Hopemaxxing (MHA/Superman SI)

Steam clung to the air like fog, the showerheads hissing in the background as the rest of the guys filed out one by one, toweling off and tossing their suits into the metal-lined laundry baskets near the exit. Little robots would be by soon to cart everything off to wherever U.A. did laundry.

I kept my back to the partition wall, same as always. Eyes down. Nothing but the tiles, the steam, and the soft splash of running water to keep me company. Even with control, I didn't like to tempt fate—not with powers like mine. I knew better than to trust a stray thought or a wandering glance.

Once I'd rinsed the last of the conditioner from my hair, I shut off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around my waist. My suit was already in the bin. All that was left was drying off, getting back into my school uniform, and heading out before the steam turned into a second skin, I let a soft freezing breeze from my lips, it did some funny things with the steam, a miniature tornado formed in the corner, almost invisible.

I was halfway through buttoning my shirt when I heard footsteps behind me. Not rushed or loud. Just quiet—like someone didn't want to interrupt but couldn't quite walk away.

"Kent-san?"

I turned. Kosei stood there, already dressed, hair damp with a little bit of unwashed conditioner. He looked hesitant.

"I, uh…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "What you did in the exercise. I've been thinking about it."

I stayed still. Shirt half-buttoned, towel slung over my shoulder. I waited.

He stepped a little closer, then stopped short. His eyes waver a little.

"We were all chasing the big moments, y'know? The villains, the robberies. The stuff that looked impressive. But…" He paused. "I don't think I would change my answer… but you have my respect, Clark-san."

I blinked. The words settled deeper than I expected.

Kosei took a breath. Then he bowed.

It caught me off guard.

I shifted on my feet, suddenly too aware of how damp my collar still was. "Hey—hey, that's not necessary," I said, lifting a hand awkwardly. "I just did what felt right."

He straightened, smiling faintly, a little sheepish but still earnest.

"Exactly," he said. "That's what stuck with me."

He hesitated like he wanted to say more, then just nodded once and turned to head out.

I stood there for another moment, alone again, the mirror fogging slightly from the steam.

Damn, that was strange.

---

I stepped out of the main building just as day was starting to turn into night. The evening breeze tugged lightly at my sleeves as I adjusted my tie—still damp at the collar—and spotted the rest of Class 1-B waiting near the front steps.

They were already gathered beneath the trees and along the benches, dressed in normal clothes now, hair still damp from the showers. Some were stretching sore limbs, others laughing quietly in little groups. Pony was there, chatting with Ibara and Kinoko. Setsuna and Kojiro were arguing over which part of the exercise was coolest. Nirengeki leaned back against the railing with Manga, comparing notes from the scenario like it was homework. Kendo was checking something on her phone—probably the group chat—and nodded when she saw me approach.

"Everyone's almost here," she said with a small smile. "Just waiting on one or two more."

The plan was already in motion. Ramen near the station. Our first heroics class in the books—sweat, bruises, motor oil and all—and we were going to end it the right way. Together.

Tetsutetsu slapped me on the back with a grin, his metal arms back in their default skin but his energy undimmed. "You coming, Kent? We're not letting anyone in class skip out. First round of gyoza's on whoever get there last."

Someone joked that Kamakiri looked like a sentai villain in his hero suit, and he just smirked. Shihai was already weaving a story for tomorrow's homeroom group chat, and I saw Pony laugh so hard she had to lean on Ibara for support.

The train ride was short—just two stops, barely enough time to settle in before we were all piling off again. The air had that early-night air, cold but not empty, city lights just starting to bloom across light posts.

"This is the place?" Setsuna asked, peering up at the tiny ramen stand tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. The old red lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting a soft glow across the sidewalk. A battered curtain over the doorway read simply ラーメン—ramen.

"Looks cozy," Kojiro offered, voice hopeful.

"It smells like heaven," Nirengeki said, already sniffing at the air.

"It smells like MSG," Kamakiri countered.

"Same thing," Kendo said, and a few chuckles rippled through the group.

None of us had been here before, but the place had a kind of charm. The stools were mismatched. The counter looked older than the school. And the grizzled cook behind the stand gave us a long once-over as we approached.

"U.A.?" he asked, voice like gravel and tea.

Kendo stepped forward, hands politely folded. "Yes, sir. First-year students. First week."

The cook squinted. Then nodded. "Sit down. You've got fifteen minutes before my regulars show up."

"Understood!" Manga said, saluting a little too seriously.

We slid onto the stools one by one, the counter groaning beneath the sudden weight of half a classroom. The cook passed out water glasses and menus.

"I don't know what to get," Pony whispered next to me, eyes darting across the menu. "There's so many kinds…"

"Go with miso," Setsuna suggested, leaning in. "Hard to mess up."

"I always go tonkotsu," Kojiro said, puffing out his chest. "Creamy broth supremacy."

"I'll just get what Clark's getting," Pony said quickly.

I blinked. "Why me?"

"You look like you'd pick something safe."

"…Thanks?"

We placed our orders in a flurry of stammers and polite bows, and the cook rolled his eyes before turning to the pots behind him. The sounds of boiling broth, sizzling pork, and clinking ladles filled the air.

"Okay, but why here?" Shihai asked, glancing down the street. "Out of all the places?"

"It was the first place that came up when I searched 'Best ramen near U.A.'," Ibara admitted, cheeks slightly red.

"I like it," Honenuki said, turning on his stool to look at the rest of us. "Feels like something you do after a big mission."

Tetsutetsu elbowed me lightly. "Clark, you didn't even hesitate picking this table. What gives?"

I nodded toward the soft golden glow of the setting sun washing over our corner. "Had to grab the sunniest seat."

"Photosynthesis?" Kuroiro deadpanned.

"Exactly."

That got a good laugh.

Soon the bowls started arriving—stacked high with noodles, eggs, scallions, slices of meat, and perfectly cooked bamboo shoots. The smell hit like a warm blanket.

Pony poked her egg with her chopsticks and let out a soft whoa. "It's like… glowing."

"It's called good broth," Kojiro said, already halfway through his.

Kendo snapped her chopsticks apart. "Here's to the first of many."

We dug in—chopsticks flashing, bowls steaming, someone slurping so loud it startled a guy walking his dog.

"So," Kojiro started, poking a fishcake with his chopsticks, "if we're gonna be eating together like this after every near-death experience, we should probably learn each other's tragic backstories."

"Tragic?" Manga snorted. "You think all heroes need trauma?"

"I mean," Kamakiri said around a mouthful, "it helps."

"Mine's not tragic," Pony said, lifting her spoon delicately. "I just always liked the idea of flying in and saving someone. Like those old manga I read when I was a kid—Sky Stallion and Jet Valkyrie."

"Sky Stallion's a classic," Nirengeki nodded solemnly. "The reboot sucks though."

"What about you, Kendo?" Setsuna asked, leaning over her bowl, hair drifting just a little too close to the broth.

Kendo wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Family dojo. Lots of little cousins. I guess I just… always ended up being the one who stepped in when something went wrong. Hero work felt like the natural step up from that."

Shihai nodded. "Responsibility through strength. Respect."

"And you, Shishida?" Kojiro asked. "You seem like you have a cool reason."

"I just wanted to be more than the scary beast guy in the back of the room," he said quietly, staring into his soup. "Being a hero means people look at you and see help. Not a problem."

That got everyone quiet for a second. Not awkward—just thoughtful.

Then someone nudged me.

"What about you, Clark?" Ibara asked gently, chopsticks poised midair. "What made you come all the way here?"

The noise around us softened just a bit. Pony looked over from her spot near the wall, noodles hanging half-forgotten from her chopsticks. Even Kuroiro, who barely reacted to anything, raised an eyebrow.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin and leaned back on the stool.

"Well," I said, "besides getting a full scholarship from Sir Nighteye himself and U.A. being, you know, the best-funded hero school in the world?"

That earned a few laughs.

"I mean it," I added, tone softening. "I didn't come here just because it was impressive. I came because it felt right. Because of my quirk... because I can do things that other people can't. I figured, what's the point of being strong if you don't use it to help people?"

I looked down for a second, letting the sound of clinking chopsticks and slurps fill the moment before continuing.

"My Pa—he used to say being strong's not enough. That I had to be kind. That real strength doesn't show when you're fighting—it shows when you don't have to. When you choose to be gentle."

There was a quiet pause.

Then Manga elbowed me lightly. "You're a real softie, huh?"

That cracked the dam.

Setsuna grinned wide. "Aww, the big guy's a kitten-rescuing sweetheart."

"I knew it," Kinoko said with a teasing squeal. "He's a teddy bear in disguise!"

"I feel like if we had a team mascot," Shishida rumbled, "it'd be you."

I raised my hands in mock surrender, ears warm. "Okay, okay—can we not make a monument about it? I'll just keep saving cats and paying for everyone's ramen."

That got a cheer out of Tetsutetsu.

"I knew you were loaded."

"Wait, can he actually pay for the ramen?"

"No take-backs!"

These weren't just classmates anymore.

They were my friends.

My super friends.

---

The laughter was still ringing in my ears as I stood from the table, bowls half-full with broth, chopsticks scattered like battlefield debris. I couldn't help it—the scout in me kicked in. Good meal? Clean up after yourself.

With a quiet breath, I kicked into gear—just enough to tidy efficiently but still fast enough that they couldn't follow my movements. I had to ease up around the glassware—too much force and someone would be explaining why there were glass shards embedded in the walls.

As I turned to head for the counter, Ibara stood up so fast her chair nearly tipped.

"Clark, wait! I—I was only joking! I can pay for my own, really! I'd feel... improper. The Lord would not approve of such unearned generosity."

That earned a round of surprised murmurs. Kojiro stood halfway too, and Manga mumbled something about how they couldn't let me carry the whole thing.

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying not to look too awkward. "It's okay. Really. It's not even coming out of my wallet."

That got me a lot of confused stares.

I shrugged. "The U.S. Embassy gave me a monthly stipend. Ten thousand dollars. No matter how much I spend, it resets to that at the start of every month."

Tetsu blinked. "Wait, seriously?"

"Dead serious. It's kind of absurd, honestly."

"Why?" Pony asked, narrowing her eyes slightly.

I gave a small, sheepish grin. "Well... flying across the Pacific solo in three hours probably raised a few eyebrows. And maybe I had a few too many perfect scores back in the States. I guess someone at the embassy decided I was worth spoiling a little. Might be favoritism. Might be 'don't let the solar kid starve.' Who knows."

Kendo gave a long whistle. "So you're saying you're basically government-sponsored?"

"Internationally government-sponsored," I said, grinning. "My ramen's on Uncle Sam."

Shihai leaned in, mock whispering, "Do you take requests for charitable donations?"

That got a laugh from the whole group. The tension melted again as I handed the clerk a card, who looked at the total, then at me, then back at the card like he was wondering if he should call his manager or Homeland Security.

Honestly, I couldn't blame him.

