Chapter Text
I don’t have many memories of my life before. How could I? After all, I was only one year old when my “life after” began.
And yet, for some reason I don’t fully understand, the adults insist on me knowing my past. They tell me stories, show me photographs, and give me heirlooms.
However, as far as I’m concerned, the description that summarizes what happened in the simplest and most direct way is the headline that appeared on the front page on July 17th fourteen years ago:
“HERO KILLER STRIKES AGAIN: PRO HERO COUPLE MK ULTRA AND MONTAUK FALLS IN BATTLE.”
There is no delicate way to tell a little girl that her parents - two beloved superheroes - were murdered by an anarchist vigilante who believed he could act as judge, jury, and executioner.
And unfortunately, there isn’t even a way to make her remember them, not if the time spent together wasn’t enough to create memories.
The detailed reports about how that monster broke into our home in the middle of the night, smashing down the door of our beautiful villa, are of little use. Or how even the strongest pair of pro heroes in Japan had found themselves powerless before his murderous fury.
Or how blood had splattered across the walls, making them look like some kind of macabre wallpaper (I had read that detail secretly in the newspapers).
There was only one story I enjoyed listening to.
It was the one told by my father’s best friend.
He was a pro hero too, but he had arrived late. He had made his way through the wreckage of broken furniture, the house wrapped in an unreal silence. He was afraid of what he might have found.
He never told me what he felt when he saw my parents’ mutilated bodies, and I never asked.
But he did say that, at the peak of his despair, he suddenly heard a cry. So he followed the sound and reached my crib, which had remained mysteriously untouched. And there, to his disbelief, he found an unharmed newborn.
That mad killer had spared me.
The hero carried me away from that place steeped in death, now reduced to ruins.
This is my favorite story, because I’m convinced I remember one detail.
His eyes. Black and deep, filled with pain, but also with renewed hope the moment they fell on me.
I know it’s unlikely that this memory truly comes from that fatal night. It might belong to some time later. In fact, it might even be a false memory my mind created to deal with the trauma.
What matters is that, from that day on, those eyes have never left me.
Those eyes calm me every time my head feels like it’s about to explode with tangled thoughts, or when I feel overwhelmed by the most ordinary daily worries.
And in fact, they are the very eyes I’m searching for among the row of pro heroes seated in front of me, inside a classroom at the hero academy called U.A. High School.
Shota Aizawa gives me a barely noticeable nod of encouragement, though his usual seriousness never falters.
He is the man who found me, who decided to take me with him, who welcomed me as a daughter and raised me.
“Akagawa Arisu, it is a pleasure for the faculty of U.A. to have you here today.”
Principal Nezu smiles at me.
I wonder how, as a child, I could have found this improbable hybrid of animals cute - this creature whose intelligence is so developed it could probably overthrow entire human governments.
As I bow slightly to greet the teachers, I notice the cunning glimmer in his dark little eyes. He has been placed on a tiny red armchair on top of the table where the others are sitting.
“So then, if you have made it this far, it means you have passed both parts of the entrance exam. Your parents would be very proud.”
My parents. I know their reputation well, and I am proud to be their daughter, even though the pressure that comes from parents like them, first considered great heroes and later martyrs, is a heavy burden on the shoulders of a young girl.
Even so, I decided long ago that I want to follow their example, becoming the spark of hope that will reignite the flame of justice.
My dream is to become a pro hero, just as I know they would have wanted, and just as everyone expects.
“First, let’s analyze the written test.”
The principal’s words bring me back to reality.
I step closer to the long desk. Present Mic, sitting beside Aizawa, pulls a sheet of paper from a folder.
“My congratulations, Akagawa. Your test was flawless. Not a single mistake.”
I take the paper with trembling hands and feel my heart tighten when I see the 100 circled in red, shining as if it might leap off the page.
My eyes scan the test.
Question 37: “In what year was the first law regulating the use of Quirks enacted?”
I had hesitated between 1967 and 1976, but in the end - thank goodness - I had checked the first option.
Question 94: “Who is the author of the book ‘Villains and Heroes: Two Sides of the Same Coin’?”
I had almost panicked on that one because my mind suddenly went blank. But in the end, not at all certain, I chose the answer that sounded vaguely familiar. Now I’m sure I’ll never forget the name Kaito Fujimura.
The blond pro hero winks at me, raising his thumb in a gesture that he probably believes is discreet, but is actually extremely obvious. Aizawa shoots him a glare.
