Chapter Text
The gates of UA loomed white against a colorless February sky, and Ochaco Uraraka walked toward them with her mother's voice in her head.
Find someone with ambition, Ochaco. Ambition builds empires.
She'd heard it first at twelve, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor while her mother scrubbed dishes by hand because the dishwasher had broken again and repairs cost money they didn't have. Her father's construction company had lost another contract that week. The third that month. Her mother's hands were red and cracked, but her voice was steady.
Your father is a good man. Kind. Hardworking. But kindness doesn't pay the electric bill, and hard work only matters if it's pointed in the right direction.
Ochaco had watched the way her mother's jaw set as she said it. No bitterness. Just facts.
I married him because his company was growing. I stayed because I grew to love him. Both things are true. Both things matter. Don't let anyone tell you that caring about security makes love less real.
The gates grew larger with each step. Ochaco adjusted the strap of her bag, a secondhand thing she'd patched twice at the shoulder seam, and catalogued the other examinees streaming past her. Expensive shoes. Custom quirk-adapted clothing. A girl with long black hair and the kind of effortless posture that came from a childhood of private lessons. A tall boy with glasses she could tell were made from expensive materials rated for hero work that probably cost more than Ochaco's monthly rent.
She belonged here. She'd earned her spot at this gate through study and sweat and the quiet, grinding determination that came from watching your parents scrape for every yen.
She belonged here, and she was going to prove it.
The walkway to the main building stretched ahead, wide and immaculate, lined with bare-branched trees that would probably bloom pink in spring. Ochaco pictured herself walking this path in April, a UA student, one step closer to everything she'd planned for.
A sound ahead broke her focus. A stumble, a sharp intake of breath, the particular scramble of someone losing their balance on flat ground.
Green hair. That was the first thing she noticed. Wild, dark green curls that stuck out in every direction like he'd lost a fight with a pillow. Then the rest of him registered: a boy her age, arms pinwheeling, one foot caught on the other, pitching forward toward the concrete with the helpless momentum of someone who'd already accepted the fall.
Ochaco's hand shot out. Five fingertips pressed against the sleeve of his blazer, and gravity released him. He bobbed once, weightless, suspended an inch above the ground, and for one frozen moment his wide green eyes stared at the pavement that should have met his face.
She pulled him upright by the elbow and pressed her fingers together.
"Release."
He dropped the remaining inch. Stumbled again, caught himself. Turned to face her with a flush crawling from his neck to his hairline.
"I-I'm so sorry! Thank you! That would have been, I mean, tripping on the way in would have been really, um, bad luck, and your quirk is amazing, is it gravity-related? The way I just floated there, it felt like—"
"It's fine." She smiled. Polite. Warm enough to be friendly, not warm enough to invite more conversation. "Good luck today."
She was already walking before he finished thanking her.
Green hair. Freckles. A middle school uniform that had been washed too many times, the black fading toward gray at the collar and cuffs. Shoes scuffed down to bare rubber at the toes. No confidence. No presence. The kind of boy who walked into a room and the room didn't notice.
She filed him under irrelevant and kept moving.
The written exam was three hours in a classroom that smelled like floor wax and nervous sweat. Ochaco worked through it methodically, section by section, her pencil moving with a steadiness that didn't match the hammering in her chest.
Mathematics: solid. She'd drilled these problems until the equations felt automatic.
Science: adequate. She lost time on a chemistry question about molecular bonds and moved on rather than spiral.
History and law: her strongest section. Hero regulations. Quirk usage statutes. Liability frameworks. She'd memorized them not because they fascinated her but because they'd be the foundation of a career, and foundations had to be rock solid.
A hero license isn't just permission to fight, she'd read in a career guide she'd found at the library. It's a business license. It's a brand. It's a revenue stream.
She finished twelve minutes early. Used the remaining time to review her answers, correcting two careless errors in the math section, and spent the last four minutes with her hands folded on the desk, staring at the clock.
Around her, other examinees were still scribbling. The black-haired girl from the gate wrote with perfect caligraphy, filling answer blanks without pause. The tall boy with the glasses sat ramrod straight, his pencil moving in quick, aggressive strokes. Three rows ahead, someone's head was down on the desk. Asleep or defeated.
Ochaco didn't look for the green-haired boy. He didn't matter.