We stepped out into the cool Musutafu night, bellies full and spirits high. The ramen shop's lantern lights swayed gently in the breeze behind us, casting warm amber glows onto the sidewalk.

"Later!" Tetsu called, punching the air.

"Don't forget to send the homework pics, Clark!" Nirengeki added, grinning as he adjusted his bag.

"Goodnight!" Pony waved, her apartment in the other direction.

I returned every goodbye with a smile and a small wave of my own, then stepped a few feet down the street, glanced up at the skyline—and rose.

The wind greeted me as I ascended, night air cool against my skin. The city stretched out beneath me in lights, most people don't realize how bright most cities are. I could feel the quiet hum of electronics, the rhythm of people walking below. My dorm wasn't far now. Just a short glide.

Then—

Thin. Choked. Distant.

"…Help…"

My ear twitched. My flight stuttered mid-air.

The voice again. Weak. Scared. Real.

My eyes narrowed as I turned toward the sound, heart already beating faster. Somewhere beyond the school district, deeper into the grid of the city, someone was calling out—alone and afraid.

I banked into the wind, changing course.

---

The alley was narrow and half-drowned in shadows—dim security lights flickering overhead, trash bins stacked along the sides, a cracked neon sign from a nearby ramen joint.

I landed quietly between the woman and the two men. Not exactly the image of a pro hero.

But I didn't need to look the part.

Both of them froze.

The one closest to her—a wiry guy with a beanie pulled low—held a knife. The other, a bulkier guy in a ratty denim jacket, flinched back when he saw me appear out of nowhere.

"Back off," I said, calm but firm, placing myself squarely in front of the woman.

Knife-guy's eyes darted between me and his friend. "Who the hell are you supposed to be? the mighty school kid?"

His buddy didn't look as convinced.

I didn't move. Just stood there, watching.

The woman behind me clutched her purse tighter, breathing hard.

Beanie sneered. "Fine. Hero wannabe wants to play knight—"

He lunged.

The blade jabbed forward, aiming low.

It hit my side.

There was a sound like metal hitting stone—and then a high-pitched twang. The knife bent ninety degrees. The hilt vibrated in his hand like it had just smacked a steel post.

He stared at it.

Then at me.

I raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

The other one didn't wait for a second round. "Screw this!" he yelled, already turning tail and sprinting back toward the street.

Knife-guy scrambled after him, tossing the bent blade aside like it was cursed.

I turned back to the woman, who hadn't moved. Her eyes were wide, but her fear was starting to fade.

"You okay?" I asked, voice soft now.

She gave a shaky nod. "I… I think so. Thank you."

"Good." I offered a small smile. "Uhh… you didn't see me. And stay safe now."

She looked down at the twisted knife, then up at me again like she wasn't sure if I was real.

I gave her a short nod, stepped back, and then pushed gently off the ground—rising slow and quiet above the rooftops.

---

The morning started like any other.

Alarm at 5:30. Up with the first ring.

I cleaned up quick—face washed, hair combed, tie straight. The blazer finally sat right on my shoulders now, not pulling like it was stitched for someone half my size. I'd spent most of last night with my sewing kit open on the desk, adjusting the seams by hand. A couple of reinforced stitches, some rethreaded buttons, and the fabric actually looked like it belonged to me now. I tucked the kit away in the drawer and gave the collar a final pat.

The uniform looked good. Better than it had any right to.

I opened the window.

Noise hit me immediately. Not the usual city buzz of Musutafu—bikes and buses, vending machines humming to themselves. This was louder. Sharper. Dozens of voices overlapping, the metallic rattle of camera shutters, the occasional boom of someone trying to be heard over the crowd.

Curious, I narrowed my eyes and let my x-ray vision roll outward—past the buildings and fences, through the front gate of U.A.

A sea of cameras. Reporters packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Boom mics over heads. Tripods wedged onto sidewalks. A full-on media wall.

That alone was odd, but it was the voices that really caught me.

"…U.A. hasn't seen this many reporters since last year's sports festival…"

"…We're live at the gates of Japan's premier hero school…"

"…Sources confirm he'll be teaching this year's first-years directly…"

Then one voice, loud and clear, aimed straight at a student just trying to walk past:

"How does it feel to have All Might as your teacher?!"

I blinked.

All Might?

As in… All Might?

I leaned back from the window and rubbed the back of my neck.

"So… All Might's a teacher? Wonder what class he'll teach us," I muttered to myself.

---

Third period was supposed to be Basic Combat, and we were all geared for it—mentally, at least. Gym bags stashed beside desks, water bottles lined up like we were waiting for PE back in middle school.

But no teacher.

Minutes ticked by. The class started murmuring, a few people glancing toward the door, others checking their phones, just in case there'd been a last-minute schedule change.

"Thought this was the period for sparring," Shoda said, adjusting the strap on his bag.

"Maybe they're just late?" Honenuki offered, though he didn't sound convinced.

The classroom door groaned open.

And there he was.

A man slouched in a bright-orange sleeping bag, hair like a hobo, face half-shadowed by the high collar. He stood—or maybe leaned—just inside the doorway, eyes unreadable.

"Gym clothes. Meet me outside," he said, voice scratchy but sharp enough to cut through the conversation.

Then he turned without ceremony and left.

Just like that.

For a second, no one moved.

Then, as if a switch flipped, everyone shot up at once. Bags were grabbed, desks scraped, the floor thundered under hurried footsteps. Tetsutetsu bumped fists with Shishida as they passed, both already pulling on their track jackets.

"Where outside?" Kamakiri asked, swinging his gym bag over his shoulder.

"I don't know, but I'm not gonna be the last one to find out," I said, already halfway to the door.

---

Outside, the air was cool and dry, just enough wind to ruffle the edges of our uniforms and tug lightly at the hems of our gym jackets. Most of us had gathered in the open field near Training Ground C—an empty expanse of reinforced turf and chalked-off sparring zones.

Standing in the middle of it, looking like he'd just crawled out of a blanket and regretted every life decision that brought him here, was Eraserhead himself.

His hair hung down, and the faint shadow of stubble traced his jaw. His eyes, though half-lidded, had this constant sharpness that made you want to stand up straighter.

"I'm Shota Aizawa," he said, tone flat, barely above a grumble. "Pro hero: Eraserhead. Homeroom teacher of Class 1-A."

That got some attention. A few people perked up at the name. I saw Pony whisper something to Ibara, and Kojiro blinked like he was reevaluating the man entirely.

He gestured lazily to the empty field behind him.

"Vlad King's over at Ground E, running his own course. Advanced restraint techniques with 2-A. He's got his hands full." He paused. "Which means I'm stuck with you."

A few people shifted uncomfortably.

"Today's lesson is basic combat," he continued, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "Not flashy. Not cinematic. Just the kind of stuff that keeps you alive when quirks aren't an option—or when a fight gets ugly."

He started walking slowly along the front of the group, hands buried in his pockets.

"You'll learn how to take a hit. Throw a proper punch. Figure out where their weak points are. Where to strike. Where not to."

His eyes flicked toward a few of us—lingering for just a moment on Kamakiri, then on Shishida.

"Because hitting a guy with bone armor is a lot different than someone who's mostly smoke."

He stopped in front of a training dummy mounted on a metal track and jabbed it in the ribs with a finger.

"You want to be heroes? That means knowing your limits. Knowing how to move. How to survive until backup gets there—or until you win on your own."

The dummy slid back into position with a pneumatic hiss. Aizawa turned to face us again.

"We're not here to test your quirks. Not yet. I want to see how you move when you've got nothing but your body and your brain."

He gave a long, tired sigh.

"Pair up. Two lines. We'll start with the basics."

And just like that, the day began.

---

Pony was trying her best.

That much was obvious, even from across the mat. Her fists kept snapping out in sharp, determined strikes, but the form wasn't there. No weight behind the punches, no real rotation in the hips—just raw effort and frustration bundled into every hit. The dummy barely shifted under her blows.

She wasn't using her horns.

None of us were using our quirks to hit the dummy.

Basic combat.

Fists only.

Well—for the most part.

And for someone like Pony, who usually led with range, it showed. She was used to letting her quirk do the damage. Now, forced to rely on the basics, she looked like she was trying to will the dummy into submission. Her cheeks were flushed from the strain, her footwork all wrong.

Still—she kept swinging.

I admired that.

Most of the class was in the same boat. No one was coasting.

Kendo and Tetsutetsu stood out. Kendo especially—her punches were crisp, on-beat. You could see the muscle memory kicking in, like she'd trained this before. She even stopped mid-drill to fix Shoda's stance, murmuring something I chose not to hear. Tetsu, on the other hand, was bulldozing his dummy with every ounce of energy he had.

Shishida had power but no rhythm. Manga kept hitting the dummy with no real power in his swings. Kamakiri was fast—almost too fast—he barely pulled his hits. And Ibara? She stood stiffly, whispering a prayer between strikes. She winced with every impact, like she hated the thought of violence even when it was rubber and plastic.

Then there was Setsuna.

Her hands had detached, floating beside Kojiro. One pointed out his posture. The other clapped softly with every hit, like she was running a drill team. Her core body stood calmly behind her own dummy, watching like a coach. I didn't even know if she'd thrown a punch yet. But the hands were confident.

Meanwhile, mine?

Still clenched at my sides.

The dummy in front of me was untouched. Not a scuff on it. I hadn't thrown a single hit.

Wasn't because I didn't want to. I just… didn't see the point. If I punched it full-force, it'd explode. If I pulled back too much, I wouldn't learn anything. Either I destroyed the thing or I didn't learn anything.

Seemed like a lose-lose.

I was still debating when I heard footsteps beside me—soft, but sure.

Aizawa.

He stopped just close enough to loom without meaning to, scarf draped loose around his neck, expression unreadable under that tangled curtain of hair.

"Problem?" he asked, deadpan.

I turned my head slightly. "Sir… I haven't hit it yet."

He didn't blink. "I noticed."

"It's not that I don't want to. It's just—" I gestured to the dummy. "—it's not built for me."

He looked at the dummy. Then at me.

"Doesn't matter. Hit it."

I frowned. "It won't survive."

He shrugged. "We can buy another one. What I want to see is how you move. Your form, your control, your stance. The dummy's just an excuse. Don't worry about the plastic. Worry about the fundamentals."

I hesitated.

He didn't move. Just kept watching.

"U.A. has the funding, kid," he added after a beat. "Trust me."

That got a small breath out of me. Not quite a laugh. But something close.

"Alright then," I muttered.

I stepped up to the dummy.

Planted my feet—shoulder-width apart. Grounded. My right foot shifted just a little, testing the friction of the mat. Not bad. My weight settled into my hips. I rotated my shoulders. Cracked my neck. Let out a slow, even breath.

Then I drew my arm back.

Not all the way. Not like I was going for a knockout. Just enough to give Aizawa what he wanted.

"Okay," I said quietly to myself. "Here goes."

My fist connected before I realized how wrong I'd gotten the math.

