woven cloaks, with subtle, shifting patterns that appear and disappear with the light, like shadows themselves.”

Tsuyu, her calm literalism always a grounding presence, offered, “Ribbit. Something waterproof would be practical. And easy to move in. Maybe a sleek, dark green, like a frog after a rain shower. Functional, but still aesthetically pleasing.”

Mineta, surprisingly, piped up, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What about something… sticky? Like, a suit that can adhere to walls! Think of the tactical advantages! And the… ahem… crowd control possibilities.” He winked, earning a collective groan and a few eye-rolls from his classmates.

Shinso, hands tucked into his pockets, a slight smirk playing on his lips, observed the discussion with a reserved, probing gaze. “Or, you could just brainwash them into thinking you look good. Much less effort.” A few chuckles followed, breaking the tension. “Though, a good suit does speak volumes. Something understated, but with a hint of… control.”

Ojiro, with his polite martial mindset, considered; his tail giving a thoughtful twitch. “A uniform, but with individual flourishes. Perhaps a subtle nod to our fighting styles. For me, something that allows for maximum tail mobility, but still looks sharp. Comfort and combat readiness are key.”

Koda, soft-spoken, offered, his voice barely a whisper. “Maybe… natural textures? Something that feels connected to the earth. Like, woven fibers, or patterns inspired by animals. Gentle, but strong.”

Midoriya, who had been quietly listening, scribbling furiously in his notebook, finally looked up, a flush on his cheeks. “What if… what if we incorporated elements of our hero costumes, but in a subtle, everyday way? Like, a nod to our abilities without being too overt. For example, my outfit could have… subtle red accents, like my shoes, but integrated into a more casual design.” He gestured vaguely, his enthusiasm bubbling.

Todoroki, ever composed, added, “A balance of functionality and personal expression seems most logical. Perhaps a dual-toned approach for some, reflecting different aspects of their quirks, but in a way that blends with the urban environment.” He looked at Midoriya, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, acknowledging the shared thought.

Bakugo, who had been mostly observing, finally scoffed, a familiar spark in his eyes. “Whatever. Just make sure it’s not some damn frilly nonsense. If it’s not practical for blowing things up, I’m out.” Despite his words, a faint smirk suggested he was already imagining his own explosive ensemble.

Mina, noticing Animus still quiet, drifted over to him, a playful glint in her eye. “Hey, Animus, you’ve been awfully quiet over there. What’s your take? Any brilliant, understated ideas for the ‘Alter Ego Line’ brewing in that head of yours?”

Animus met her gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “Subtlety, perhaps. A reflection of inner strength, rather than overt display. Tailored lines that hint at potential, rather than announce it.” His voice was low, thoughtful, and a few nearby classmates, drawn by Mina’s question, leaned in to listen.

Mina, seizing the moment, clapped her hands together again, her grin wider than ever. “Okay, okay! I’m loving these ideas! So, we’ve got ‘manly,’ ‘practical pop,’ ‘electric light show,’ ‘rock star rebellion,’ ‘graceful float,’ ‘heroic casual,’ ‘shadowy gravitas,’ ‘waterproof sleek,’ ‘sticky tactical,’ ‘brainwash chic,’ ‘tail-friendly sharp,’ ‘natural textures,’ subtle hero nods, dual-toned functionality, and even some understated inner strength from Animus!” She pumped a fist in the air. “This is going to be epic! Let’s call it… The Alter Ego Line! At least one look each, everyone!” A chorus of excited agreement followed, the initial hesitation replaced by a shared sense of creative challenge.

The ideas began to flow, micro-sketches in prose forming in Mina’s mind, fueled by the collective vision. Bakugo, she imagined, in a matte-black storm suit, the lapel seams sharp as blast vectors, invisible zipped vents hinting at explosive power contained. Kirishima’s look would be a rugged, reinforced jacket in crimson, with subtle hardening patterns woven into the fabric, a testament to his unwavering defense. Sero might sport a sleek, urban-ninja inspired outfit with tape dispensers integrated seamlessly into the sleeves, ready for quick deployment. Kaminari’s ensemble could feature subtle, almost imperceptible glowing lines that pulsed with a faint electric current, only visible when he chose to activate them. Tsuyu’s glossy rain-sheen trench, the fabric shimmering like a frog’s skin after a downpour, practical yet elegant. Jiro, in a minimalist stage-black ensemble, subtle cable-routing woven into the fabric, a silent testament to her unique quirk, a single deep-violet undersheen catching the light as she moved. Uraraka's outfit would be a light, flowing jumpsuit in soft pinks and creams, with reinforced sections for combat and hidden pockets for rescue gear. Momo, ever the elegant creator, might envision a tailored blazer with discreet compartments for her creations, the fabric subtly shifting in texture to reflect her versatility. Tokoyami’s could be a deep charcoal trench coat with a high collar, the lining a rich, dark purple that hinted at Dark Shadow’s presence. Shinso’s look, a sharp, dark suit with subtle, almost hypnotic patterns stitched into the lapels, a silent promise of his persuasive quirk. Ojiro's would be a martial arts-inspired gi, but with modern, breathable fabrics and a specially designed opening for his powerful tail. Koda’s, a soft, earthy-toned tunic with embroidered animal motifs, reflecting his connection to nature. Midoriya’s, a comfortable, slightly oversized hoodie in deep green, with subtle red stitching along the seams and reinforced elbows, perfect for quick movements and note-taking. Todoroki’s, a sleek, asymmetrical jacket, one side a cool blue, the other a warm crimson, with subtle thermal-regulating properties woven into the fabric, a silent testament to his powerful quirk. Animus, for his part, might envision a perfectly tailored, dark grey overcoat, the fabric subtly textured to absorb and refract light, a quiet statement of his own unique presence.

The possibilities were endless, and Mina felt that familiar coin-drop sensation, a new idea landing with a satisfying ping. As the chatter intensified, a sense of shared excitement and creative energy filled the room. Everyone was contributing, their individual personalities and quirks shaping a truly unique vision for their City Day looks.

The hum of excited chatter from the commons faded into a softer murmur as Mina and Toru drifted into a quiet alcove between the main gathering space and the stairwell. Sunlight, now a gentle, golden wash, slanted through a high window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The scent of fresh coffee, brewed earlier for the faculty, still lingered faintly, a comforting anchor in the otherwise vibrant chaos of the morning. Toru, her invisible form a familiar presence beside Mina, was chatting animatedly, her voice a bright, airy counterpoint to Mina’s more grounded tones. They were discussing potential fabric textures for the "Alter Ego Line," Toru’s enthusiasm for tactile sensations often surprising Mina, given her own lack of physical form.

“I’m thinking something with a subtle shimmer, but not too much, you know?” Toru mused, her gloved hand gesturing as if feeling an imaginary swatch. “Like, when the light hits it just right, it’s there, but it’s not screaming for attention.”

Mina nodded, picturing it. “Like a secret sparkle. I dig it.” The phrase hung in the air, a small, shared moment of creative synergy.