What mattered was the practical exam. The written portion was a filter, nothing more. UA's real test was combat, and combat was where quirks like hers got dismissed. Zero Gravity. No offensive application. No defensive shield. No flashy display that would make scouts sit up in their chairs and reach for their phones.
She'd spent months preparing for this. Studying what little leaked footage there was from previous exams. Running scenarios. Figuring out how to turn a quirk designed for making things weightless into something that could fight.
Float the debris. Use it as ammunition. Make yourself lighter to move faster. Touch the robots and send them drifting, then let them crash when gravity returns.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't overwhelming. But it was enough.
It had to be enough.
She thought about her father's face at breakfast that morning. The way he'd squeezed her shoulder and said nothing, because saying something would have meant acknowledging how much was riding on today.
Pass. You have to pass. They need you to pass.
The buzzer sounded. Pencils down. Exam booklets collected.
Ochaco stood, stretched the tension from her neck, and followed the herd toward the orientation hall.
The auditorium was enormous. Stadium seating descending toward a stage dominated by a screen the size of a building face. Ochaco found her seat near the middle of a center row. Good sightlines. Close enough to hear clearly, far enough to observe the crowd.
She scanned the room while it filled. Groupings formed like crystals in solution. Kids from the same middle schools clustered together. The confident ones sat in front, legs spread, talking loudly. The uncertain ones drifted to the back and edges.
She found the green-haired boy three rows down and to the left.
He sat hunched in his chair, shoulders curved inward, a notebook clutched against his chest like a shield. He was muttering. She could see his lips moving, rapid and constant, his eyes darting across the auditorium as if cataloguing every face, every quirk manifestation, every detail worth recording.
Nervous, she thought. But observant. He's watching everyone the way I am.
The observation was mildly interesting. She filed it and moved on.
Then the blond arrived.
He dropped into a seat near the green-haired boy with the particular violence of someone who owned every room he entered. Spiky hair the color of a detonation. Red eyes. A uniform from the same school as the green-haired boy, but worn differently. Sleeves rolled. Collar open. Everything about him broadcasting dominance.
"Oi, Deku."
The green-haired boy flinched. A full-body recoil, shoulders drawing up, chin tucking down, the notebook pressed harder against his chest.
"K-Kacchan, I—"
"The hell are you doing here?" The blond's voice carried. Heads turned. He didn't seem to notice, or didn't care. "Thought I told you to give up on this shit."
"I'm just—I want to try, I—"
"Try?" A sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "You're gonna embarrass yourself. Again. You always do." He leaned closer, and Ochaco watched the green-haired boy shrink another inch. "Stay out of my way. I'm taking first place, and I don't need your quirkless ass dragging down the curve."
Quirkless.
Ochaco's eyes narrowed.
No. Someone quirkless would try for UA would they?
She watched the green-haired boy mumble something that might have been an apology. Watched the blond sneer and turn away, dismissing him completely. Watched the boy's hands tremble on his notebook.
Bully and victim. Years of it, from the body language. He flinches at the blond. The blond's aggression isn't new frustration. It's habit. Comfortable cruelty.
She tilted her head.
Interesting dynamic.
The tall boy with glasses appeared beside the green-haired boy, saying something about disrupting the proceedings. Another layer of social pressure on someone already crumbling under its weight.
Ochaco turned away. A quirkless boy at the UA entrance exam was either delusional or desperate, and neither quality made him worth her attention. She had her own problems.
The lights dimmed. A figure bounded onto the stage with the energy of a man powered by caffeine and ego.
"WELCOME TO TODAY'S LIVE PERFORMANCE! EVERYBODY SAY HEY!"
Silence.
Present Mic didn't seem to notice. Or, like the blond boy, didn't care. He launched into the explanation with a showman's cadence, and Ochaco leaned forward, absorbing every word.
The practical exam. Faux villains. Point system. One-pointers, two-pointers, three-pointers. Ten-minute time limit. Multiple battle centers to prevent collusion.
She mapped the information against her preparation. Robots, not people. Mechanical targets. Her quirk could work with that. Float debris, use it as projectile mass. Touch the smaller robots directly and send them tumbling into each other. Move fast, stay light, rack up points through volume rather than power.
She didn't need to destroy them spectacularly. She just needed to destroy enough of them.