Hizashi Yamada—also known as Present Mic thanks to the quirk that allows him to amplify his voice—is the person closest to my adoptive father. In one way or another he’s always visiting our house, and ever since I was little he’s found a thousand ways to make me laugh.
From their stories I know they were classmates at U.A., and they’ve never lost contact since then. Often he and Aizawa bicker because of the latter’s gruff personality, but the bond between them is stronger than any argument.
“Don’t praise her too much, Mic. If a written test were enough to become a hero, there would be no difference between this school and any other.”
The harsh remark comes from Vlad King, the hero capable of controlling his own blood.
My smile fades immediately. Aizawa stiffens almost imperceptibly, and Nezu clears his throat softly to restore order.
“If no one else has anything to add, let’s move on to the practical test."
The entrance exam for recommended students consisted of two tests, as well as a final interview. The first evaluated the knowledge acquired through theoretical study, while the second was a three-kilometer marathon that could only be completed by using one’s quirk in an intelligent and constructive way.
There were six of us in my group, and I finished third. Not exactly the result I had hoped for.
By applying through recommendation, I had avoided the open selection held across all of Japan, where the acceptance rate is extremely low, and had been able to submit my application directly to the school instead.
Now that I had reached this point, the only factor determining my admission to U.A. High School was the professors’ judgment. Usually, only the most promising candidates are selected, based on their quirks and their ability to use them.
I clench my fists at my sides, waiting for the verdict.
The principal points to something behind me, so I turn around. On the white wall of the classroom where the interview is taking place, I notice a screen I hadn’t seen when I walked in.
They aren't going to show my test, are they? I think skeptically.
Of course, this is exactly what they do.
Resigned, I watch the footage of myself, red-faced and sweating from the effort. More than my disheveled appearance, however, it’s my performance that worries me.
The small animal pauses the video at the moment when I used telekinesis to build a crude staircase out of rocks, shortening the route.
“That was a good idea, Arisu, using your quirk to create a shortcut.”
For the first time since the beginning of the interview, Aizawa speaks.
I notice he used my name instead of the impersonal “Akagawa” the principal had chosen, and it pleases me. The biggest challenge I’ll face at school - assuming I’m admitted - will be getting used to interacting with him in a setting like this, where he is a teacher and I am a student. On one hand, I fear my classmates’ prejudice about having my father as a teacher. On the other, I’m afraid that, precisely to avoid that situation, Aizawa might distance himself from me. That’s why hearing him assert his right to use my first name fills me with renewed strength.
“However,” continues Eraserhead, “I wonder why you didn’t run the entire marathon using this method. You could have saved a lot of time and maybe gained a few positions.”
The comment catches me off guard. In the days before the exam he hadn’t wanted to tell me anything about it, rightly insisting that I should face it without advantages over the other candidates. Even in the days between the test and the interview we hadn’t discussed it, so I had convinced myself that I had given a sufficient, though clearly imperfect, performance. I trusted that if it hadn’t been enough, Aizawa would have pointed it out.
“I considered that possibility,” I explain, “but I was afraid I wouldn’t have enough strength.”
The teachers begin murmuring among themselves, but Aizawa immediately replies: “You’ll realize that reasoning like that during a mission or on a battlefield could lead to tragic consequences.”
I stop the response that almost slips out of me, an informal, bitter justification, realizing that the person speaking to me right now is not my father, but a teacher.
I nod, accepting the criticism, unable to meet the pro hero’s gaze.
“Don’t be discouraged, young Akagawa,” intervenes All Might, Japan’s number one hero and the newest member of U.A.’s teaching staff, flashing his brilliant smile and puffing out his muscular chest.
“A hero must always know their limits before they can surpass them.”
“Akagawa,” adds Principal Nezu, “when you talk about strength, do you mean that when you use your quirk to move objects, you feel fatigue?”
“Yes, exactly. When I lift or move an object with telekinesis, I feel its weight, although less intensely than if I were lifting it physically.”
“Interesting,” the animal comments, stroking his furry chin.
“Now I’m curious,” says Vlad King provocatively. “Aizawa, since you know her power, do you think she could have done it?”
I don’t understand the purpose of that comment. It seems more like a criticism aimed at my father than at me. In fact, I start to suspect the two of them don’t get along very well.
Eraserhead’s expression doesn’t change, but his answer takes a moment to arrive.
Only when all the teachers, last of all the principal, have turned toward him does he say: “She could have done it.”
Vlad King’s smile falters. Perhaps he hadn’t expected an answer, or thought Aizawa would dodge the question. Instead, he responds through clenched teeth, his voice rough, not even looking at me, clearly annoyed that our relationship had been brought up so subtly. And most of all, he didn’t defend me.