It was then that Animus approached, his footsteps almost silent on the polished floor. He moved with a quiet grace, a presence that was both understated and undeniably impactful, a ripple in the fabric of the bustling commons. He stopped a respectful distance away, his gaze, as always, holding a depth that Mina found both intriguing and a little unnerving. It was like looking into a deep, still pool, where hidden currents moved beneath the surface.

“Toru,” he began, his voice soft, almost a whisper, yet it cut through the ambient noise with an unexpected clarity, “are you comfortable with fittings?”

The question hung in the air, gentle but direct, a delicate thread spun between them. Toru, caught mid-gesture, paused, a faint ripple in the air where her head would be. The room, which had been a low thrum of background noise, seemed to react to the shift in energy, the chatter momentarily softening. A few heads turned, drawn by the sudden quiet intensity of the exchange, though most quickly resumed their own conversations, oblivious to the subtle drama unfolding. Just as Toru was about to respond, a voice boomed from the kitchen, sharp and unmistakable.

“Hagakure! Sato needs a hand with the breakfast dishes before we leave for City Day!” It was Iida, ever the stickler for schedules, his voice carrying the weight of responsibility.

Toru let out a soft groan, a barely audible sigh of playful exasperation. “Duty calls! Be right back, Mina!” And with a faint whoosh, she zipped off towards the kitchen, a blur of movement that only Mina, accustomed to her friend’s unique way of navigating the world, could truly track.

Animus’s gaze, which had been intently fixed on the space where Toru had been, now shifted to Mina. There was a subtle intensity in his eyes, a depth she hadn’t quite registered before. It was almost as if he was still seeing something, even though Toru was gone, a lingering impression of her presence. Mina felt a prickle of curiosity, a familiar sensation when interacting with Animus, who always seemed to perceive more than he let on.

“She… has a vibrant energy,” Animus observed, his voice still soft, a thoughtful hum beneath his words. He wasn’t just stating a fact; he seemed to be processing it, turning it over in his mind. “And a unique… presence.” He paused, his gaze seeming to search for something in Mina’s expression, a silent question hanging in the air. “What kind of personality does she have, beyond the… obvious?”

Mina felt a prickle of curiosity, a familiar sensation when interacting with Animus, who always seemed to perceive more than he let on. She thought and a tiny alarm bell rang in the back of her mind. Mina's grin widened, but it was a calculated one now, a playful mask over her burgeoning suspicion. “Oh, Toru? She’s a total ray of sunshine. Bubbly, super enthusiastic, loves all things cute and sparkly.” Mina leaned in slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially, as if sharing a juicy secret. “And, you know, she’s really comfortable in her own skin. Like, really comfortable. Definitely not one for… well, for being too covered up, if you catch my drift.” She winked, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, carefully watching Animus’s reaction. She wasn't directly stating anything, just implying, leaving room for plausible deniability, but also for Animus to confirm her growing hunch.

Animus's eyes, those deep, still pools, widened almost imperceptibly. It was a subtle shift, but Mina, with her keen eye for emotional nuance, caught it. A faint flush, barely there, touched his cheekbones. He nodded slowly, a new layer of careful consideration entering his expression, as if he were filing away this new information with meticulous precision, carefully re-evaluating his understanding of Toru. "Understood," he murmured, his voice a fraction softer than before. "Respect for personal expression is paramount. I will keep that in mind when envisioning an ensemble for her. We wouldn't want to... impose any discomfort." He then offered a faint smile, a rare and precious sight, but one that now held a hint of something else – a quiet, almost embarrassed understanding. "Thank you, Mina."

Mina’s own smile broadened, a genuine warmth spreading through her, mixed with a healthy dose of intrigue. It was subtle, but it was there. Animus saw Toru. Not just her quirk, but her, the vibrant, sparkling essence of her, and now, apparently, her preference for minimal clothing. And in that moment, a new kind of warmth bloomed in Mina's chest, a mischievous quiet confirmation, a secret she fully intended to capitalize on. The morning light, now a little brighter, seemed to shimmer with a new kind of magic. Mina couldn't wait to subtly grill Toru later.

The stairwell hummed with a low, vibrant energy, a symphony of shuffling feet, excited whispers, and the distant clang of lockers. Sunlight, now a brighter, more direct beam, streamed through the expansive windows of the 11th-floor skybridge mouth, casting long, dancing shadows across the polished floor. The air, still carrying a faint trace of breakfast and citrus, was now infused with the eager anticipation of City Day.

Mina, feeling a pleasant buzz of excitement, found herself walking alongside Jiro. Their conversation, a familiar back-and-forth, was already in full swing. “So, playlist versus ear health,” Mina teased, nudging Jiro playfully with her elbow. “Which will win out on the bus ride?”

Jiro scoffed, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. “Please. My ear health is paramount. But a well-curated playlist is a close second. You just wait, Ashido, I’ll convert you to the ways of superior audio.”

Nearby, Kirishima and Bakugo were engaged in their own unique brand of banter. “Just try not to touch the allen keys this time, Bakugo,” Kirishima said, a good-natured warning in his voice. Bakugo merely grunted in response, a familiar, almost affectionate sound that spoke volumes of their easy camaraderie.

Uraraka and Deku, ever the diligent planners, were deep in discussion about City Day logistics, their heads bent together over a shared map. Their voices were soft, earnest, a quiet counterpoint to the surrounding hubbub. Mina smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest. It was good to see them so focused, so in sync.

A little behind them, almost imperceptibly, Tsuyu Asui drifted near Animus. Her presence was quiet, her movements fluid, like a ripple in water. She offered only soft, minimal words, a comfortable silence settling between them that spoke of an unspoken understanding. Animus, for his part, simply nodded, acknowledging her presence without needing a flurry of conversation. It was a subtle beat, easily missed, but Mina, ever the emotionally observant, clocked it.

As the groups solidified, a new voice cut through the air, a familiar drawl. “Animus,” Shinso Hitoshi called out, his hands tucked into his pockets, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “I’m claiming a tea debt. For after the day. Consider it a down payment for… services rendered.”

Animus met Shinso’s gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them. “Duly noted, Shinso,” he replied, a smile touching his own lips. The "tea debt" was a running gag, a low-stakes promise for quiet conversation and shared moments, a testament to their growing, if unconventional, friendship.

Just then, a clear, insistent ding echoed through the stairwell. The elevator. The sound was quickly followed by the distinct ping of a new message notification. Mina glanced at her phone. Present Mic. A quick text, a mall meet cue, bright and enthusiastic.

The day had officially begun.

The UA shuttle, a sleek, almost silent beast, glided through the waking city. Sunlight, now a pale gold, painted the towering glass facades of buildings, reflecting a distorted, shimmering version of the world back at them. Inside, the hum of the engine was a low, comforting drone, a counterpoint to the quiet excitement that filled the air. Mina, settled into her seat, found herself collecting quiet portraits of her classmates, each a tiny vignette of anticipation.