She noted the information. Around her, other examinees shifted in their seats. Some looked nervous. Some looked excited. The blond boy leaned back with his arms behind his head, oozing confidence.
The green-haired boy was scribbling in his notebook. Fast. Obsessive.
Analyzing, Ochaco thought. He's building strategies. For an exam he can't pass because he doesn't have a quirk.
The tall boy with glasses stood and asked a pointed question about the zero-pointer, then pivoted to scold the green-haired boy for his muttering. Public humiliation dressed as civic duty. The audience laughed.
The green-haired boy sank lower.
"And then there's the zero-pointer!"
A image with a question mark appeared on screen.
"Worth zero points! It's more of an obstacle than an enemy. My advice? AVOID IT!"
Zero points. Not worth engaging. Run if it appears.
Ochaco checked the battle center assignment on her card. Center B. She scanned for familiar faces in her group.
Not the blond. Good. She didn't want that chaos near her.
The glasses boy. Fine. He reminded her a bit of Team Idaten. Could be worth knowing.
The green-haired boy. She glanced at his card from three rows away, readable in the auditorium light. Center B.
Oh.
She shrugged internally. It wouldn't matter. He'd wash out in the first two minutes. She'd never see him again.
The orientation ended. Examinees rose, shuffling toward their assigned centers. Ochaco stood, rolled her shoulders, and pressed her fingertips together in the pattern she'd drilled ten thousand times.
Her mother's voice, one last time:
Find someone with ambition.
Later. Strategy later. Networking later. Today she just needed to survive.
She joined the stream of bodies heading for Battle Center B and didn't look back at the green-haired boy still hunched in his seat, notebook pressed to his chest, trembling.
The starting horn was still ringing when Ochaco pressed all five fingers to the first chunk of loose concrete she could find.
Release.
Thirty kilograms of rubble sailed into a one-pointer's sensor array at roughly the speed of a fastball pitch. The robot staggered, sparked, collapsed. She was already moving.
The battle center was an artificial cityscape. Streets, buildings, intersections. All of it designed to channel examinees into killzones where robots poured from alleys and doorways and the occasional second-story window. Most of the kids around her were charging headlong, quirks blazing, screaming battle cries like this was some kind of action movie.
Ochaco went sideways.
She ducked into a narrow alley, touched both hands to a dumpster, and shoved it toward the mouth of the street. The dumpster floated, weightless, and she kicked it hard. It drifted into the path of a two-pointer just rounding the corner. The robot tried to adjust course. The dumpster, still traveling, caught it broadside and sent both crashing into a wall.
Two points.
She pressed her fingertips together. "Release." The dumpster dropped with a clang that shook her teeth.
Three points total. Ten minutes left. Keep moving.
A three-pointer burst through a wall to her left. She dropped flat, touched the ground, and peeled up a cracked section of asphalt that ripped free. Weightless, it rose between her and the robot. The three-pointer's fist punched through the floating slab and jammed, gears grinding against concrete dust.
She scrambled around its flank, slapped a hand against its ankle joint, and released her hold on the asphalt at the same time. The slab came down on the robot's head. The robot, now weightless from the ankle up, tumbled sideways in slow motion. Gravity returned when she pressed her fingers together, and the three-pointer slammed into the pavement with its own full weight.
Six points.
Serviceable. Not flashy. Don't need flashy.
She kept mental tallies as she moved. The boy with the engine calves from the auditorium was cutting through robots with devastating kicks. Fast, powerful, disciplined. Twelve points, minimum. Worth watching. A girl with an elongated tongue snatched a one-pointer and hurled it into another. Creative. Adaptable. The blond boy from the orientation wasn't in her battle center, but she could hear explosions from somewhere to the south, muffled by distance. Probably flattening everything in sight.
A pink-skinned girl dissolved a two-pointer with some kind of acid secretion. A boy with a tail swept the legs out from under a three-pointer and then crushed its head with an overhead strike. A kid she couldn't see clearly generated some sort of energy blast that carved a trench in the street.
Lots of combat quirks. Direct damage types. That's the standard hero profile.
How many of them can do rescue work? Search and recovery? Civilian evacuation?
She filed the observations for later. Right now: points.
Two more one-pointers in quick succession, caught with floating debris from her earlier fights. She'd learned to leave rubble activated in her wake. Weightless chunks of concrete and rebar hovering at knee height, invisible to robots scanning for human-sized targets, perfect ammunition when she needed a fast projectile.