My cheeks burn. That well-aimed remark had not only criticized my abilities but had also undermined my father’s authority as a teacher in using quirks, even in relation to his own daughter.
Was this something the teachers had been discussing? Did someone - Vlad King - disapprove of such a relationship between a teacher and a student?
Anger warms my stomach, and from the corner of my eye I notice a faint red glow around my hands. I clench my fists at my sides.
You expected some prejudice, I tell myself, trying to calm down.
Yes, but from the other students, not the teachers, a small voice in my mind replies.
It doesn’t change much. Head held high, I decide.
I take a deep breath. I wasn’t the real target of that criticism. Letting my emotions take over could only hurt the outcome of the interview.
And besides, Aizawa will certainly know how to deal with his colleague when the time comes. He’s the strongest person I know.
After a few awkward moments of silence, the interview resumes and the principal restarts the video. The teachers stop it from time to time, offering small corrections and even a few compliments.
At the end of the footage, Midnight, wearing her seductive pro-hero costume, speaks: “I have a question for you, Miss Akagawa. One of your abilities is telepathy as well. Did you use it during this test? From the footage it’s hard to tell.”
Her tone is gentle, as is her smile. Most likely it’s just curiosity. But for me, the matter is delicate.
“No, I didn’t use it. I considered the possibility, but I imagined that connecting with the emotional state of the others, probably nervous and anxious like mine, would have been more discouraging than helpful.”
I’m afraid the explanation won’t be enough, but I don’t want to admit that I often struggle to distance myself from the emotions of the people whose minds I read, sometimes becoming overwhelmed and feeling them as if they were my own.
“However, you could have discovered your opponents’ plans,” Aizawa adds bluntly.
I had expected a sharp remark like that, especially after the insinuations directed at him earlier.
Ever since my quirk manifested for the first time, my father has taught me how to control it. Compared to the ease with which I can use telekinesis, telepathy has always been difficult for me. Other people’s thoughts slip subtly and persistently into my own. Often, all it takes is a physical touch or a moment of distraction on my part, and voices and emotions that do not belong to me come rushing in from every direction.
Even so, Shota Aizawa has never doubted my potential, especially in this regard, insisting that I simply needed to develop greater control over my abilities.
Yet by deliberately pressing on a sore spot, Aizawa had taken advantage of his knowledge of my difficulties.
A bitter knot tightens in my stomach.
“I thought everyone had the same objective: finishing the marathon in the shortest time possible. What would have been the point of knowing the others’ plans?”
I realize I spoke in a challenging tone and raised my voice by a couple of octaves, so I clear my throat to compose myself. Aizawa, on the other hand, remains perfectly calm.
“Well, knowing your opponents’ intentions is not something I would consider useless,” comments Ectoplasm, thoughtfully crossing his arms. “Especially in a test where the goal is to reach the finish line before them.”
A direct expression of disapproval toward my decision. Now there are only two paths I can take: obediently accept my mistake, or defend my reasoning and risk watching it shatter in front of me. Either way, I might ruin everything, or earn at least a bit of recognition. Humility in the first case, determination in the second.
“I didn’t consider discovering the others’ plans because I didn’t consider sabotaging them or stealing their ideas to get ahead. I think that would have been underhanded, something a villain would do. I interpreted this test as an evaluation of how we used our quirks, so I focused on my own path, doing my best and letting the others do the same.”
All the teachers’ eyes are on me. No one says a word.
“I thought that’s what a hero would do.”
I realize that last sentence was a gamble, but it’s already been spoken.
I thank the heavens that Ectoplasm’s face is hidden behind his costume and I can’t see his expression.
The silence is broken when Snipe slams his gadget-laden hand on the desk with a laugh.
“This girl’s got guts!”
From the others’ expressions, I can tell that some agree, while others remain suspicious. A few are simply unreadable.
“Very well,” begins Principal Nezu after a moment. “If no one has anything else to add…”
To my great relief, he turns off the screen behind me and my disheveled image disappears.
“Now then, after analyzing your exam results, it’s time to talk about your quirk. According to your documents, it’s called Psykinesis, and it originates from the fusion of your parents’ quirks, your father’s telekinesis and your mother’s telepathy. However, this union has made your power exponentially stronger than either of theirs, reaching the point where you can manipulate energy itself, which, if you think about it, is the fundamental component of matter.”
He pauses for dramatic effect, clearly addressing the other teachers as much as me.