Midoriya, ever earnest, sat hunched slightly, his gaze sweeping across the rows of students. He wasn’t writing, for once, but his lips moved almost imperceptibly, a silent count of heads, a mental roster of their numbers. A subtle twitch in his brow indicated a meticulous attention to detail, a quiet guardian ensuring everyone was accounted for. He wasn't just seeing bodies; he was registering each individual, a silent, internal check-in.

Across the aisle, Momo sat with an air of serene focus, her fingers delicately tracing patterns on her tablet. Mina, with her keen eye for emotional nuance, could almost see Momo color-coding moods, assigning shades of enthusiasm and quiet contemplation to each person around her. It was a silent, internal process, a way for Momo to understand and organize the emotional landscape of their class, preparing for any need that might arise.

Tokoyami, perched by a window, seemed to be narrating the shadows that danced across the passing buildings, his dark eyes reflecting the shifting light. His low, almost inaudible murmurs were likely a dramatic monologue about the urban landscape, a poetic commentary on the interplay of light and dark in the concrete jungle. Mina imagined him weaving tales of hidden depths and untold stories within the mundane reflections.

And then there was Kaminari, pretending not to DJ a power outlet with his fingers, a faint, almost imperceptible crackle of static accompanying his rhythmic tapping. His expression was one of intense concentration, as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra of electricity, his own personal soundtrack for City Day. A small, mischievous smile played on his lips, betraying his feigned nonchalance.

Mina herself felt a familiar sensation, a quiet coin-drop in her mind. It was the sound of a new idea landing, a satisfying ping on metal. The first time, it was for Jiro’s look. She pictured Jiro’s minimalist stage-black, the cable-routing, the deep-violet undersheen. What if the cables weren’t just functional, but also subtly reflective? Like a hidden network of light, only visible when she moved a certain way? Another coin-drop.

The second time, the ping was for Toru’s comfort plan. Mina's gaze flickered from Animus, who sat a few rows ahead, to Toru, a few seats behind her, an imperceptible calculation blooming in her mind. She thought back to Animus’s careful wording, and the quiet, almost embarrassed understanding that had crossed his face. The idea brought a warm, reassuring feeling to Mina, but it was quickly followed by a mischievous glint in her eye. It was about agency, about empowering her friend, while having a jab at the new guy, yes, but it was also about the delicious potential for teasing Animus with her newfound knowledge. A slow, playful burn. She couldn't wait.

The bus continued its journey, the city slowly unfolding before them, a vibrant tapestry of sights and sounds. Storefront reflections flickered past, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. Mina watched it all, her mind buzzing with the possibilities of the day, her heart full of the quiet portraits she’d collected.

Finally, the shuttle slowed, then came to a gentle stop. The doors hissed open, revealing the bustling entrance to City Day. Ahead, tall, brightly colored gates marked their destination. A flurry of activity ensued as students disembarked, each receiving a brightly colored wristband and a crisp, folded map. Mina took hers, the cool paper a tangible promise of the adventures to come. City Day, with all its sparkle and potential, was officially here.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16 - Villain-Core and Glam Rock

The UA shuttle, a sleek, almost silent beast, glided through the waking city, eventually pulling up to the colossal, gleaming edifice of Senyana’s Super Mall. Sunlight, now a pale gold, painted the towering glass facades, reflecting a distorted, shimmering version of the world back at them. As the doors hissed open, a wave of eager anticipation, thick and palpable, washed over the students.

“Alright, Class 3-A! Let’s get this City Day started with a bang!” Present Mic’s voice, amplified and booming, cut through the general hubbub, echoing from strategically placed speakers around the mall entrance. He stood atop a makeshift stage, a microphone in hand, his signature spiky hair a beacon of enthusiasm. “Keep it fun, keep it safe! Remember those bands, kiddos! Check-in on the hour, every hour! And if you’re in a pickle, that emergency beacon is your best friend!” He gestured to their brightly colored wristbands, which now pulsed with a soft, reassuring green light.

The class, a vibrant kaleidoscope of personalities, began to disembark, each student receiving a crisp, folded map of the sprawling mall. The air thrummed with a mix of excitement and a hint of competitive energy. Present Mic continued, his voice shifting to a more instructional, yet still energetic, tone. “Now, for today’s main event! You’re all tasked with a grand mission: creating a themed ensemble for each and every member of Class 3-A! That’s right! Everyone gets a wardrobe update, courtesy of UA! This isn’t just about fashion, oh no! This is about team synergy, about understanding your classmates, and about looking absolutely fabulous while you’re at it!”

A murmur of surprise and delight rippled through the crowd. Present Mic grinned, clearly enjoying the reveal. “Each of you will choose a theme, and then, with your assigned groups, you’ll hit the shops! Buy, modify, create! The goal? 22 unique themes, and a grand total of 484 outfits! Think big, think bold, think hero chic!”

The class was then split into pre-determined groups, a strategic move to ensure safety and foster collaboration. Animus found himself paired with Mina, Jiro, and Shinso, a quartet that promised an intriguing blend of personalities. Their mission, like everyone else’s, was to craft a complete wardrobe for each classmate, but Animus, with his penchant for the unconventional, had already decided on a “villain-core” style for his creations. He envisioned sleek, sophisticated looks with subtle nods to classic antagonist aesthetics, believing that true power lay in understated menace.

As the groups dispersed into the bustling mall, the air alive with chatter and the distant strains of pop music, Animus and Shinso gravitated towards a high-end boutique specializing in tailored suits and dark, minimalist fashion. Shinso, hands tucked into his pockets, a thoughtful expression on his face, began to browse a rack of impeccably cut blazers. “Villain-core, you say?” he mused, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “I can see it. A certain… gravitas. Understated control.”

Animus nodded, his gaze sweeping over the rich fabrics. “Precisely. It’s about projecting an aura, not just wearing clothes. What are your thoughts for the others?”

Shinso pulled out a charcoal-grey jacket, the fabric almost shimmering in the soft store lights. “For Bakugo, something that channels his explosive energy, but in a refined way. Think a sharp, almost militaristic cut, but with subtle, almost hidden, fiery accents. For Midoriya… a more subtle transformation. Something that hints at his inner strength, perhaps a dark green with unexpected, almost hidden, powerful details.” Their conversation flowed easily, a shared understanding of aesthetics and character informing their choices. They moved through the racks, a silent, almost telepathic exchange of ideas passing between them as they considered fabrics, cuts, and potential modifications.

Animus paused by a display of dark, slim-fit trousers. “And for Todoroki?” he inquired, his voice a low, contemplative hum. “His dual nature presents an interesting challenge. How to incorporate both fire and ice, control and raw power, without resorting to the obvious?”

Shinso tapped his chin, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Perhaps a subtle asymmetry. One side of the garment, a cool, almost glacial grey, the other, a deep, smoldering charcoal. The lines could converge, not clash, in the center, symbolizing his integration. And the fabric… something that hints at both warmth and coolness to the touch, if such a thing is possible.” He picked up a swatch of a dark, subtly textured material, feeling its weight and drape. “The key is the implication of power, not the overt display. A villain-core aesthetic thrives on that.”