Eight points.
She fell into a rhythm. Touch. Float. Launch. Release. Repeat. The nausea was there, a familiar passenger behind her ribs, but manageable. She'd been training her tolerance for months. Thirty kilos, sixty, ninety. As long as she released regularly and didn't stack too many active objects, she could keep this up.
She allowed herself a breath. Leaned against a wall. Pressed her fingers together and released everything she had floating. The nausea receded from a throb to a murmur.
Movement caught her eye. Green hair. The boy from the gate, the one the blond had called Deku, sprinting down a cross-street.
She watched him skid to a stop beside a girl trapped under a collapsed awning. He grabbed the metal frame and heaved. It didn't budge. He tried again, straining, feet slipping on loose rubble. The girl was crying.
He looked around wildly and spotted a piece of rebar. Wedged it under the frame. Leveraged his entire body weight against it. The awning lifted just enough for the girl to scramble free.
The girl ran. The boy let the awning drop. He was panting, arms shaking, face red.
Zero points. Ochaco could see it in his posture. The clock was bleeding out and he had nothing to show for it.
Idiot. This is a competition. They're scoring combat effectiveness, not kindness.
He took off running again. She tracked him for another thirty seconds. He dodged a two-pointer rather than engaging it. Circled back to warn a cluster of examinees about a three-pointer approaching from behind. Pulled a boy with a rock quirk out of a robot's path when the kid froze up
Ochaco lost him for a bit after that. Fight more and more robots. She needed to rack up more points for herself.
She eventually caught sight of him again after padding her total some more. Helping. Every single time, he was helping instead of fighting.
He can't fight. He doesn't have a combat quirk. The blond was right. He's quirkless.
So why is he here?
She turned away. Not her problem. She had Twenty-Six points. Probably enough. But probably wasn't certainty, and certainty was what her parents needed.
Zero points and the clock's dying. So why does he keep running?
She leaned against a cracked pillar and watched him haul a stocky kid out from behind an overturned car. The stocky kid's quirk had locked up. Some kind of hardening ability that had frozen him mid-transformation, leaving him half-stone and immobile. The green-haired boy grabbed him under the arms and dragged him behind cover, talking the whole time. She couldn't hear the words, but she could read the body language. Encouraging. Steady. Patient.
The stocky kid's quirk released. He flexed his fingers, nodded once, and charged back into the fight.
The green-haired boy didn't follow. Just moved on. Found the next person who needed help.
Ochaco tilted her head.
He's not stupid. He has to know he's failing the combat portion. So what's the play?
She thought about it. Really thought about it, the way her mother had taught her to think about people. Not what they were doing, but why.
He can't fight the robots. Whatever his quirk is, he's not using it. Maybe he can't control it. Maybe there's a cost he can't afford right now. Is he really quirkless? I didn't fully believe it. Either way, the hero course practical is a wash for him.
But that doesn't mean UA is a wash.
The pieces clicked together.
General Education. Support Course. Both still accept through the entrance exam. Both still put you inside UA's walls. And what's the single most valuable currency for a Gen Ed or Support student?
Connections.
She watched him sprint across an intersection to shout a warning at a green-haired girl who hadn't seen the one-pointer flanking her. The girl whipped around, blasted the robot with some kind of vine quirk, and gave him a quick thumbs-up before moving on.
That girl is going to remember him. The kid with the hardening quirk is going to remember him. Everyone he's helped today is going to walk into their first week at UA already owing a favor to the earnest green-haired boy who pulled them out of trouble when it counted.
Gen Ed and Support students work in the hero industry. Gear developers. Analysts. Managers. Logistics coordinators. All of them interface with pro heroes daily. If he builds those relationships now, at the ground floor, before any of these kids know their own worth...
Ochaco straightened up.
That's actually clever. Pretty darn clever.
She'd misjudged him at the gate. Written him off as a nervous wreck with bad shoes and no prospects. But nervous wrecks didn't execute long-term social investment strategies under exam pressure. They panicked, froze, gave up.
This boy was working.
Different game than the rest of us. Same building, different entrance.
And speaking of social investment...
She'd been so focused on raw accumulation that she'd ignored the same principle he was leveraging. Every kid here who passed was a future hero course student. A future pro. A future contact. She had enough points to advance safely. What she didn't have was a single meaningful interaction with anyone in this battle center.