“As you know, the nature of a quirk is fundamental in the selection process for U.A. High School. Unfortunately, not every ability allows for a future as a hero, no matter how talented or determined a person may be. Likewise, quirks that are too dangerous or uncontrollable risk pushing a student down the path of villainy, and that is something this school absolutely cannot allow.”
Another pause.
“Your quirk is extremely powerful, Miss Akagawa. That means that, if used well, it certainly has the potential to do great good. However, the other side of the coin must also be considered: your power has the capacity to lead to catastrophic consequences if mistakes are made. That is why your will must never waver, nor your determination. Earlier, in your answers, you demonstrated a strong understanding of your quirk, which is exceptional for someone your age, but at the same time there is a hint of insecurity that could, over time, turn into fear. And that would be a serious problem in managing your abilities. Of course, a certain amount of uncertainty is normal, especially for someone so young, but this will be the first major obstacle you must overcome.”
Nezu smiles, and I understand that his speech has ended. But I feel slightly confused.
Does that mean I’m accepted?
This interview is starting to drag on for too long. I find myself wishing only for it to end. Whatever the outcome, an answer is better than the torture of doubt.
Nezu resumes speaking.
“As you know, you took the entrance exam for recommended students. Not only were your middle school grades more than excellent, but you also hold a scholarship granted to the deserving children of our teachers. In addition, we took into account the recommendation of a pro hero, Eraserhead, alongside the one granted to you simply by your surname. Finally, we evaluated your knowledge of the hero world and your mastery of your quirk.”
He leans forward slightly.
“The only thing that still separates you from the outcome of this final interview is the answer to a seemingly simple but fundamental question for any student at this school: why do you want to become a pro hero?”
It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times before, but I still take a few seconds before answering. I don’t want to say something trivial. But I don’t want to hide behind empty grand words either.
“My parents were great heroes, and I never knew them because they were killed by an outlaw. I want to follow their example and prevent the same thing from happening to other children. And I want to make them proud, and give them justice.”
I speak in one breath and only allow myself to inhale again once I finish.
Inevitably, my gaze drifts to my adoptive father. Aizawa nods seriously, approving my words. At the same time, a veil of melancholy and emotion settles over the faculty, something I perceive faintly at the edge of my awareness thanks to my power.
The only one who seems immune to the atmosphere is the principal, who asks in a smooth, almost provocative tone:
“So your wish is to become a pro hero like your parents?”
My first instinct is to nod, but then the question echoes again in my mind.
Was it just my imagination, or had he placed emphasis on the word ‘like’? I decide it wasn’t my imagination.
Do I want to be like my parents? At first glance there would be nothing wrong with that. Everyone loved them - and still does. They were powerful, famous, wealthy. Wonderful people in every sense.
So where is the trap?
Or maybe there is no trap, and it’s all in my head. Maybe the problem is me, for some reason unable to appreciate my parents the way I should. Maybe I should just lie. Say yes. End this endless interview.
“I…” I begin, realizing I’ve been silent for too long.
“I think I want to become a pro hero like I am.”
It’s not the answer I had prepared, but I immediately realize it’s the most honest one.
Nezu gestures for me to continue.
“I believe my parents were great heroes, though you probably know that better than I do. But no matter how incredible and powerful they were, I don’t think it’s possible to replicate their achievements, and I don’t think it would be right to try. Maybe I’ll never reach their level, but I want to follow my own ideals and what I feel is right.”
Principal Nezu looks at the faces of his colleagues one by one.
Then he finally says:
“Akagawa Arisu, you are the daughter of two great heroes whom I had the honor of knowing during their student days. Moreover, all of us here have watched you grow up beside Eraserhead, from the time you shyly peeked out from behind his back and refused to let go of his hand, to now. Your answer has shown that you have become a determined and honest young woman with great strength of will.”
He smiles.
“And so, I am very happy to finally say: welcome to U.A.!”
I count two seconds during which I remain completely still, just to make sure I understood correctly and that I’m not dreaming.
Then I bow to thank them and to hide the wide smile I can’t hold back. I’ve been accepted. I will attend the school of my parents, of Aizawa and Present Mic, of the greatest heroes past and present. Until now, I had always taken for granted that I would enter U.A., but only when facing this final test did I realize that rejection was truly possible, and despite that, I was accepted.
Of course, I’m fortunate to have had the chance to apply, and even more fortunate to have used the shortcut of a recommendation. But that doesn’t change the fact that the gears of the mechanism that will build my dream have finally begun to turn and no one will be able to stop them.