“Indeed,” Animus agreed, a smile touching the edge of his lips. “It’s about the psychological impact. The suggestion of what could be, rather than what is immediately visible.” He envisioned a tailored coat for Todoroki, the lapels subtly different in texture and shade, a hidden lining that hinted at thermal properties. For Kirishima, he imagined a rugged, almost indestructible-looking jacket, the material subtly reinforced, perhaps with a faint, almost metallic sheen that mimicked hardened skin. The color would be a deep, earthy red, a nod to his unyielding spirit.

Their discussion moved to the more boisterous members of the class. “Kaminari,” Shinso mused, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “His energy is… undeniable. How to contain that within a villain-core framework?”

“A paradox,” Animus replied, his gaze distant as he considered the problem. “Perhaps something that appears deceptively simple. A dark, sleek jumpsuit, perhaps, with almost invisible circuitry woven into the fabric. The ‘pop’ of electricity could be a hidden feature, activated only when he chooses, a sudden, unexpected burst of power from an otherwise unassuming figure.” He pictured faint, almost glowing lines that pulsed with a faint electric current, only visible when he chose to activate them.

For Tsuyu, Animus envisioned a glossy rain-sheen trench, the fabric shimmering like a frog’s skin after a downpour, practical yet elegant. Jiro, in a minimalist stage-black ensemble, subtle cable-routing woven into the fabric, a silent testament to her unique quirk, a single deep-violet undersheen catching the light as she moved. Uraraka’s outfit would be a light, flowing jumpsuit in soft pinks and creams, with reinforced sections for combat and hidden pockets for rescue gear. Momo, ever the elegant creator, might envision a tailored blazer with discreet compartments for her creations, the fabric subtly shifting in texture to reflect her versatility. Tokoyami’s could be a deep charcoal trench coat with a high collar, the lining a rich, dark purple that hinted at Dark Shadow’s presence. Shinso’s look, a sharp, dark suit with subtle, almost hypnotic patterns stitched into the lapels, a silent promise of his persuasive quirk. Ojiro’s would be a martial arts-inspired gi, but with modern, breathable fabrics and a specially designed opening for his powerful tail. Koda’s, a soft, earthy-toned tunic with embroidered animal motifs, reflecting his connection to nature. Midoriya’s, a comfortable, slightly oversized hoodie in deep green, with subtle red stitching along the seams and reinforced elbows, perfect for quick movements and note-taking. Todoroki’s, a sleek, asymmetrical jacket, one side a cool blue, the other a warm crimson, with subtle thermal-regulating properties woven into the fabric, a silent testament to his powerful quirk.

“And Mineta?” Shinso asked, a wry twist to his lips. “A truly challenging subject for ‘villain-core,’ I’d imagine.”

Animus paused, a faint sigh escaping him. “Indeed. Perhaps… a surprisingly sophisticated, almost dapper suit. The contrast between his usual demeanor and a refined exterior could be its own form of menace. And the ‘sticky’ element… perhaps subtle, almost invisible patches of a specialized material, integrated into the design, allowing for tactical adhesion without compromising the aesthetic.” He imagined a dark, tailored suit, the fabric subtly textured to mimic the surface of his pop-off balls, but in a way that was more elegant than crude.

Their conversation continued, weaving through each member of Class 3-A, each design a careful consideration of their quirks, personalities, and the overarching “villain-core” theme. They discussed fabrics, luxurious silks for a deceptive softness, sturdy leathers for resilience, advanced synthetics for hidden functionalities. They debated cuts—sharp, angular lines for a menacing silhouette, flowing drapes for a sense of effortless power. The boutique, with its hushed atmosphere and rows of exquisite garments, became their creative laboratory, a silent testament to their shared vision.

Meanwhile, a few aisles over, Mina and Jiro were already deep in a different kind of mission. Mina, her pink hair bouncing with every excited step, pulled Jiro towards a vibrant accessories store. “Okay, so here’s the plan,” Mina whispered conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I am going to make a show of this for sure.”

Jiro raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Remember how Animus was all ‘respect for personal expression is paramount’ or whatever?” Mina giggled, rummaging through a display of sparkly hair clips. “Well, I’m thinking we lean into that. Hard. We’ll find the most outrageous thing for Animus, something so… un-Animus it’ll make his head spin.” She winked. “Think frills. Lots and lots of frills.”

Jiro let out a low, playful chuckle. “I like it. A subtle rebellion against the subtle rebellion. What about the others in our group?”

“For you, Jiro,” Mina said, holding up a pair of studded fingerless gloves, “we’re going full rock star. But like, a glam rock star. Leather, a touch of sparkle, maybe some unexpected pops of color. And for me… well, I’m thinking something that screams ‘alien superstar.’ Lots of iridescent fabrics, bold shapes, maybe even some glow-in-the-dark elements.” They continued to browse, their conversation a mix of genuine shopping and gleeful plotting.

Mina held up a ridiculously oversized, fluffy pink hat. “Imagine Animus in this! With a matching boa! It’ll be glorious!” She dissolved into a fit of giggles, Jiro joining in with her own quiet, rumbling laugh. “And for Toru,” Mina continued, her eyes scanning a rack of modest, high-necked blouses, “we’ll find something that covers every single inch. Turtlenecks, long sleeves, ankle-length skirts. The works!”

“You’re truly diabolical, Ashido,” Jiro remarked, a genuine grin on her face. “I approve.” She picked up a pair of sunglasses with exaggerated cat-eye frames, trying them on. “For my glam rock look, I’m thinking a lot of dark, rich purples and blues, with silver accents. Maybe some chains, but tasteful ones. And definitely some platform boots.”

“Oh, absolutely platform boots!” Mina agreed, her mind already racing with ideas. “And for me, I’m picturing a jumpsuit made of iridescent material that shifts colors with the light, almost like an oil slick. Huge shoulder pads, maybe some alien-like antennae headpiece. And glowing sneakers, of course!”

Their basket began to fill with an eclectic mix of items: studded belts, holographic fanny packs, neon leg warmers, and a surprising number of frilly accessories that Mina insisted were “perfect for Animus.” They also found some genuinely stylish pieces that fit their own themes, ensuring they weren’t completely off-task. The challenge of finding the most “un-villain-core” items for Animus and the most “covered up” outfits for Toru became a game, fueling their laughter and creative energy.

In another part of the mall, a bustling department store, Midoriya, Todoroki, Iida, and Kaminari were also at work. Midoriya, ever diligent, held a small notebook, occasionally scribbling down ideas as Iida, with his characteristic precision, meticulously examined fabric tags. Todoroki, with a quiet intensity, held up a sleek, dual-toned jacket, one side a cool blue, the other a warm crimson. “This could work for someone with a diverse quirk,” he murmured to Midoriya and Iida, his gaze thoughtful. “The thermal-regulating properties are subtle, but effective.” They were in the same general area as Animus’s group, a familiar backdrop of their classmates, but their focus remained on their own task, a quiet hum of creative energy surrounding them. Kaminari, meanwhile, was pretending not to DJ a power outlet with his fingers, a faint crackle of static accompanying his rhythmic tapping, a silent, internal soundtrack to his fashion quest.