Fix that.
She pushed off the pillar and jogged toward a knot of fighting near the main avenue. Three examinees were struggling with a cluster of two-pointers. A boy with extending arms. A girl who generated small forcefields. A lanky kid whose quirk she couldn't identify.
Ochaco grabbed a chunk of concrete, floated it, and launched it into the nearest two-pointer's knee joint. The robot buckled. The extending-arms boy caught the opening and drove his fist through its chest plate.
"Nice shot!" he called over his shoulder.
"You had the hard part!" She flashed a grin. Practiced warmth, easy generosity. It cost her nothing and bought goodwill.
She helped them clear two more robots, contributing just enough to be useful without stealing points. The forcefield girl nodded at her with visible relief. The lanky kid gave her a breathless thanks.
Three people who'll remember my face. Three future classmates who owe me a small, pleasant debt.
The green-haired boy hadn't invented the strategy. But watching him had sharpened something she should have seen from the start. Points got you through the door. People kept the door open.
Maybe he's smarter than he looks.
Then the ground shook.
Not a tremor. A wave. The kind of vibration that rattled teeth and turned standing into a negotiation with balance. Ochaco caught herself against a wall and looked up.
The zero-pointer.
It was bigger than the silhouette had suggested. Bigger than a building. Its treads crushed the street beneath it like foil, and its shadow swallowed the block in a single sweep. Examinees scattered, screaming, running in every direction as the massive robot ground forward with the indifference of a natural disaster.
Zero points. Not worth engaging. Run.
She ran.
The street funneled her toward an intersection already choked with fleeing students. The zero-pointer followed, demolishing buildings on both sides with the sheer width of its body. Rubble rained down. A slab of concrete the size of a car door crashed five meters ahead of her. Another chunk hit behind, close enough to spray dust against her calves.
She dodged left. Dodged right. A piece of rebar speared the ground where her foot had been a half-second earlier.
Then the building beside her gave up.
The wall buckled outward. A cascade of concrete and steel descended with the dull inevitability of a landslide, and something caught her leg. She went down hard, chin cracking against pavement, and the weight settled across her calf and ankle with a grinding pressure that compressed rather than crushed.
She was pinned.
Not broken. She could feel her toes. The debris had caught her at an angle, a triangular pocket of rebar keeping the worst of it from flattening her leg entirely. But she was stuck. Completely, absolutely stuck.
The zero-pointer kept coming.
She grabbed at the rubble. Too heavy to lift. She could float it, touch it and make it weightless. But it was pined by other pieces she couldn't reach.
I'm at my limit.
The nausea sat behind her sternum like a living thing. If she floated this much mass now, at this saturation level, the vomiting would start immediately. Violent. Incapacitating. She might clear the rubble and then lie helpless in the path of a machine that wouldn't stop for her.
She tried anyway. Got one hand against the concrete slab and activated her quirk. Five fingers, full contact.
The weight vanished. Her stomach heaved. The world tilted sideways and she tasted bile rising.
She slapped her other hand against a second piece, the one pinning her ankle directly.
The nausea doubled. Her vision blurred. She could feel the vomit coming, feel her body reaching its hard limit, and the zero-pointer's treads chewed pavement thirty meters away, twenty-five, twenty.
I can't get up fast enough. Even if I clear the rubble, I can't stand and run before it reaches me.
She released her quirk. The rubble slammed back down on her leg. She gasped, cheek pressed against the street, and watched the zero-pointer fill her entire field of vision.
Mom. Dad. I'm sorry. I wasn't good enough.
Green lightning.
Not a metaphor. Not a trick of the dust. Actual light, green-white and crackling, splitting the air to her left like a fault line in reality. The sound hit her a quarter second later. A boom that went through her chest and came out the other side.
She turned her head.
The boy. The quirkless boy. The one with zero points.
He was airborne. Launched from ground level like a missile, fist cocked back, body wreathed in that impossible green energy. His face was something she'd never seen before. Not fear. Not anger. Something past both.
"SMASH!" He cried out.
He hit the zero-pointer.
One punch.
The robot's head disintegrated. Not broke. Not cracked. Disintegrated. A shockwave rippled outward from the point of impact and the entire upper body of the machine came apart in a spray of shrapnel and sparks and shredded metal that bloomed outward like a flower made of destruction.