I'd tried. Honestly, I had. I focused on strength over speed—kept my posture clean, my footing solid, even thought through the motion in advance like Pa taught me back home. The plan was to give Aizawa something he could actually assess. Something slow.

But halfway through the swing, I felt it.

The air started folding in on itself—tightening like a spring, bending around my knuckles. A sharp cone of pressure warped in front of my hand, air screaming past in a sharp V as speed and force collided into a single devastating point.

And I knew.

Too late.

Boom.

The dummy exploded.

Not cracked. Not shattered.

Disintegrated.

Everything from the sternum up just vanished, blown to plastic dust and frayed wires in a single instant. The legs—what was left of them—pinwheeled backwards like they were trying to flee, only to hit the mat with a hollow clatter.

And the wall behind it?

Twenty meters of reinforced gym floor later, the back wall cracked.

A clean, sharp line splintered through the concrete, trailing up from the impact zone like a bolt of lightning. The paint peeled off in a cloud of gray flakes, fluttering down like burnt paper to reveal brick underneath—and even that wasn't unscathed. Chipped, fractured. One piece had crumbled entirely, leaving a neat little dent the size of my fist.

The silence that followed hit just as hard.

Even the air seemed to take a step back.

I exhaled slowly and turned toward Aizawa.

"…Sorry."

He stared at the cracked wall for a moment, then brought his eyes back to me—expression unreadable.

"I told you," he said, voice flat, "U.A. has the funding."

Then he sighed and scribbled something on his clipboard.

Behind me, I heard someone whisper, "What the hell…"

Another voice muttered, "That wasn't even full force, was it?"

I didn't turn around. Just stood there, hand still half-raised, staring at the crater where my training dummy used to be.

Definitely missed the mark on that one.

The silence held for a beat longer—then another.

Eyes turned toward me like I'd just fired a missile instead of thrown a punch. Mouths slightly open. Setsuna had her head tilted so far to the side I thought it might roll off. Kendo's fists had dropped from their ready stance. Even Shoda blinked like he'd just seen a ghost walk through a brick wall.

Kojiro let out a low whistle and muttered, "Man... how do we even compete with that?"

A few students nodded absently, as if they weren't entirely sure whether they should be impressed or start questioning their life choices.

I rubbed the back of my neck, heat blooming under my collar. "I wasn't—uh. That wasn't full strength."

"That wasn't full strength?" Honenuki said, eyes narrowing like he was calculating structural damage. "What would've happened if it was?"

"I don't know," I said jokingly. "But mount Fuji might've felt it."

Someone laughed. Nervous. Shaky. The tension in the room cracked just enough for people to breathe again.

Aizawa walked off without a word, the clipboard tucked under one arm, scarf dragging lightly against the gym floor as he crossed to the supply storage.

He came back a few seconds later dragging another dummy—heavier model this time, reinforced at the joints, set upright on a fresh stand and angled away from the class, toward the far wall. Farther away from any innocent bystanders. And hopefully out of structural casualty range.

He looked at the scorched tile and cracked bricks behind the last one, then up at me.

"Kent," he said, voice flat. "Back in position."

I blinked. "Uh, I thought that was—"

"Your form's wrong," he cut in, calm but unyielding. "Doesn't matter how strong you are if your posture's off. You'll break your wrists, your rhythm, or pulp someone else."

I straightened reflexively.

"You're strong. I get it. But you're in my class to learn. So get in position. We'll fix it."

Right.

I stepped forward again, trying not to crunch too hard on the leftover fragments of my first victim. The new dummy stood there like it already knew what was coming. I exhaled slowly, tightened my core, and raised my fists.

Behind me, no one was speaking—but I could feel the eyes.

This time, I focused. Slower.

Aizawa stepped to the side, watching my stance.

"Shift your weight. Shoulder too high. Feet a little wider."

I adjusted.

"All right," he said, stepping back. "Now punch."

Later in the day, after lunch and a surprisingly calm literature class with Cementoss, we filed into Room 3-E—officially labeled Ethics and Public Conduct. Unofficially?

Midnight's kingdom.

Ibara muttered "Jezebel" under her breath as she walked past, her tone sharp with disapproval. I didn't need super-hearing to catch it—though it helped. She wasn't subtle, and her glare made it clear who the target was: Midnight, who was currently seated on the desk with her legs crossed.

She wasn't even in her hero outfit this time. No leather, no corset. Just a lilac sweater.

A soft, backless fitted sweater.

One that hugged every inch of her figure. Honestly, I think it made things worse. Somehow, the casualness and librarian vibes added to the effect—like she knew exactly what she was doing and had decided to dial it up by pretending she wasn't. A lot of the boys in class were frozen mid-breath. A couple of them had clearly decided to burn a hole in their notebooks instead of looking up. I could see Kojiro mouthing a quiet prayer for strength.

I understood completely.

I was doing everything in my power not to look and failing. Not because I didn't want to—but because I was raised right. Because Ma Kent didn't raise a barn-chasing hound dog.

So I did what any honorable, virtue-struggling teenager would do in this moment of ethical peril.

I activated my x-ray vision.

Through the walls. Beyond the stone.

Past the locker rooms and the gym equipment. Through the school's west annex, cutting straight across the reinforced glass of the cafeteria's top floor. Until—

There.

At the very edge of the artificial lake in Field Delta, nestled in the reeds of the school's training beach, waddled a duck family.

Mama duck. Five fuzzy ducklings.

They marched in a tight little row, leaving delicate trails across the wave-tossed sand. One of them tripped on a pebble and rolled halfway down the slope. It scrambled upright a second later, flailing its little wings like it meant business.

Wholesome. Safe. Morally sound.

Thank you, God, I thought.

Beside me, Ibara was still glowering in Midnight's direction like she was waiting for god to smite her. A few girls were clearly not thrilled either—Yui just stared blankly while Kendo crossed her arms like she was reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment. Meanwhile, Midnight leaned forward with a sweet smile and kicked her feet like she was about to announce something adorable, not casually melt the front row.

"Well, well, well," she purred, swinging her legs. "I see we've got a beautifully balanced group—suspicious boys, judgmental girls, and a few lovely exceptions. Don't worry, I won't play favorites. Unless someone brings me a mocha."

She winked.

Honenuki, actually wrote that down. I could hear the pen scraping against the paper.

Midnight clapped her hands once—sharp, clean, commanding. The sound cut straight through the fog of ogling and flustered silence like a starting pistol. Just like that, most of the gawking stopped. Emphasis on most. A few of the guys still looked like they'd swallowed their tongues.

I adjusted my tie, trying not to look anywhere below eye level. Or above it. Or at all, really. That sweater was something my Ma would've called it a "stumbling block to good Christian manners."

"Well then, future heroes," she purred, rising from the desk with a flourish and spinning on her heel like she was about to strike a pose on a magazine cover. "Today we begin with something you'll carry through your entire careers. Something you'll use in every interview, every press conference, every rally, and every talk show."

She stopped mid-pivot, one hand on her hip, the other pointing out towards the sky.

"Public speaking."

A low ripple of groans passed through the class. Pony visibly sank into her seat like someone had just popped her balloon. Shoda blinked, confused. Kendo sat a little straighter, like she was determined to ace this on principle. Kinoko muttered something that might've been a prayer. And me? I tried not to laugh, because I'd seen more than one public address turn into a disaster back home, especially when folks thought they didn't need to rehearse.

"Yes, yes," Midnight said breezily, waving her hand like she was fanning off the whining. "I know what you're thinking—'but this is ethics class!' And don't worry, we'll get to all that. Hypotheticals. Moral dilemmas. The gray areas between law and justice."

She started pacing, her heels clicking softly across the floor. "But before all that, we need to talk about talking. Because one day, you're going to save someone. Or stop something terrible. Or punch a crime boss through a vending machine."

A few students snorted. Tetsu mimed an exaggerated punch. Manga made a boom sound with his onomatopeia. Even Kuroiro gave a quiet gravel-voiced chuckle that rumbled like distant thunder.

"And afterward," Midnight continued, smiling, "someone will point a microphone in your face and ask, 'How does it feel?' And if you say, 'uh… good,' congratulations! You just dropped your public approval rating by five points and made your PR team cry."

That actually got a few real laughs. I cracked a smile myself.

She leaned against the chalkboard now, the class's attention locked on her like she was performing on stage.

"I've got some experience with this," she said with a playful grin, eyes sparkling. "Spotlight, stage presence—you might've noticed, it's kinda my thing. But it didn't come easy."

Her voice softened just a bit, like she was letting us in on a secret.

"When I graduated from U.A., I wasn't good at this. I got nervous. I stumbled. I had no idea what to say half the time. And my first costume…" she trailed off, making a vague gesture down her frame.

More than a few boys immediately found their desks very, very interesting. Kojiro was redder than Pony's scarf. Manga tried to hide it, but his onomatopeia betrayed him.

I just… blinked. And quietly turned my x-ray vision back toward Field Delta, where a duck was waddling along the edge of the artificial lake with her ducklings. That's it, Clark. Nature. Safe, peaceful, and 100% not thinking about her first costume, you seen the pictures, you had the pictures.

"It was a statement," Midnight said, her voice warm with humor. "I wanted to challenge the stuffy old rules about what a hero should look like. I wanted to be bold, to be free. But let me tell you—bold fashion and public speaking don't always mix."

She chuckled at the memory, unbothered. "Every time I stood in front of a camera, someone in the third row would get a nosebleed, a boom mic would short out, or I'd completely lose my train of thought. Let's just say... it was a learning curve."

Kinoko squeaked. Pony covered her face with both hands. I kept my eyes firmly on the ducklings even as my cheeks got a little red.

"But," she said, pushing off the chalkboard and turning to face us again, "I learned. And so will you. We'll work on delivery. Diction. Composure. And maybe a little improvisation, too."

She grabbed a marker and turned back to the board, her script looping elegantly across the surface.

Clarity
Presence

She tapped the board twice, then turned with a radiant smile.

"These are your tools. Same as your quirks. You sharpen them, practice them, carry them into every room. You want to be great heroes? You've got to be more than strong. You've got to reach people."

"Clark," she said with that honeyed tone and a smile that looked two degrees away from becoming a smirk, "would you be a dear and use those big farming muscles of yours to bring me the podium from E-6?"

A few chuckles rippled across the room. I blinked, rose to my feet with a nod, and said, "On it."

I was gone and back in under fifteen seconds, the podium under one arm like it was made of balsa wood. I set it down carefully, making sure not to gouge the polished floor.

"Such a helpful young man," Midnight said, patting the top of the podium like it had done her a personal favor. Then, with zero warning and all the confidence in the world, she leaned backwards over her desk to dig into the lowest drawer behind her.

Really leaned.

There was a sharp intake of breath somewhere behind me.

Setsuna made a wheezing noise like she'd just run a sprint. Kinoko, who sat two seats to my left, immediately buried her face in her sleeves, mumbling something inaudible while visibly turning into a puffball of embarrassment.