“For Bakugo,” Midoriya suggested, his pen hovering over his notebook, “I was thinking of something that incorporates his explosions, but in a more controlled, almost artistic way. Maybe a dark, durable fabric with subtle, embroidered patterns that resemble sparks or controlled bursts of energy.”

Iida nodded, adjusting his glasses. “A practical approach, Midoriya. The material would need to be highly resistant to heat and impact, of course. Perhaps a reinforced denim or a specialized synthetic blend.” He meticulously checked a tag on a pair of cargo pants. “These, for instance, offer excellent tensile strength.”

Todoroki held up a pair of sleek, black boots. “And for Kirishima, something that emphasizes his hardening. These boots, with their reinforced toes and sturdy construction, could be a starting point. We could look for fabrics that mimic the texture of rock, but remain flexible.”

Kaminari, momentarily distracted from his air-DJing, chimed in. “Ooh, what about some cool, glowing laces for Kirishima’s boots? Like, when he hardens, they glow extra bright! That’d be super manly!”

Midoriya chuckled. “That’s a fun idea, Kaminari! We’ll definitely keep that in mind for the accessory stage.” He then turned his attention to Uraraka’s outfit. “For Uraraka, something light and airy, to reflect her quirk, but also durable for hero work. Perhaps a jumpsuit with strategically placed, almost invisible, anti-gravity panels that give her an extra boost, or help her control her descent.”

Iida added, “And the color palette should reflect her optimistic and supportive nature. Soft pastels, perhaps, with subtle, uplifting accents.”

Todoroki, ever the pragmatist, considered. “Functionality is key. The material must be breathable and allow for full range of motion, especially for zero-gravity maneuvers.”

Their discussion flowed easily, a blend of practicality, creativity, and a deep understanding of their classmates’ abilities and personalities. They moved through the department store, examining different sections, from athletic wear to more formal attire, always with an eye towards how each piece could be adapted to their “hero chic” theme. Kaminari, for his part, managed to find a section with light-up sneakers and holographic shirts, which he enthusiastically pointed out as “essential for anyone who wants to truly illuminate the city!”

As the first hour mark approached, a gentle chime echoed through the mall, a subtle reminder for the students to check in. The emergency beacons on their bands pulsed a steady green, a reassuring presence in the vibrant chaos of City Day. The grand fashion challenge had officially begun, and the Senyana Super Mall was now a canvas for Class 3-A’s creativity, camaraderie, and, for some, a healthy dose of playful mischief. The groups, each engrossed in their own unique quest, continued to navigate the bustling aisles, their minds buzzing with ideas, their baskets slowly filling with the raw materials of their sartorial ambitions. The mall, once just a shopping center, had transformed into a vibrant arena of design and strategy, a place where heroics met haute couture, and where the spirit of Class 3-A shone brighter than any storefront display.

“Alright, Animus, Shinso, we’re off to the fitting rooms!” Mina called out, her voice bright with a barely contained mischievous energy. She linked arms with Jiro, who offered a small, knowing smirk in Animus’s direction. “Gotta make sure these fabulous finds are just right.”

Animus, who had been meticulously examining the stitching on a dark, almost obsidian-colored trench coat, merely offered a slight nod. “Very well. We’ll continue our... curation here.” His gaze flickered to Mina and Jiro, a hint of something unreadable in his deep eyes. Shinso, however, let out a soft chuckle, his lips curling into a more pronounced smirk. He seemed to have picked up on Mina’s underlying intentions, a silent understanding passing between him and Jiro.

As Mina and Jiro made their way towards the fitting room area, a section of the mall dedicated to more intimate clothing boutiques and changing facilities, the ambient sounds of the bustling shopping center began to soften. The distant pop music faded, replaced by the hushed rustle of fabric and the occasional muffled conversation. The air here was subtly different too, carrying faint notes of perfume and the clean scent of freshly laundered textiles.

They rounded a corner, and there, amidst a display of shimmering fabrics and intricate trims, was Toru. She was not merely browsing; she was engaging with the materials, her invisible hands deftly manipulating swatches of cloth. A roll of iridescent fabric, almost ethereal in its sheen, seemed to float in the air as she held it up, catching the soft, diffused light of the boutique.

“Toru, there you are!” Mina exclaimed, her voice a little louder than strictly necessary in the quiet space. Jiro, beside her, nudged her playfully, a silent warning to dial back the enthusiasm.

Toru’s voice, a bright, airy chime, responded instantly. “Mina! Jiro! Perfect timing! I’m having the best time with these textures!” As she spoke, a small, star-shaped sticker, a vibrant yellow, flashed briefly on a nearby mannequin where her hand had just been, before peeling off and drifting gently to the floor. It was a familiar Toru-ism, a playful mark of her presence.

Mina’s eyes, however, were immediately drawn to the materials Toru was currently engrossed with. “Ooh, what’s all this sparkly goodness?” she asked, sidling closer.

Toru, her enthusiasm palpable even without a visible form, gestured to the shimmering fabric. “This! This is amazing! It’s like, holo-thread accents, but they catch the light without any camera glare! Imagine Sero’s outfit with subtle lines of this, only visible when he moves just right! It would be so cool for his ‘practical pop’ theme, adding that extra bit of flair without being too distracting.” She then pointed to a swatch of sturdy, dark green fabric, upon which several strips of brightly colored washi tape were meticulously applied. “And this! I’m testing out washi-tape patterns for Sero’s outfit. It’s surprisingly durable, and it means he can customize his look on the fly. Think of the tactical advantages!”

Jiro leaned in, her interest piqued. “Washi tape, huh? That’s... surprisingly ingenious for Sero. Good call on the no-glare holo-thread too. Sero would appreciate the subtlety.”

Mina, however, had a different agenda. Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint. “Speaking of subtlety, Toru, I’ve got something for you to try on. It’s... a new take on ‘personal expression.’” She pulled out a ridiculously voluminous, high-necked, ankle-length dress in a rather drab shade of beige, complete with long, flowing sleeves and a modest, buttoned-up collar. It was the antithesis of everything Toru usually wore, or rather, didn’t wear.

Toru, though invisible, conveyed a sense of utter bewilderment. “Mina? What is that? It looks like... a moving tent.”

Jiro snorted, trying to stifle her laughter. “It’s called ‘modesty,’ Toru. Mina thinks you should try it on. For... science.”

Mina clapped her hands together, feigning innocence. “Exactly! We’re exploring all the possibilities for the ‘Alter Ego Line’! And besides,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Some of our classmates were very concerned about your ‘comfort level’ with fittings. We wouldn’t want to... impose any discomfort, would we?” She winked at Jiro, who was now openly grinning.

Toru let out a huff, a faint ripple in the air indicating her exasperation. “Mina Ashido, you are so transparent! This is about Animus, isn’t it? You’re trying to mess with him!” Despite her protests, a hint of playful amusement entered her voice. “Fine, fine, I’ll try on your... fashion statement. But only if you promise to find me something with actual sparkle later.”