The sound nearly burst her eardrums.
The zero-pointer's remains toppled backward. The ground shook when it landed. Dust rolled over her in a wave that tasted like iron and ozone.
And then she saw him falling.
The green lightning was gone. His right arm hung at his side, skin already purple-black with subcutaneous damage. Both legs were wrong too. He'd used everything. One single catastrophic output that had destroyed the robot and destroyed him in the same breath.
He was falling. Fast. Sixty meters up, maybe more, and accelerating. Unconscious or close to it, mouth open, eyes glazed.
He's going to die.
She moved before the thought finished forming. Her hand found the nearest piece of rubble and she activated her quirk. The nausea roared up like a wave. She ignored it. The rubble floated off her leg. She yanked herself free, stumbled upright, took two lurching steps.
He was forty meters up now. Thirty-five.
She lunged.
Her palm connected with his face. Fingertips, all five, solid contact. His weight vanished. His fall stopped. He hung in the air a meter above the ground, drifting, broken, alive.
"Release."
He dropped the last meter. Hit the pavement almost gently.
Ochaco made it two steps before her body collected its debt. She doubled over and vomited onto the street. Bile and breakfast and the sour acid of quirk overuse, spattering the concrete in a pattern she'd remember for weeks. Her knees gave out. She caught herself on her hands and heaved again, eyes watering, world spinning.
When the heaving stopped, she looked at him.
He was unconscious. His right arm was a ruin.. His legs weren't as bad. They were still broken but had handled the shock somewhat better.
He did that to himself. One attack. Total self-destruction.
What kind of quirk does that?
"TIME'S UP!" Present Mic's voice boomed from speakers she couldn't see. "PENCILS DOWN, KIDS!"
Around her, examinees stopped fighting. Robots froze mid-stride and powered down with a collective mechanical sigh. The battle center fell quiet except for groaning metal and groaning students.
Ochaco wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Pushed herself to sitting. Stared at the unconscious boy beside her.
That power. That POWER.
He punched a building-sized robot into scrap metal. One hit. One single hit and it just stopped existing.
The blond called him quirkless. But nobody quirkless does THAT.
Her mind raced even as her stomach continued its rebellion. She pressed her fingertips together reflexively and gagged on nothing.
Whatever it is, it's the strongest raw output I've ever seen. Stronger than the ice user in Center A that everyone was whispering about from the recommended exam. Possibly the strongest quirk in this entire exam.
And he can't control it.
She looked at his arm again. The damage was staggering. Self-inflicted. A quirk that powerful with a backlash that severe meant a hero career measured in years, not decades. Every major fight would cost him a piece of himself.
Unless someone figures out how to fix that.
A short elderly woman in a white coat appeared from somewhere behind the wreckage, moving at a speed that contradicted her age. Recovery Girl. Ochaco recognized her from research, the legendary healing quirk, the reason UA could run combat exams without killing its applicants.
Recovery Girl took one look at the boy and her expression went tight.
"Again," she muttered. Something in the word suggested history. "Another foolish child."
She kissed his forehead. The healing quirk activated with a faint glow, and Ochaco watched the boy's arm shift. Bones resetting. Skin knitting. Not fully, not perfectly, but enough that the visible wrongness smoothed into something that might pass for injured rather than destroyed.
Recovery Girl turned to Ochaco. Sharp eyes under the nurse's cap. Clinical assessment in a glance.
"You're the one who caught him?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Nausea? Dizziness?"
"Both."
A kiss on her forehead. Brief and dry and professional. Warmth spread through her chest. The nausea evaporated. The dizziness cleared. She felt wrung out but functional.
"Rest for twenty minutes. Drink water. Eat something with sugar." Recovery Girl was already directing a stretcher team toward the unconscious boy. "You did well, dear."
They lifted him onto the stretcher. His head lolled. Green hair matted with dust and sweat. Face slack. He looked younger unconscious. Vulnerable. The kind of person the world chewed up and spit out.
She got a good look at his name badge.
Seat 2-15. Midoriya, Izuku. Aldera Junior High.
The stretcher team carried him away. Recovery Girl followed, muttering about reckless children and damage to growth plates.
Ochaco sat on the ruined street, surrounded by deactivated robots and exhausted examinees, and watched him go.
I need to find out everything about you.