Midnight returned upright with a stack of laminated papers and an expression so matter-of-fact it made you wonder if we were the ones being inappropriate.

"Alright, children," she said sweetly, handing out the papers, one to each desk. "What you now hold is a collection of real hero interviews, pulled straight from the interwebs. Some good. Some bad. Some... tragic enough to make even the densest PR manager cry."

"These are all real," Midnight continued, pacing the room like a model at a press event. "Your job is to read the transcripts, then recreate the interview. You can stick to the script or improvise a better one. Your call."

She stepped back behind her desk and paused, theatrically.

"Oh, and while you do," she said, lifting the desk drawer again with a flourish, "I'll be keeping score."

Out came a bright orange air horn.

She held it high above her head like a sacred artifact. "Any time you tank your credibility, your image, or your general likability—you'll hear this."

HOOOOONK.

Half the class flinched.

"Oops," she giggled. "Sensitive trigger."

Midnight's grin sparkled.

"So, future darlings of the media," she said brightly, "let's begin."

---

Yui stood at the podium like it was a formal duel. Back straight, expression flat.

She began speaking in a quiet, measured voice. "I was honored to serve during this operation. The situation escalated quickly, but thanks to my training, I was able to—"

BAMMMMM!

Midnight slammed the horn with all the subtlety of a freight train. The class collectively jolted.

"More feeling, dear!" she sing-songed. "Right now, you sound like you're narrating a training manual."

Yui's brow furrowed slightly. That, for her, was basically shouting.

She looked back down, adjusted her posture, and tried again—this time with a very slight tremor of emotion in her voice.

"It was… difficult. But I remembered what my mentor told me, about staying calm and—"

BAMMM!

Pony nearly fell out of her chair. Komori let out a little squeak. Tetsu winced like he'd been punched.

Midnight beamed. "Closer! But let's turn the dial from haunted mannequin to actual human."

Yui visibly braced herself. A hint of color crept up her cheeks. She took a breath, let it out, and started again, her voice still level but with a little more edge.

"The villain had already injured two civilians before I arrived. I knew I had to end the fight quickly. So, I focused. I expanded the steel rod from my utility belt and drove it into his ribcage—"

BAMMMMM!

Half the class recoiled in unison.

Midnight didn't say anything at first. She just tilted her head with a look that was part impressed, part horrified.

"Okay," she said after a pause. "Points for accuracy. But maybe don't describe internal trauma on national television."

Yui blinked once. "Noted," she said simply, and stepped down from the podium, cheeks red as she returned to her seat.

Setsuna gave her a double thumbs-up. "Hey, I thought it was metal."

"That's the problem," Nirengeki muttered under his breath.

Midnight tapped her horn like it was a pet. "Who's next?" she sang. "Let's see if someone can find the mythical balance between bland oatmeal and spine-splitting horror."

Her gaze flicked across the room like a game-show host selecting her next victim.

"Awase Yo," Midnight called sweetly, spinning her horn in one hand like it was a game-show buzzer. "You're up, sweetheart."

Awase stood with a little more swagger than Yui had, his shoulders rolling loose as he approached the podium.

"'Interview with Bladeback after the Route 56 tunnel collapse,'" he read aloud. "Okay, cool, sure. I remember this guy—metal arms, big attitude. Alright, I got this."

The moment he took position, he slipped into the persona. Eyes focused, jaw set, voice dropping half an octave into that practiced hero-gravel.

"Well, yeah," he said, adjusting his posture. "It was chaos down there. Total blackout. People screaming, debris falling like rain—but you know, I don't panic. You panic, you lose. I just kept swinging 'til I saw daylight."

Midnight raised an eyebrow but didn't honk.

Encouraged, Awase continued. "So I wrapped rebar around my arms, punched through two feet of concrete, pulled out a van full of civvies. Nothing major. Just another day at the office."

A pause. A few snickers.

Kamakiri leaned over to Shishida and muttered, "He's really getting into it."

"I think he thinks he is Bladeback," Shishida whispered back.

Awase grinned. "You know what they say—if you want to be a hero, you better be ready to bleed like one. And I do. With style."

BAMMMMMM!

Midnight's grin didn't falter, but the horn was unforgiving.

Awase flinched. "Wha—hey, come on, that was solid!"

"You lost them at 'bleed like one,'" Midnight said, rising smoothly from her seat. "You had presence, you had rhythm, but then you fell headfirst into macho cliché and came out the other six points lower on the hero rankings."

That drew actual laughter from the class.

"You're not wrong," Awase admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. "I was kinda channeling too much late-night hero talk show, huh?"

"A smidge," Midnight said, giving him a playful wink. "But not bad. You've got a voice for it. Just use fewer metaphors involving blood and twisted metal."

Awase took his seat again, dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from his brow.

"Alright," Midnight said, eyes sweeping the room. "Who's next on the chopping block?"

I quietly lowered myself just a bit in my chair.

No way she'd pick me now. Right?

Right?

Midnight's eyes locked onto mine like a missile lock.

"Clark," she sang.

I stepped up to the podium, the laminated sheet cool and plasticky in my hands. The transcript was labeled "Interview: Captain Celebrity – 3rd District Fire Rescue."

I'd heard of this one. Even seen the footage once. It started strong—guy saved a burning building's worth of people, stabilized the structure long enough for the firefighters to finish their job. Four families pulled from the blaze. One chunk of falling debris caught with his own body. Solid hero work.

And yet... I skimmed ahead and winced.

Captain Celebrity, in all his slick-haired, ego-polished glory, hadn't wasted a second once the cameras rolled. Flirting. Hard. Like, actively turning the life-or-death rescue into a weird pick-up line.

Great.

I looked up. Midnight was watching me with rapt attention. Several of my classmates leaned in, eager. Awase was still trying not to laugh from his seat. Pony gave me a thumbs-up. Or maybe it was a hang in there.

I cleared my throat and began.

"Yes, ma'am, the fire was already climbing to the third floor when I got there," I said, doing my best impression of a seasoned pro—minus the smirk. "I activated my barrier field to stop the collapse and made entry through the south stairwell."

So far, so good. I skipped the transcript's line about how the flames "licked my boots like they knew who was boss." No thank you.

"There were four families still trapped inside. I carried them out in two trips—put the last two on my back while shielding the stairwell from falling debris."

A few students nodded along. Even Midnight was quiet, head tilted, watching me closely.

"And after the evac, I reinforced the west wall so the fire crew could finish containment. Worked side-by-side with the department. Real pros."

I hit the closing line, which I had to… modify slightly. The original? "But honestly, doll, it was hard to focus with you in that skirt."

I blinked. Then adjusted.

"And honestly? Doing the right thing felt pretty great. Just part of the job."

I stepped back from the podium. A couple people clapped. Someone let out a low whistle.

Midnight didn't hit the horn. She leaned forward instead, propping her chin in one hand and giving me a slow, proud smile.

"Well done, Kent. Rescued the substance from that trainwreck of a transcript."

"Could've leaned more into the danger," Honenuki added. "But it worked."

Pony just looked relieved I hadn't combusted.

Midnight stood again, pacing with slow steps. "Clark just demonstrated something important—editing in real-time. You don't have to stick to the words if the tone is wrong. You're heroes. You'll be expected to speak like people."

She tapped her nails against the podium.

"Alright. Next."

I slid back into my seat, letting out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. One successful dodge of accidental flirtation down. Hopefully no more transcripts from Captain Celebrity's greatest hits.

---

The classroom was unfamiliar—larger than the others we'd seen so far, with a domed ceiling and polished composite flooring that looked like it had hosted its share of drills. Everything about the space felt intentional: wide enough to move freely, tall enough for gear or emergencies, bright but not harsh. Like a room designed to teach calm inside chaos.

Across the room stood a line of rescue dummies. Not the cartoonish kind from health class. These were hyper-realistic, human-sized, and weighted. Synthetic skin, artificial bruising, bandaged limbs set in medically accurate angles—everything about them was designed to make your instincts second-guess themselves.

And at the front of the room stood Thirteen.

She was smaller in person.

"Good morning, Class 1-B," she said warmly. "I've been looking forward to this."

She gave a polite bow and straightened with purpose. "I'm Thirteen. You may know me from my work with disaster response units, and as one of U.A.'s rescue instructors."

A few nods. A quiet "cool" from somewhere in the back.

Thirteen didn't waste time. She gestured to the dummies.

"Today we're starting with something simple. Not easy—simple. The most fundamental part of rescue training: how to help someone without making things worse."

The air in the room shifted. That quiet tension before a serious talk or a practical exam.

"Lifting rubble? Dramatic. Pulling people from burning cars? Heroic. But none of it matters if you damage a fractured spine or snap a dislocated joint back the wrong way. So before you rush in, you're going to learn how to hold someone properly. How to assess them before you even touch them."

She moved to the nearest dummy and placed a gloved hand gently on its shoulder.

"This is where your real training begins."

I glanced around. Kendo was nodding, her jaw tight with focus. Pony leaned forward in her seat.

I folded my arms and studied the dummy in front of me. It didn't move. Didn't breathe. But somehow, it still felt like it weighed something.

Thirteen continued pacing slowly, gesturing to the neat rows of dummies. Her tone was instructional but warm—like a doctor explaining something difficult but manageable.

"In front of each of you, you'll find a rescue dummy matched to a specific injury profile. Beside it, there's a printed sheet describing the scenario: what's wrong, how they're positioned, and the proper method to assess, hold, and move them."

She paused, letting that sink in.

"These dummies aren't props. They're rigged with pressure sensors, motion trackers, and internal counters. Every mistake you make—every wrong grip, every rushed lift—will be logged and displayed at the end. Your goal is simple: get your dummy out of this classroom, across the courtyard, and to the recovery point. As cleanly and as quickly as possible."

A few students sat up straighter. Pony glanced at her dummy again, eyebrows drawn tight in concentration.

"Afterward, I'll go over your technique and walk you through your mistakes. We'll be doing this every day for the next month. Different injuries, different methods. Fractures. Dislocations. Internal bleeding. Smoke inhalation. Even scenarios where you shouldn't move the victim at all."

I narrowed my eyes slightly, already walking through the possibilities. It was serious work. The kind that didn't rely on power—it relied on care.

Thirteen nodded once. "And at the end of the month, we'll take everything you've learned and put it to the test. You'll head to the USJ for a full rescue simulation."

That got a stir from the class.

Pony blinked and whispered, "Wow… Universal Studios?"

A few classmates chuckled.

Thirteen smiled gently. "U.A. Simulation Joint. Not an amusement park—but it might be the most important site you visit this year."

She stepped behind the main podium and tapped a small stack of manuals with her gloved hand.

"These are your rescue guides. Inside, you'll find detailed breakdowns of every major scenario we'll cover, plus the most common mistakes rookies make—usually with the best intentions. Don't skip it. Real lives depend on this."

The classroom quieted again. A few students shifted in their seats, visibly registering the weight of what was coming.