As Toru disappeared into a fitting room with the beige monstrosity, Mina turned to Jiro, a triumphant grin on her face. “Phase one: complete. Now, for the main event.” She then pulled out a selection of the frilliest, most brightly colored accessories they had found earlier: a neon pink feather boa, a sequined fedora, and a pair of oversized, heart-shaped sunglasses. “These, my dear Jiro, are for Animus. We’re going to make sure his ‘villain-core’ gets a healthy dose of ‘un-villain-core’ flair.”

Jiro took the items, examining them with a critical, yet amused, eye. “The boa is a nice touch. It really screams ‘understated menace,’ doesn’t it?” she deadpanned.

Just then, Toru’s voice, muffled but still airy, called out from the fitting room. “Okay, I’m ready! Prepare yourselves for the most covered-up Toru you’ve ever not seen!”

Mina and Jiro braced themselves, and a moment later, the fitting room door opened. Or rather, the space where the door was opened, and a beige, shapeless mass of fabric seemed to float out. Toru, completely enveloped in the dress, looked like a walking, talking, invisible haystack. Only the faint shimmer of her presence within the fabric gave any indication of her being there.

Mina burst into laughter, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, Toru! You look like... like a very modest, very beige ghost!”

Jiro, despite her best efforts, couldn’t hold back her own laughter, a low, rumbling sound that filled the small space. “You really don’t leave much to the imagination, do you, Hagakure?” she quipped, a playful jab at Toru’s invisibility and her usual hero costume, which was, for all intents and purposes, her naked form. The joke, while pointed, was delivered with genuine affection, a testament to their close friendship.

Toru, still encased in the fabric, let out an exasperated but amused groan. “Hey! It’s not my fault this thing is so... anti-me! I feel like I’m suffocating in here!” She then began to experiment with the dress, trying to move her arms and legs, resulting in a comical, flailing dance of beige fabric.

“See?” Mina said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “This is exactly what Animus was worried about! Your comfort! We’re just looking out for you, Toru.”

Toru, with a final, dramatic sigh, began to shed the dress, the beige fabric collapsing into a heap on the floor. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point, Mina Ashido. Now, where’s that actual sparkle you promised?” Her voice, though still tinged with playful exasperation, held a genuine note of anticipation.

Mina, still chuckling, gestured to a nearby display of iridescent fabrics. “Right this way, my invisible, yet incredibly sparkly, friend! We’ll find you something that screams ‘heroic glam’ without, you know, actually screaming.” Jiro, a small smile still on her lips, followed, picking up the discarded beige dress with a two-fingered disdain before tossing it into a returns bin. The fitting room area, having witnessed its brief moment of comedic drama, returned to its hushed, perfumed normalcy.

Meanwhile, back in the high-end boutique, Animus and Shinso had moved from tailored suits to a more specialized section: footwear. Rows of sleek, polished leather boots, minimalist sneakers, and even some surprisingly elegant combat boots lined the shelves. The scent of new leather mingled with the faint, sophisticated aroma of the boutique, a stark contrast to the more chaotic, glitter-infused atmosphere of Mina and Jiro’s current location.

Animus picked up a pair of dark, high-top sneakers, their soles thick and subtly textured. “Mobility is paramount for our theme,” he mused, turning the shoe over in his hand. “A villain, after all, must be able to move with silent efficiency, whether for infiltration or a swift, strategic retreat.”

Shinso, leaning against a display case filled with designer loafers, let out a soft sigh. “And for making a dramatic entrance, or a quick exit from a particularly boring conversation.” He picked up a pair of sleek, black ankle boots with a slight heel. “These have potential. The heel adds a certain… authoritative click. And the leather is supple enough for agile movement.”

Animus nodded, placing the sneakers back. “Indeed. The psychological impact of sound, or the lack thereof, is often overlooked. A silent approach can be as unnerving as a thunderous one.” He then gestured to a pair of heavy-duty, almost military-style boots. “For someone like Bakugo, perhaps. Something that conveys an unyielding presence, but still allows for explosive bursts of speed. We could integrate subtle shock-absorbing technology into the sole, to mitigate the impact of his quirk.”

Shinso considered the boots. “And for Kirishima, something equally robust, but perhaps with a more… grounded aesthetic. A reinforced sole, certainly, but with a material that hints at his hardening quirk without being overtly clunky. Perhaps a dark, almost obsidian-like finish that suggests impenetrable defense.” He then picked up a pair of surprisingly lightweight running shoes. “For Midoriya, I imagine something that allows for explosive propulsion, but also offers maximum support. A dark green, perhaps, with subtle red accents on the sole, a nod to his mentor’s colors, but in our ‘villain-core’ palette.”

Animus’s gaze lingered on the running shoes. “A good point. The subtlety of the homage. It’s about recognizing their inherent heroism, even as we cloak it in a darker aesthetic. For Uraraka, something that emphasizes lightness and grace, but with hidden strength. A boot with a flexible, almost weightless upper, but a reinforced toe and heel for combat. Perhaps a soft, almost ethereal grey, with a hidden, almost imperceptible pink lining.”

Shinso chuckled. “You’re really leaning into the ‘hidden’ aspect of villainy, aren’t you? Subtlety, misdirection… it’s almost poetic.” He then picked up a pair of brightly colored, almost neon sneakers. “And for Kaminari, the ultimate paradox. Something that appears innocuous, even playful, but conceals a potent, electric capability. These, perhaps, but in a muted, almost charcoal grey, with internal circuitry that can be activated to create a sudden, blinding flash of light from the sole.”

Animus’s lips twitched upward in a faint smile. “Precisely. The unexpected burst of power from an unassuming source. For Jiro, something that allows for quick, almost silent movement, but also incorporates her sonic capabilities. A sleek, black boot with a hidden speaker system in the sole, capable of emitting low-frequency vibrations that can disorient opponents, or high-frequency pulses for communication.”

“And for Tsuyu,” Shinso continued, “something waterproof, naturally. A sleek, dark green boot that mimics the texture of amphibian skin, but with advanced grip technology for wet surfaces. Functional, but still aesthetically pleasing within our theme.” He then held up a pair of formal, almost old-fashioned dress shoes. “For Momo, something that projects an air of sophisticated authority. A polished black Oxford, perhaps, with a hidden compartment in the heel for small creations, or a flexible sole that allows for rapid shifts in stance.”

Animus nodded. “The versatility of a well-dressed villain. For Tokoyami, something that allows for silent movement in shadows, but also offers protection. A dark, almost raven-black boot with a reinforced toe and a flexible, almost silent sole. The material could even be subtly reflective in low light, creating an illusion of shifting shadows.”

Shinso then picked up a pair of gravity-defying platform shoes. “And for Mineta… a truly challenging subject for footwear. Something that allows for his sticky quirk, but still maintains a semblance of our aesthetic. Perhaps a surprisingly elegant, dapper loafer, with subtly integrated, almost invisible suction cups on the sole, allowing for wall-climbing without compromising the overall look.” He then paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Speaking of challenging subjects… us. The new kids. How do you feel about being the ‘fresh faces’ of Class 3-A, Animus?”