Thirteen's voice softened one last time.

"Heroes save lives. But the best ones know how. Now—grab your dummies. Let's begin."

I stepped up to the dummy assigned to me—standard build, adult male frame, slouched slightly where the internal sensors had preset the injury. At a glance, it looked like an oversized CPR doll in a jumpsuit. But up close, the detail stood out. The synthetic skin flexed with light pressure. The chest rose and fell in shallow, simulated breaths. A faint tremor ran through its limbs—shock response. Someone had clearly put thought into this.

Beside it, a laminated sheet with red headers and bold font:

INJURY: Tension Pneumothorax (Collapsed Lung) – Secondary Rib Fracture
SYMPTOMS: Shallow breathing, one-sided chest rise, jugular vein distension
DO NOT: Apply pressure to the chest, rotate torso, or elevate legs
DO: Stabilize neck and spine, apply oxygen, transport with upper body slightly elevated

Right.

I crouched beside the dummy, careful not to touch yet, and replayed the key steps in my mind.

No compression. No jostling. One wrong move and the lung could collapse entirely—or worse, the rib could slice through tissue on the way out.

Okay, I thought. You've lifted tractors, Kent. You can carry a person without turning him into pudding.

I slid my arms beneath the dummy with the care of threading a needle. One arm cradled the neck and spine. The other braced the ribs from the side, keeping the injured area elevated. No weight on the chest.

Then I stood—slow and even.

No sudden motion.

A soft chime from the dummy's chest confirmed my grip.

Good sign.

I rose gently, lifting off the ground inch by inch until I hovered a foot above the floor. The dummy stayed still in my arms, its artificial breath hissing quietly against my shoulder. I tilted him just slightly higher on the injured side, just like the sheet instructed.

Gliding toward the door, I kept my path smooth, shallow, controlled. Every movement was precise.

Behind me, the air buzzed with tension and effort.

BAMM!

A sharp chime rang out—someone had tilted their dummy too far. Setsuna muttered a curse under her breath.

Ding-ding!

A soft chime—probably Kendo. Of course she nailed it.

BAMM!

Another alert. I heard Shoda mutter something about leverage.

I didn't turn around. Eyes forward. Grip steady. Focus sharp.

The wind from a nearby window brushed against my face. I adjusted gently, countering it. The dummy wheezed faintly, its programmed lungs still simulating distress.

I exhaled through my nose and centered myself.

And then I floated through the door—straight into the busiest hallway I'd seen all week.

It was packed.

Students wandered everywhere—chatting, eating, flipping through tablets, bumping shoulders without a care in the world. Laughter echoed off the lockers. The floor was a chaotic thrum of footsteps, snack wrappers, and sneaker soles.

And there I was, floating and carrying a dying man through a mall food court.

Eyes turned. Conversations paused.

A girl with short black hair and headphone jacks dangling from her earlobes stepped back, blinking fast.

"Whoa—hold on—are they okay?"

"Rescue training dummy," I said evenly. "Class B. Thirteen's course."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Ah. Got it. Looked real for a sec."

"It's supposed to."

She kept watching as I floated past. One of her friends took a quick photo. Another just stared.

Behind me, my classmates started spilling into the hallway. Setsuna bumped a wall. "Oops. Sorry, Mr. Head Trauma!" she called.

Farther back, I heard a BAMM!, followed by Pony muttering apologies in english.

I kept going.

Every few meters, the crowd parted, students glancing curiously at the floating kid with the blank-eyed dummy. A guy in a support course jacket gave a low whistle.

I adjusted my grip again—light pressure at the spine, no pressure on the ribs. The instructions were clear. Collapsed lung. Don't jostle. Keep them flat, stable, and slightly elevated.

So I glided—slow and careful.

The hallway thinned. I reached the edge of the courtyard.

Sunlight hit my face.

I exhaled.

And the courtyard looked like a warzone.

Not dramatic, not theatrical—an actual battlefield. Trenches. Ditches. Uneven terrain. Dirt mounds piled like makeshift barricades. Power Loader must've had fun with this one.

It looked like the Somme out there.

At the far end, waving excitedly from behind a line of orange cones and safety flags, stood Thirteen.

She practically bounced in place—no small feat in her suit. Her glove waved in broad arcs, calling us in like puppies at the end of a field trip.

I floated a little higher to get a better view of the terrain. My dummy was still, quiet, safe in my arms. No alert chimes. No warning beeps.

Just smooth movement.

Behind me?

Not so lucky.

Setsuna tripped over a low ridge, her dummy tilting dangerously. Kojiro was crouched, awkwardly trying to rebalance his.

Honenuki, ironically, was cruising—his softened steps absorbing the terrain with perfect poise. He even nodded at a steep dip like it earned his respect.

I descended slowly toward Thirteen, avoiding loose dirt and pebbles.

"Clark-san!" she called through her helmet's speaker. "Excellent form! Your timing is fantastic. Did you memorize the sheet?"

"Mostly," I replied, adjusting my grip slightly. "Collapsed lung, rib puncture. Keep level, don't compress, no sudden movement."

"Exactly! Very good!"

I smiled and nodded, hovering gently in place as the rest of 1-B stumbled in behind me like a convoy of exhausted medics.

I looked down at the dummy's blank face, its chest rising faintly in synthetic breaths.

Good thing I floated.

One by one, the rest of the class arrived—sweaty, scuffed, and trying very hard not to drop their dummies face-first into the dirt. Setsuna was brushing herself off with the kind of intensity normally reserved for people who'd walked through radioactive sludge. Tetsutetsu had apparently tried to jump a crater mid-run and was now sheepishly cradling his dummy like it was made of crystal.

Thirteen clapped her hands together, soft and polite through those padded gloves.

"Well done, everyone!" she called, her comms system giving her voice a warm, bright tone. "Now—before we check your scores, let's review. Who remembers the injury they were assigned? Let's hear it."

A few students called out at once. Then they trickled in, one by one.

"Knee dislocation, right side. No pressure on the joint."

"Crushed pelvis. No vertical lift. Support from beneath only."

"Burn trauma. Airway protection first."

More answers followed. I heard Pony's soft voice behind me, carefully reciting her injury sheet. Kendo gave a confident rundown of her assigned scenario. Shoda's low baritone delivered his lines like a field report.

Thirteen nodded, clearly pleased. She turned toward her console and tapped a few buttons.

Behind her, a shimmering panel of light blinked to life—holographic, slightly hazy in the sunlight. A list of names ran down one side. A score sat next to each one. Most hovered in the 80s.

Then I spotted mine.

Clark Kent — 98%

I blinked.

Huh.

Two errors?

I frowned slightly, scanning the terrain behind me in my memory. Had I misjudged the incline? Mishandled the lift?

Thirteen's helmet tilted toward me, like she'd read the question on my face.

"Just a small head tilt at the wrong angle during flight," she said. "And a bit too much support under the lower ribs instead of mid-back. Easy mistakes. But very well done!"

I nodded, committing the feedback to memory.

Close wasn't enough. Not when it came to rescue.

Behind me, Hiryu muttered under his breath, "Of course Kent got the highest score…"

I didn't respond. Just looked down at the dummy still cradled in my arms. Its chest blinked once with a soft blue light—scanning complete.

Next time, I'd get it perfect.

And then—

The courtyard lights flickered. A second later, alarms kicked in. Loud. Sharp. Echoing through every hallway like a building-wide siren scream.

"Alert," a mechanical voice droned. "Alert. Perimeter breach detected."

Students in the hallways froze mid-step. Half of Class 1-B jumped. Kosei flinched so hard he dropped his dummy, which hit the dirt with a pitiful chirp and an error chime.

Thirteen raised her hand immediately. "Everyone stay calm!" she called, her voice cutting clearly through the noise thanks to her suit's speaker. "Remain where you are. I'll assess the situation—"

She tapped a few controls on her wrist console. Her visor lit up with soft flickers of data.

I didn't wait.

My hearing narrowed. My eyes burned faintly with focus as I scanned through layers of concrete, drywall, and glass. Past classrooms, stairwells, entry points. I followed the noise. The surge of motion. The ping of security bots heading toward the front gate.

And then I saw them.

A crowd of people with badges and boom mics. Cameras. Phones. Recording rigs slung over shoulders. Dozens of them, surging through the main courtyard.

Reporters.

I turned toward Thirteen. "It's not an attack," I said quickly. "Reporters got through the front gate. Looks like—yeah, they're looking for All Might."

She scanned in the same direction. Her visor glowed, then pinged in confirmation.

"Infiltration confirmed," she said aloud. "Media presence."

I kept listening, filtering through the flood of overlapping voices, trying to isolate the loudest, clearest ones near the front gate.

"…he teaches now, right? At U.A.?"

"Class 1-A, yeah. Heroics."

"Symbol of Peace mentoring the next generation…"

"Get a statement—hurry!"

I turned toward my classmates. "They're here for him," I said, keeping my voice low. "All Might. He's the heroics teacher for Class 1-A."

There was a pause.

Not one filled with gasps or outrage.

Just… weight.

The kind that lands in your chest and doesn't move.

Everyone was still holding their dummies, but now the training props felt heavier. Pony's head drooped a little. Kendo's jaw clenched. Even Setsuna, usually the first to crack a joke, had gone still.

The Symbol of Peace. The man who changed the world. And he was teaching here.

But not us.

No one said anything out loud.

But I felt it, thick in the air like fog:

Why not us?

The crowd at the gates of U.A. was a writhing, noisy mess—reporters shouting over each other, camera flashes strobing against the morning sun, boom mics bobbing like vultures to a carcass.

And among them, unnoticed, slipped a man with dry lips and hunched shoulders.

His hoodie was pulled low, the sleeves long enough to hide the state of his hands. His mask was nondescript, the kind street kids wore to avoid the cold and the cops. Nothing about him drew attention—not his slouch, not his muttering, not even the pale blue of his unkempt hair.

And still, no one noticed when he leaned casually against the side gate.

Five fingers. Just long enough.

The lock didn't make a sound when it crumbled. The mechanism simply gave way—rotting from the inside out like soft wood in a storm. Shigaraki watched the metal buckle under its own weight, dust drifting away like ash. He gave it a small nudge with his foot and let the debris scatter beneath the hedges.

The gate creaked open with a groan swallowed by the roar of the press.

He slipped through.

No one noticed. Not the security camera behind the hedges—already blinded by the horde of journalist. Not the faculty scrambling to reroute reporters. Not even the students, their uniforms crisp and expressions tight with awe or stress.

Shigaraki was just another shape in the tide.

Inside the main campus, the noise fell away, muffled by thick glass and reinforced walls. The hallway was bright. Clean. Monitors blinked softly on the walls—announcements, rotating schedules, a map of the day's rotating classes.

He paid them no mind.

His thumb rubbed the edge of the USB drive in his pocket, the surface scuffed from weeks of travel. It was loaded with something special—one of the Doctor's worms, coded to sift, duplicate, and vanish without leaving much behind. Perfect for a place like this.

He passed a set of glass doors marked Administrative Terminals – Staff Only. One of them hadn't closed all the way. Maybe someone forgot. Maybe someone trusted the building too much.

He pushed it open with one finger.

No one inside.

The lights flickered awake automatically. The hum of servers filled the silence.

He took a breath that rattled in his chest, stepped up to the closest active terminal, and plugged in the drive.

A faint light blinked on the USB stick.

Shigaraki slumped low in the staff chair, his ragged hoodie bunching around his shoulders as the monitor's pale glow washed across his face. The data flowed in steady pulses, a mirrored stream of U.A.'s internal servers now syncing—bit by bit—with the cracked screen of his patched-together phone.

He scrolled.

Class schedules. Dorm registries. Lunch rotations. Boring.

Faculty logs. Patrol charts. Better.

Then—he paused, eyes sharpening as a name caught his attention.

There it was.

All Might.

His schedule, stripped and bare. Where he would be. When. Which classes. Office hours.

The Doctor would be pleased. No need for loud raids or messy sieges. A surgical strike could be arranged. A knife slipped between the ribs of the nation's symbol.

But as Shigaraki kept scrolling, searching for contingency plans or redacted files, something else caught his eye.

A name.

Clark Kent.

He clicked once, opened the student profile.

And his breath hitched.

He read the list again.

Then again.

"…No way."

He leaned closer, pale fingers trembling over the mouse as if afraid the data would vanish. His grin started small, tugging at the corners of his chapped lips. Then it grew. Wider. Sharper. Harsher.

He laughed.

"'Solar powered,' huh?" he rasped. "Right. Sure. Just sunshine and good vibes. That's all."

He tapped the monitor.

"Flight. Super strength. Laser eyes. All those pretty lies. Wrapped up in your little American package."

He slumped deeper in the chair, thumbing the cracked screen of his phone, watching the files transfer faster now—bios, reports, security footage. His voice dropped to a hiss.

"Your cursed blood is in there, isn't it? Nana's rotten legacy."

He closed his eyes for just a moment, savoring the bitterness that clawed its way up his chest. The taste of something cruel. The one truth that stung more than any scar:

The boy was chosen.

For him.

For All Might.

"'One Quirk,'" he whispered, laughing again. "Right, All Might. Maybe all your brains did go to your pecs."

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling like it owed him something.

"You picked an American. Probably figured he'd grow in peace. Far from prying eyes. Far from his reach. A safe little farmboy, tucked away until the time was right."

He stood slowly, sliding his phone back into his pocket. The USB drive clicked free with a faint metallic snap.

The system hadn't even hiccuped.

Shigaraki tilted his head toward the hallway.

"Clark Kent," he said, almost tender.

Then his voice twisted, thick with venom

"Our battle will be legendary."

Shigaraki held the USB between two fingers, watching the faint green LED flicker one last time. Data transfer: complete. The virus had done its work, leaving no digital trail—only stolen schedules, personal files, combat stats, and the name that now echoed in his mind like a curse.

He smirked. "Guess I found All Might's little backup plan."

Without hesitation, he tightened his grip.

The pendrive crumbled between his fingers like brittle leaves. A whisper of gray dust spiraled down toward the keyboard, landing softly before vanishing into the crevices.

He pulled his hood lower, tucking his hands into his pockets, and turned from the computer.

Down the hallway, the echo of media voices still buzzed faintly, a chaotic swarm outside the walls of the school. No one noticed the quiet figure slipping past the security door he'd already broken.

First to kill the symbol of peace, then smother the ashes.

---

"Yes, Mr. President," she said, nodding faintly. "We're doing everything we can to support his integration. So far, no complications."

A faint, gravelly voice crackled through the line on the other end, inaudible to anyone but her.

She let a breath out through her nose. "Yes, sir. He's adjusting well to the school environment. We're confident he'll win the Sports Festival. Local analysts are already pushing favorable outcomes."

The voice responded again—measured, clipped, and laced with pressure.

She flicked through a few digital files as she continued. "We've already nudged a number of American agencies in the states and American-aligned heroes in Japan to prepare internship offers. The Japanese hero scene may be more compartmentalized, but we've ensured he'll have options, as well as tapped several villains and mercenary contracts to set up his initial rogue gallery. And yes, we're prepared to contact Detnerat."

There was a beat of silence before a sharper reply.

She gave a small, tight smile. "They've escaped the eyes of the Japanese government for now—but not ours. The Precognition Division flagged their patterns two months ago. Civilian face, liberation rhetoric, heavy underground traffic. If the Meta Liberation Army is moving again, we'll know first."

Another muffled instruction followed, slower, heavier.

"Yes, sir. Task Force X is already briefed. Contingency planning is in place."

The ambassador set the receiver down for a moment, gloved fingers tapping against the desk with barely restrained satisfaction. Her voice softened to a murmur, no longer speaking for anyone but herself.

She tapped a key. A translucent dossier flickered into view on her tablet—Detnerat corporate structures and personnel charts crisscrossed with red lines and timestamps, clear clandestine support to the resurgence of the MLA. She watched it scroll.

"Have to hand it to Langley," she mused. "The CIA outdid themselves this time."

Another file opened—thicker, colder. "They've built a deep dossier on the Hero Commission as well. Every shadow deal. Every foreign entanglement. Director Alan Cormac should be ready to brief you in full by morning."

There was a pause.

Then came the voice.

"Good work. If we manage to do this... the next All Might will be American. And with him, the public trust. The media spotlight. The international weight."

A subtle exhale.

"The Commission's corruption. Detnerat's insurgent ties. Give us a pressure point. Enough to destabilize the nation if it becomes... inconvenient. Very good work."

He paused again, then added with a trace of wry fatigue, "But it's the middle of the night in the White House."

A faint smile touched her lips.

"Of course, sir."

"Good night, Waller."

She turned away from the window, voice steady.

"Good night, President Luthor."

The call clicked off with a soft chime, the secure line going dead. Amanda stood still for a moment, her eyes focused somewhere far past the glowing skyline of Tokyo. Then she turned.

Her heels echoed lightly against the polished floor as she crossed the office, her stride unhurried. She approached the far wall—unremarkable, lined with diplomatic plaques and framed commendations. Without breaking stride, she walked straight into it.

The image shimmered. A flicker. Then it was gone.

What looked like a marble surface dissolved into hexagonal patterns, a projected illusion breaking apart to reveal the cold steel of a hidden elevator shaft.

The lights dimmed.

She stepped inside without hesitation. The doors hissed shut behind her with airtight finality. A small biometric panel unfolded from the side wall, already scanning her vitals before she even raised a hand.

The elevator didn't ask for confirmation. It recognized her.

She pressed a single, unlabeled button.

A deep hum resonated beneath her feet as the floor began to descend—not with the smooth luxury of a diplomatic lift, but with the mechanical efficiency of a high-security bunker. The lights overhead shifted to sterile white.

The United States Embassy in Japan had many floors, most of them secret. But only one belonged to Task Force X.

The elevator hissed to a halt, the floor indicator blinking a single, cold-blue light. The doors slid open with a muted chime.

The temperature dropped immediately.

Beyond the threshold, a long corridor stretched into stark fluorescent lighting and reinforced titanium paneling. Cameras tracked her every step, but none challenged her. This was not a place where questions were asked.

Glass-lined walls revealed the contents of deep containment cells—each one uniquely calibrated. One held a man encased in what looked like solid salt, frozen mid-scream. Another contained a woman restrained by a lattice of sound-canceling forcefields, her lips still moving but no sound left her cell. Down the hall, a trembling figure sat in a chamber flooded with high-frequency sound, twitching like he hadn't slept in weeks.

Each cell was a story. A problem. A threat to the stability of nations. But also a solution. Disposable pawns.

To her right, she passed a barracks wing—its doors marked not by rank, but by the codenames of their occupants. Inside, a few soldiers trained in silence, men and women clad in gray-black tactical gear. One leaned over a table, reassembling a rifle without looking. Another practiced breathing drills in a containment bubble.

America's quietest weapons.

From a side hall, a sharp heel-turn echoed, and a man in olive drab fatigues stepped into view. His salute was immediate, sharp as a shot.

"Ma'am."

Rick Flag Jr. stood straight-backed, the lines of his jaw etched with grim determination. The veins in his temple pulsed slightly—his quirk, Bullet Time, always humming beneath the surface.

In the presence of danger, his world slowed. Adrenaline was his sixth sense. Where others panic, he saw clarity.

She returned the nod with a faint smile.

"Flag."

"Wasn't expecting you tonight," he said, dropping his hand. "Everything green upstairs?"

"Green as it can be," she replied. Her eyes swept the hallway beyond. "We're close. Prep the quiet room. There's data to parse, and I want a sitrep from the Meta-Lib cell."

He didn't flinch. "The twins again?"

"No," she said, voice low. "Something promising."

Flag arched a brow. "And dangerous?"

She smiled faintly.

"Always."

The courtyard was quieter than it had any right to be, given how many of us were standing around in it.

It wasn't boredom. It was worse than that.

The mood was... heavy. Not loud or angry—just low. Spirits weren't just down, they were underground. Even Pony looked like someone had unplugged her battery—arms folded tight, eyes tracing the ground. Manga had stopped bouncing entirely. Kendo, bless her, was trying to keep posture, but even she looked like she was holding a breath that wasn't coming back.

I didn't even know what to say. I stood off to the side, hands in my pockets, searching for something—anything—to break the silence.

Then the air cracked.

"God damn it!"

Tetsutetsu's voice cut through the quiet like a hammer through glass. He stomped forward, fists clenched, jaw locked. The metal sheen of his skin hadn't activated, but it felt like it should have—his frustration was practically glowing.

"Why?! Why them?" he shouted, spinning around to face us. "Why does Class A get everything?!"

The silence broke like a dam.

"Seriously," Kamakiri muttered, crossing his arms. "What makes them so special?"

"Not like they're better than us," murmured Kojiro.

"It's the first week of class," Shihai added, tone unusually bitter. "And they're already getting him?"

More murmurs. Anger, disappointment, confusion—rolling through the class like a slow boil. No one said All Might's name, but everyone was thinking it.

All Might. Teaching them.

I didn't speak. I just watched as my classmates folded in on themselves—tightening, coiling, swallowing disappointment.

And then Tetsutetsu stepped forward again.

"No," he said. Not shouted. Declared. "No. We're not gonna mope about this."

He turned to face the rest of us, eyes blazing.

"I say we train. Hard. Every damn day if we have to. So when the Sports Festival comes around, we kick their asses and show everyone exactly which class is the best."

That got a few reactions. Shoda straightened. Setsuna blinked, then nodded. Nirengeki actually cracked a grin.

"Yeah," Kendo said, her voice firmer now. "We can do that."

"Damn right we can," Tetsu growled.

I didn't even think about it. I just stepped forward and put my hand out—steady, palm up, open.