Animus paused, his gaze drifting to a distant window, where the bustling mall activity was a muted blur. “It is… an adjustment. The dynamics of a group, particularly one with such a strong history, are complex. There is a certain… expectation, perhaps, that comes with being an outsider. To prove one’s worth, to find one’s place.” He then turned his gaze back to Shinso. “You, too, have experienced this, I imagine. The transition.”

Shinso leaned back against the display, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Oh, absolutely. It’s like being the new villain in a long-running superhero comic. Everyone’s got their established rivalries, their team-ups, their dramatic backstories. And then you show up, with your own brand of… menace, and everyone’s a little unsure what to do with you.” He chuckled softly. “But it has its advantages. A fresh perspective. The element of surprise.”

“Indeed,” Animus agreed. “The opportunity to observe, to learn, without the preconceived notions that often accompany long-standing relationships. It allows for a more… objective analysis of their strengths and weaknesses.” He then looked directly at Shinso, a hint of genuine curiosity in his deep eyes. “You’ve been with them longer, in a sense. Through the Sports Festival, the internships… the various… incidents. What, in your observation, has been the most significant challenge this class has faced? The one that truly tested their collective resolve?”

Shinso’s smirk softened, a thoughtful expression replacing his usual playful cynicism. “That’s a loaded question, Animus. They’ve been through a lot. The USJ attack, for one. That was a baptism by fire, literally, for some of them. It forced them to confront real villains, real danger, far earlier than any of them expected.” He paused, a distant look in his eyes. “And then there was the Provisional Hero License Exam. That was a different kind of challenge. Not just about fighting, but about teamwork, about understanding each other’s quirks and limitations, about adapting on the fly. It exposed their individual flaws, but also their collective resilience.”

He then let out a short, sharp laugh, a sound that cut through the serious tone. “But honestly? The biggest challenge they face, day in and day out, is probably just dealing with Bakugo’s temper before he’s had his morning coffee. That, my friend, is a true test of character.” He winked, a sudden, unexpected flash of humor. “And I’ve seen some of them almost fail that one.”

Animus blinked, a smirk running across his face. The unexpected humor seemed to catch him off guard, a ripple in his usually composed demeanor. “A formidable adversary, indeed,” he murmured, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice. “I will endeavor to factor that into my strategic considerations.”

Shinso clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie. “Good man. Always be prepared. Now, about these shoes for Ojiro. Something that allows for maximum tail mobility, but still looks sharp. Comfort and combat readiness are key, as he would say.” He picked up a pair of sleek, low-cut boots with a surprisingly flexible ankle. “These, perhaps, with a custom-fitted open bottom for his martial arts style, and a reinforced sole for powerful kicks.”

Animus nodded, his gaze returning to the footwear. “And for Koda, something gentle, but strong. Natural textures, perhaps, woven fibers, or patterns inspired by animals. A soft, earthy-toned boot, with a flexible sole that allows for silent movement, and a material that reflects his connection to nature.”

Their discussion continued, weaving through each remaining member of Class 3-A, each shoe a careful consideration of their quirks, personalities, and the overarching “villain-core” theme. The boutique, with its hushed atmosphere and rows of exquisite footwear, continues to be a source for their creative laboratory, a silent testament to their shared vision, punctuated by Shinso’s occasional, mood-lightening quips. The conversation flowed easily, a blend of practical design, psychological insight, and a growing, if unconventional, friendship between the two “new kids” of Class 3-A.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17 - Aura and Chartreuse

The gentle chime from the mall’s PA system signaled the second hourly check-in, a soft reminder that time, even on City Day, continued its relentless march. Animus and Shinso, having finalized their footwear selections and sent them off for modification at a nearby custom shop, emerged from the high-end boutique into the bustling main thoroughfare. The air, once filled with the sophisticated quiet of designer fashion, now vibrated with a cacophony of sounds: the distant strains of pop music from a competing electronics store, the chatter of shoppers, and the occasional burst of laughter from groups of students.

“Well, that was... productive,” Shinso remarked, stretching his arms above his head. “My brain feels like it just ran a marathon of sartorial villainy.” He glanced at Animus, whose composed demeanor seemed utterly unruffled by the mental gymnastics of designing 22 unique villain-core shoe concepts. “You, on the other hand, look like you just finished a light stroll through a philosophical garden.”

Animus offered a smile. “The challenge was stimulating. And the efficiency of the modification process here is... impressive.” He then paused, his gaze sweeping over the various storefronts. “However, a new challenge presents itself. Sustenance.”

Just then, a familiar, bright voice cut through the din. “Animus! Shinso! Over here!” Mina, her pink hair a vibrant beacon, waved enthusiastically from a cluster of outdoor tables near a large, stylized “M” logo that glowed with a cheerful, almost aggressively friendly yellow. Jiro was beside her, already unwrapping what looked like a rather substantial burger.

“Perfect timing,” Shinso muttered, a genuine grin spreading across his face as they navigated the throng of people. “My stomach was starting to plot its own villainous takeover.”

As they reached the tables, Mina immediately launched into a debrief. “So, how’s the ‘villain-core’ coming along? Did you find anything suitably menacing? We, on the other hand, have been on a mission of pure, unadulterated chaos.” She gestured to a large bag overflowing with brightly colored, frilly accessories. “Prepare yourselves for the most unhinged fashion items you’ve ever seen.”

Jiro, taking a bite of her burger, merely grunted in agreement, a small smile playing on her lips. “Mina’s been having a field day with the ‘anti-Animus’ collection.”

Animus’s gaze flickered to the bag, then to Mina, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Indeed. I anticipated... a certain degree of playful subversion.” He then turned his attention to the menu displayed above the fast-food counter, his brow furrowing.

Mina, ever observant, caught the subtle shift in his expression. She watched as his eyes scanned the brightly lit menu, then darted to the various items being served to other customers. There was a faint, tension in his posture, a slight hesitation. He’s counting again, Mina realized, a familiar interior flicker. Not just the items, but the combinations, the possibilities. It was a habit she’d noticed before, a quiet, analytical process that usually accompanied unfamiliar situations. And the menu, with its array of “Mega-Burgers” and “Super-Sized Fries” and “Cosmic Shakes,” was clearly a new landscape for him.

“What’s up, Animus?” Mina asked, her voice deliberately casual. “Struggling with the sheer, overwhelming glory of the ‘Mega-Munch’ menu?”

Animus paused, his gaze still fixed on the menu. “The nomenclature is... unfamiliar. And the sheer volume of options. It requires... a moment of strategic consideration.” He then looked at Shinso. “Your recommendation, Shinso?”

Shinso chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “For pure efficiency and maximum caloric intake, the ‘Hero’s Feast’ combo is usually a safe bet. Comes with a burger, fries, and a drink. But if you’re feeling adventurous, the ‘Spicy Sidekick’ burger has a kick.” He winked. “Good for building character.”

Animus nodded slowly, still processing. Mina noticed his lips moving, a silent tallying of ingredients, a mental mapping of flavor profiles. It was clear the menu was vastly different from what he was accustomed to, a small cultural hurdle in the midst of their grand fashion challenge.