Pony blinked once, then smiled softly and laid her hand over mine without a word. Tetsutetsu grinned wide and slapped his palm down next.

"Let's go," he muttered, and then the rest followed.

Shoda. Manga. Nirengeki. Kamakiri. Setsuna. One after another, hands stacked in, overlapping like the layers of something solid—something real. Jurota's big clawed paw practically covered half the pile. Kojiro's fingers hesitated, then joined with surprising care. Even Honenuki leaned in with a lazy grin, well I think it was.

Then, together, we lifted them.

"B for Best!" we shouted.

Kendo shook her hand out and rolled her shoulders, all energy again. "I'm gonna talk to Kan-sensei. If we're serious about this, we'll need time on the training grounds after hours."

Shoda nodded. "I can start organizing study groups. Heroics is great, but if we bomb the written exams, none of this matters."

"I can help with that," I offered. "And, uh, if we need a place? The international dorm is basically just me right now. Pony'll be moving in eventually, but there's plenty of space."

That got a few raised eyebrows.

"The whole building?" Kojiro asked.

"Yeah," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "It's... quiet. Way too quiet."

"Not for long," Setsuna grinned, wagging her eyebrows. "You just opened the clubhouse."

"Clark's personal Fortress," Manga declared dramatically. "Home of the Super Friends!"

"Stop," I said, laughing. "Please don't let that name stick."

But it was too late.

They were already laughing.

---

The international dorm's common room had turned into a hybrid of a training hub, study lounge, and low-key triage center.

Textbooks were spread across every available table. Whiteboards had been rolled out from storage, already filled with scrawled formulas, rescue diagrams, and what looked suspiciously like a practice interview script in Midnight's handwriting. Someone had propped up a CPR dummy on the couch like a patient watching the group bustle around him.

I was kneeling on a mat beside my own rescue dummy, methodically performing compressions while reading a laminated instruction card. Reiko sat cross-legged nearby, flipping through an English grammar book and tapping her pen on her lip.

"Hey, Kent-san," she said, not looking up. "Is 'luggage' a countable noun?"

I glanced up from my CPR timing chart. "Nope. It's uncountable. You'd say 'a piece of luggage,' not 'one luggage.'"

She frowned thoughtfully and scribbled a note in the margin. "English is weird."

"Not gonna argue with you," I muttered, and continued counting beats.

Across the room, Kuroiro and Kamakiri had turned a low coffee table into a makeshift study station for physics. Kamakiri kept drawing vectors with a ruler while Kuroiro—somehow managing to be goth and academic at the same time—muttered calculations under his breath. Every so often, he'd pause to critique the angle of Kamakiri's "punch projection diagram.", the guys were going full shonen, a little funny.

In one corner, Pony and Ibara sat in front of a laptop looping one of Midnight's practice interviews. Ibara watched solemnly, murmuring feedback but with a very thined smile. Pony looked like she wanted to vanish into the couch cushions every time the reporter on screen leaned too close to the camera.

By the kitchenette, Setsuna was juggling her detached hands and tossing rescue bandages to Kendo, who caught them mid-air and demonstrated how to wrap a sprained arm. Their teamwork looked like a street magician's act—until Kendo missed one and sent it flying into Shoda's face. He blinked, unfazed, and passed it back without comment.

Meanwhile, Kinoko was scribbling notes on mushroom anatomy while glancing anxiously at Tetsutetsu, who was draped across a beanbag chair with a blanket over his head. Apparently, he'd eaten one of her quirk-shrooms by mistake—thinking it was shiitake—and was now being gently restrained by Kojiro and Juzo as he muttered something about the colors of sound and how the couch was trying to hug him.

Nirengeki and Manga had taken over a second table with biology flashcards and a rescue textbook. Manga kept drawing increasingly cartoonish injury diagrams—complete with word bubbles like "OH NO, MY SPLEEN!"—while Nirengeki quizzed him with deadly seriousness.

On the far side, Shishida had opened a literature anthology and was helping Honenuki analyze character arcs, both of them speaking like tired grad students while the others buzzed around them. Occasionally, Shishida paused to scribble something in a study planner that looked far too color-coded for a beast-man with claws.

I gave my dummy another round of compressions and leaned back, rolling my shoulders. Someone had put on soft music over the dorm speakers, just loud enough to keep the room moving. My dummy lit up green with a tiny digital ding. Success.

"Finally," I muttered.

I stood and stretched, then glanced at the clock. It was edging toward late evening, but no one looked ready to stop. Kendo was still coaching Setsuna. Pony had taken over the interview script. Kojiro was feeding Tetsutetsu another glass of water like he was nursing a prizefighter. The room felt alive with motion, chatter, and quiet determination..

My phone started buzzing.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

A low brurr, brurr in my pocket that turned into a steady hum, joined a moment later by someone else's ringtone. Then another. And another. Around me, heads started turning.

"Uh… anyone else getting spammed?" Manga asked, blinking at his screen.

My gut twisted. I checked mine.

BEST MA
TURN ON CNN RIGHT NOW.
My heart skipped. I tapped into my senses, tuning my hearing outward like widening a radio dial.

The school buzzed—hundreds of phones lighting up in waves. Teachers, students, admin staff—even down in the sublevels. Outside, traffic noise had stuttered. People were stopping in the street.

Something was wrong.

I turned to the others, holding up my phone.

"It's my mom," I said, voice low. "She says turn on CNN."

Kojiro already had the remote in hand, flipping on the wall-mounted TV. The image blinked on mid-broadcast, the anchor's face pale, voice tight with barely hidden urgency.

The screen flared to life with blaring red banners:
BREAKING NEWS – ATTACK ON U.S. CAPITOL

Then came the shaky, handheld footage.

It was chaos. Absolute chaos.

The White House lawn was engulfed in smoke and fire. Villains—some masked, some with monstrous mutations—were battling openly across the Capitol grounds. Black scorch marks trailed up the marble of the steps. American flags lay torn and burning. In the background, a chunk of the Washington Monument was missing.

An anchor—pale and clearly shaken—clutched his earpiece like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"—again, this footage is live. What you're seeing is the result of a coordinated villain assault on the Capitol and the White House. Hero agencies across Washington, D.C., are scrambling to respond. Early reports identify attackers from a splinter cell of the Creature Rejection Clan, along with elements from the Humarise Movement."

The screen cut to a drone shot.

Something huge moved through the smoke—a towering insectoid figure, at least five stories tall. Wings beat slow and heavy like thunderclouds. Glittering eyes reflected the flames below. Its antennae glowed with eerie bioluminescence.

A caption slid across the screen:

ATLAS MOTH – CLASS S Terrorist

The camera zoomed in just as the monster let out an ear-splitting screech. A wave of dust and debris blasted outward, sending SWAT trucks and stunned heroes flying like leaves in a storm. Police sirens wailed beneath the roar.

And then—

"I'm here."

CRASH—a sonic boom cleaved through the smoke.

A blue-and-red blur streaked down from the clouds, trailing red light. It hit the Atlas Moth like divine retribution. The explosion turned the Capitol lawn into a crater. Dust and fire scattered skyward in a swirling vortex.

When the smoke cleared, only one figure was still standing.

Star and Stripe, tall and unshaken, her cape billowing in the wind. One hand raised, like she could command the heavens themselves.

The commentators—a human anchor and a canine-quirked cohost—practically screamed into their microphones.

"Star and Stripe is on the field—America's No. 1 has entered the battle!"

"She just atomized Atlas Moth with a single blow! That's New Order, folks! That's the power of the Number One!"

I couldn't breathe for a second.

The room around me—my classmates—had gone completely still.

"…and we now return to live coverage of the Capitol assault. Star and Stripe has entered the field—"

The dog-faced anchor was practically panting from adrenaline.

"She's not just holding the line, she's mopping it. That's a full-on tactical wipeout in motion. Star and Stripe is pushing back the central villain column—New Order is pinning them in place, and it looks like she's deactivated flight capabilities for a dozen targets simultaneously!"

Onscreen, Star and Stripe raised her hand again. Her voice, even from a distance, carried like a true patriot.

"THESE VILLAINS SHALL NOT MOVE."

And just like that, they didn't. Half a dozen enemies—mid-air, mid-charge, mid-strike—froze in space like mannequins.

Behind her, the real muscle was moving in. APCs roared across the lawn, deploying squads of armored soldiers.

One soldier extended flexible arms and grabbed two stunned villains from behind, pinning them effortlessly. Another turned invisible and reappeared already dragging a Humarise acolyte in cuffs. Above them, drones fired containment foam with pinpoint accuracy.

The broadcast cut back to the studio—but now the anchors weren't shouting. They looked… grim. Heavy.

The human anchor cleared his throat, voice lower now. Measured. Careful.

"—And… we now have confirmation. This comes directly from the White House Chief of Staff's office…"

He paused. Looked down. His hands were visibly shaking.

"…We are deeply saddened to report the confirmed deaths of President Jimmy Kennedy and Vice President Miles Tran, following injuries sustained during the initial stage of the assault. Repeat—"

His voice cracked, just for a moment.

"—the President and Vice President of the United States have been confirmed deceased."

The dog-faced anchor let out a breath.

"God help us all."

A stunned silence washed over the room.

Pony froze mid-note, glitter pen hovering inches above her notebook.

Even Setsuna, always bouncing, always joking—froze, her mouth half-open and soundless.

The President was gone.

Just like that.

My phone slipped from my fingers and hit the floor beside the dummy. Its screen still blinked with unread messages—most from Ma. One from someone in the embassy.

I stared at the TV, unblinking, as the camera panned across the smoldering wreck of the Capitol dome. Smoke. Fire. Rubble.

And behind it all—Star and Stripe, still holding the line, the weight of a country on her back.

Then another angle. The heavy chop of rotor blades over a ruined skyline. A different anchor, this one shaken but still reporting.

"Breaking: Captain Celebrity has reached the Capitol's east lawn—leading a coordinated evac with National Guard units. Repeat, Captain Celebrity is on-site and assisting military efforts."

The camera zoomed in.

He stood tall in the smoke, not a scratch on him. Light blue and gold suit, sharp-cut and spotless, gleaming in the haze. Civilians rushed behind him—senators, aides, guards limping under their own weight. One woman tripped—he caught her like it was nothing and flashed a grin that could've sold five million posters.

Behind him, matte-armored soldiers formed a tight perimeter, rifles trained outward. A hover transport descended fast and low, its side doors snapping open.

"And there—yes—we're seeing Representative Alexander Luthor now acting president, being brought into secure transport!"

The camera caught him just as he stepped into view. Long suit jacket tattered at the sleeves. Not a hair out of place.

His face looked… normal. Handsome. Classic, polished politician look. But his skull stretched up like a dome, skin pale, faint violet veins curling beneath the surface. His widow's peak was sharp—savagely clean, like someone had carved it with a ruler.

If Vegeta went to Yale Law, it'd look like this.

And around me, the class started clapping.

"Yes! Captain Celebrity pulled it off again!"