“I’m going for the ‘Cosmic Shake’ with extra whipped cream,” Mina declared, trying to lighten the mood further. “Because sometimes, you just need a little extra sparkle in your life.” She nudged Jiro. “What about you, Jiro? Another ‘Rock Star Rumble’ burger?”

Jiro, having finished her first burger, wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Nah, I’m thinking something lighter. Maybe just some ‘Sonic Onion Rings.’ Gotta keep the vocal cords clear for all the good tunes.”

Animus, after a moment of silent contemplation, finally spoke. “I will... attempt the ‘Hero’s Feast.’ And a ‘Cosmic Shake.’ For... research purposes.” A faint, smirk touched his lips.

Mina grinned, a genuine warmth spreading through her. “Attaboy, Animus! Embrace the chaos! Jiro, you and I will go order. Shinso, keep Animus from overthinking the condiment bar.”

As Mina and Jiro headed towards the counter, the bustling sounds of the mall seemed to coalesce into a harmonious hum. The sun, now higher in the sky, cast long, inviting shadows across the steps where they sat. Lunch, a simple act, had become another small, shared moment in the grand tapestry of City Day, a brief respite before the next wave of creative challenges and playful mischief. The “villain-core” and “glam rock” themes, the pranks and the serious discussions, all blended together, a testament to the unique and ever-evolving dynamics of Class 3-A.

Mina returned to the table, two “Cosmic Shakes” in hand, one for herself and one for Animus, who was still contemplating the condiment bar with the intensity of a general planning a strategic invasion. Jiro followed with her “Sonic Onion Rings” and a fresh “Rock Star Rumble” burger. Shinso, meanwhile, had managed to distract Animus with a casual observation about the architectural merits of the mall’s food court, a topic Animus seemed to find surprisingly engaging.

“Alright, Animus, your Cosmic Shake, for... research purposes,” Mina announced, placing the vibrant, whipped cream-topped drink in front of him. She then leaned back, a casual smile on her face, but her eyes, ever sharp, were fixed on him. “So, Shinso, still on the hunt for the perfect ‘villain-core’ footwear?”

Shinso took a bite of his burger. “Always. Though Animus here has a remarkably detailed vision for each classmate. It’s almost as if he... sees them in a way others don’t.” He glanced at Animus, a subtle, knowing glint in his eye, playing into Mina’s earlier hint.

Animus, momentarily distracted from his shake, nodded. “Indeed. A comprehensive understanding of an individual’s physical and psychological attributes is crucial for effective design. One must consider their gait, their center of gravity, their preferred methods of movement...” He trailed off, taking a sip of his shake, a faint, widening of his eyes as the sweetness hit him.

Mina seized the opening. “Speaking of seeing people, Animus,” she began, her voice light and innocent, “Jiro and I were just talking about Toru’s outfit. And, you know, it’s really hard to pick out things for her, right, Jiro?” She nudged Jiro under the table.

Jiro, catching on immediately, nodded sagely. “Oh, absolutely, Mina. Especially when you’re trying to match things to... say, her hair color. It’s a real challenge, isn’t it? Like, what shade would even work with her natural tones?” She looked pointedly at Animus.

Shinso, who had been listening with a casual interest, raised an eyebrow. “Her hair color?” he repeated, a slow, amused smirk spreading across his face. “Jiro, you do realize, her hair color isn’t exactly a key design element.”

Animus, however, didn’t miss a beat. He set his shake down, his deep eyes meeting Jiro’s. “Chartreuse,” he murmured, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Yes, that is a particularly challenging hue to source in a versatile fabric. One might have to consider a custom dye, or perhaps integrate it as an accent, a lining, or even a subtle embroidery within a darker, more adaptable material. The key would be to ensure it complements her... aura.”

A beat of stunned silence fell over the table. Mina’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide with triumphant disbelief. Jiro’s burger paused halfway to her mouth, her expression a mixture of shock and dawning realization. Shinso’s smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of genuine bewilderment.

“He... he just said ‘chartreuse’.” Mina whispered, her voice barely audible. “And ‘aura’.” She slowly pushed herself up from the table, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming. “I knew it!”

Jiro, recovering quickly, let out a low whistle. “Wow, Mina. You were right.”

Shinso, however, looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, looking from Mina to Jiro, then back to Animus, who was now looking between them with a tilt of his head, clearly sensing a shift in the dynamic but unsure of its cause.

Mina clapped her hands together, a wide, mischievous grin splitting her face. “Shinso, my dear, sweet, oblivious Shinso,” she began, her voice dripping with playful drama, “Toru is invisible. She has no visible hair color. And Animus just described her hair as ‘chartreuse’ and talked about her ‘aura’!” She pointed a finger at Animus, who now looked even more perplexed. “He can see her!”

A collective gasp, rippled through the small group. Shinso’s eyes widened, then narrowed in a mixture of surprise and a faint, grudging admiration. He looked at Animus, a new layer of intrigue added to his already complex assessment of the new student.

Animus, for his part, remained perfectly still, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a slow, almost embarrassed flush began to creep up his neck, a subtle but undeniable sign of his discomfiture. “Invisible?” he murmured, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. He thought back to the training sessions, to Toru’s hero costume, which for him had always seemed... revealing. His flush deepened. “So that’s why no one said anything at training...”

Mina and Jiro burst out laughing, clutching their stomachs. “And you didn’t think seeing one of your classmates go commando in their hero suit to be a bit strange?” Shinso drawled, a wry twist to his lips, his own amusement barely contained.

Animus shot back, his voice a little stiff, “Of course, but I am new here, and no one else said anything about it, so I felt it would be inappropriate to comment on something no one else was making a big deal about.” He took another sip of his shake, trying to regain some semblance of his usual composure, but the faint blush remained.

“Oh, Animus,” Mina said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Indeed,” Shinso agreed, a genuine smile on his face. “A truly unique perception. It certainly adds a new dimension to our understanding of Class 3-A, wouldn’t you agree?”

Animus merely offered a hint of amusement in his deep eyes. He picked up his Cosmic Shake, taking another thoughtful sip, as if contemplating the complex flavor profile of his newfound secret. The mystery of Animus’s unique perception, and Mina’s determination to unravel it, had just added a fascinating new layer to the already vibrant tapestry of City Day.

Before the conversation could escalate further, a clear, insistent chime echoed through the mall’s PA system, a familiar sound that cut through the excited chatter around their table. “Attention, Class 3-A! This is your hourly check-in reminder! Please report to your designated meet-up points within the next five minutes! City Day continues, heroes!” The cheerful voice of Present Mic, slightly distorted by the speakers, brought an abrupt end to their revelry. The emergency beacons on their wristbands pulsed a steady, reassuring green.

Mina groaned, collapsing back into her seat. “Ugh, already? Just when things were getting good!” She glanced at Animus, who was now looking at his wristband with a renewed, almost scientific interest, as if analyzing the frequency of the pulse. “This isn’t over, Animus,” she said, a playful threat in her voice. “We’re going to get to the bottom of your invisible-girl-seeing powers.”