"Man, he's so cool. Like a movie star!"

"Wait—did he just lift a tank?!"

I barely heard them.

The cheers. The noise. The chatter about "Captain Celebrity is so cool!" It all blurred into background static.

Because right then, I felt it.

Something cold and heavy dropped into my gut.

That name.

That face.

No way.

Alexander Luthor.

Lex Luthor.

Lex fucking Luthor is the President of the United States.

My chest tightened. Breath stalled in my throat.

I knew that name. Every version of it. The bald egomaniac with a god complex, standing in a Kryptonian's shadow, always scheming, always a heartbeat away from being "legally" evil. He was the villain. The anti-Superman. The billionaire genius with too much time, too much money, and a personal vendetta against anything good, the thief of Forty cakes.

And now he was president.

My president.

I scoured my memory, racing through every weird detail I'd seen in this world. How had I missed this?

Then it hit me.

StateTrust insurance ads.

That smug smile. That giant forehead. That over-rehearsed charm.

"You don't need a big head to be smart—trust State. StateTrust."

He'd been hiding in plain sight. The damn mascot. I'd seen him a hundred times hawking term life plans and quirk insurance.

Never once did I connect the dots, to me he was just big headed guy, Lex Devletbek, you telling me that it was a fucking stage name?

Somewhere between the Oval Office and cheesy infomercials, Lex Luthor had traded in his fat insurence check for public service.

My pulse roared in my ears.

The stipend.

The embassy fast-tracking.

The license.

They weren't just watching me.

They were positioning me.

The deep state didn't just know who I was.

They were counting on me.

"…shit," I whispered.

Someone turned. "What?"

I shook my head, forcing a hollow grin.

"Nothing. Just… hell of a news day, huh?"

But inside, the truth was deafening.

---

The ramen place was empty, we had the week free, seeing "the events that transpired" from monday to the next one, so on a saturday we managed to get the gang together.

Everyone was talking, half-planning, half-eating, half-arguing about tomorrow. Someone had started it—I think Manga slammed his chopsticks on the table like a judge—and suddenly the whole group was organizing a Pony Moving Task Force.

She nearly shrank into her seat, cheeks flushed a soft red as her tail swayed behind her in nervous, involuntary flicks. "Y-you don't need to go to all that trouble," she said, barely above a whisper. "It's just a few bags. I'm not moving far."

"Nonsense," Kojiro said, slurping down a mouthful of noodles before pointing his chopsticks at her. "We're 1-B. Nobody moves solo."

I raised a hand with half a smile. "I could fly it all over in one trip. Five minutes. Ten, tops, if I take the scenic route."

A beat.

Then everyone piled on at once.

"No."

"Group effort."

"We're building camaraderie!"

Kendo leaned forward like a team captain sealing a game plan. "It's about unity, Kent. Also, I made a checklist."

"You made a checklist?" I blinked.

"She did," Reiko confirmed without looking up, sipping her tea with terrifying calm. "I optimized the route for maximum efficiency."

"Snacks are covered," Nirengeki added cheerfully. "And Manga's got the playlist."

"It's gonna be epic," Manga beamed, already bouncing in place.

I glanced at Pony. She looked flustered beyond belief, her cheeks somehow even redder—but she was smiling now. Quiet, but real. Her tail gave another little twitch, slower this time.

"Alright," I said, grinning. "I surrender. Democracy wins."

"Damn right," Juzo muttered through a bite of pork bun. "It's about class spirit."

"Tradition," Kuroiro added with deadpan finality.

I should've laughed. Should've leaned into it like usual. But for some reason, I didn't.

I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. And I guess they noticed.

"You okay, Clark?" Pony asked gently.

I blinked. "Yeah. Just tired."

There was a pause. Then Kendo spoke up, trying to sound reassuring. "It's scary, I know. But we'll be okay. Star and Stripe's already out there—did you see her on the news? She wiped those terrorists from the map."

"She probably already fixed all the damage," Kojiro said with certainty. "Her quirk is scary like that. America's Number One."

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "I know."

I just ate my noodles in silence, the laughter around me playing like static behind glass.

Then Kendo clapped her hands once. "Oh! Update—training news. Kan-sensei approved my request."

Half the group perked up. Tetsutetsu nearly choked on his noodles.

"You mean sparring?"

She nodded, looking a little too proud. "Mock matches, hero-style sparring drills, all supervised. I'll set a rotation."

"Yes!" Manga fist-pumped. "Now we're talking!"

Shoda gave a thoughtful nod. "Might help prep for the sports festival too."

"Can we go all out?" Kamakiri asked, a little too eager.

"All out, not all broken," Kendo shot back, but she was smiling.

Pony leaned toward me slightly. "Think they'll let us tag team?"

"Long as I don't have to fight you first," I said.

She gave a quiet laugh, then pretended to stretch so she could hide behind her bowl. Her tail was still twitching.

Around us, the noise of conversation picked back up—chopsticks tapping, bowls clinking, the occasional laugh or playful shove. Stories flew across the table—someone's middle school sports trauma, someone else's quirk accident at a family dinner, that time Reiko apparently knocked over a shrine lamp with her mind while sleepwalking. Normal stuff.

Tetsutetsu was halfway through slurping his second bowl when Kuroiro leaned back in his seat and said, "You know what would be fair for our first spar?"

A few heads turned. Pony tilted her head slightly, her horns giving a gentle, involuntary sway that lightly bopped Honenuki's shoulder. She flushed red and turned forward again, pretending nothing happened.

Kuroiro didn't skip a beat. His voice came low, dry as usual. "All of us. Against Clark."

There was a second of silence. Then the whole table broke into laughter.

"What?!" I said around a mouthful of noodles, trying not to choke. "What did I do?"

"What didn't you do?" Setsuna shot back, grinning. "You've got like seven powers and you still act like you're just here to help move furniture."

"I am here to help move furniture," I muttered.

"Exactly," Kuroiro said, the barest glint of humor in his shadowed eyes. "You're polite. Overpowered. A farm boy with laser eyes. That's final boss energy. We need to test the difficulty curve."

"Better we find out now than in the middle of the sports festival," Nirengeki added. "I mean, no offense, Clark, but you disintegrated a dummy with a punch."

"And cracked the bricks behind it," Tetsutetsu reminded everyone. "That wall was like thirty meters away. I'm still kinda impressed-slash-scared."

"I didn't mean to," I said weakly. "Aizawa-sensei told me to go full strength."

"Exactly," Kendo said, chuckling. "So we'll just balance the scales. You take all of us on, and if we can't beat you…"

"…we start making it harder," Kamakiri finished, sharpening an imaginary blade with his fingers. "Weight belts. No flight. Maybe one hand behind your back."

"Blindfold him," Kojiro offered. "Or tie his shoelaces together."

"Make him do it all in English," Manga chimed in. "With Present Mic yelling grammar corrections mid-fight."

"You guys are really workshopping this, huh?" I said. "Anyone consider that maybe I'm not actually that good at fighting?"

Pony raised a finger, smiling. "That's why it's all of us. In case you are."

Reiko nodded along. "Don't worry. If you're not as strong as we think, we'll find out."

"Gee, thanks," I said, deadpan.

"But if you are…" Kuroiro's voice dropped low again. "Then we want to be ready."

The table was buzzing now—everyone throwing in ideas, laughing, nudging each other. Juzo suggested sparring brackets. Kinoko started wondering if she could make me "have a experience". Awase casually asked what material my suit was made of and how flameproof it was.

I looked around the table at these people—my classmates, my team—and smiled quietly to myself.

If this was their idea of bonding, I was happy to play along.

After all, if I was going to be the strongest in the class… then I wanted them to be the strongest with me.

---

The sky over Musutafu was still tinted blue-grey, not quite dawn but no longer night. The streets were quiet, save for the hum of vending machines and the shuffle of early risers heading to bakeries or train stations.

Right now, all of Class 1-B was standing outside Pony's apartment building. It wasn't fancy—just a squat little unit tucked behind a corner store with faded siding and a crooked mailbox. Nirengeki had dubbed it "quaint" and then taken it upon himself to organize the lifting crew.

We were waiting for the clock to strike exactly 6:00 AM. Kendo had insisted on the timing like we were launching a covert op. Everyone had their orders—checklists, dolly carts, bags on shoulders, boxes stacked by height and category. I had a toolbox Awase had handed me for reasons he refused to explain.

Three sharp knocks rang out from Kendo's knuckles. The group fell silent.

Inside, we heard a muffled yelp. Something scraped across the floor. A cup—or maybe a toothbrush—hit tile. Shuffling.

Then the door creaked open.

Pony peeked out, bleary-eyed and clearly not ready for company. Her horn clipped the doorframe as she blinked at us like she was still half-dreaming. She was in powder-blue pajamas covered in cartoon pegasi and shooting stars. Her hair was a frayed mess, and her tail, twitching in confusion, looked like it had ideas of its own.

My first thought was: startled deer.

My second was: yeah, still cute.

She rubbed her eyes. "Wha… huh?"

"Good morning!" Kendo said brightly—far too brightly for this hour. "Time to move."

"Wait, now?"

"It's Sunday. We agreed," she said, nudging the door open with her shoulder. "Class bonding. You're moving into the international dorms. Clark needs neighbors. We're here to help."

"I said I could do it on my own…" Pony protested weakly.

"We said nope," Manga declared, wheeling in an absurdly overstuffed laundry basket. "No Class 1-B member gets left behind."

I gave her a little shrug and lifted the toolbox. "They're pretty determined."

Her eyes flicked to mine, then down and away again. Her tail did a sharp, embarrassed flick before she squeaked and darted back inside.

"Give me five minutes to change!"

The door shut with a click.

Kinoko was already handing out fresh melon pan from a paper bag. "I baked these last night," she said, a little too proudly. "To keep morale up!"

"Tastes like morale," Kojiro said around a mouthful.

Kendo and Nirengeki were hunched over a clipboard, coordinating logistics like they were prepping a U.N. airlift.

Pony emerged ten minutes later, a different person.

The pajamas were gone. She wore a soft blouse tucked into a cream-colored skirt, a cardigan buttoned neatly at the top. Her blond hair was loose now, cascading in gentle waves that caught the morning light.

She clasped her hands in front of her like she was bracing for impact. "Okay," she said. "I'm ready. You can come in."

Kendo marched past her like a woman on a mission. "Perfect. Let's get to work. Pony, sit down and supervise."

"I can help—!"

"Supervise," Kendo repeated firmly.

The apartment wasn't large, but it was cozy. Sunlight filtered through lace curtains. Potted plants lined the windowsill—succulents, lucky bamboo, a few trailing vines. A kotatsu squatted in the center of the room like a faithful pet. The calendar on the wall was full of cartoon horses and sticky notes. It felt… lived in. Warm.

I was carrying a stack of flattened boxes when the bedroom door slammed shut.

"Girls only!" Setsuna called.

Click.

I blinked. "Uh."

"Just in case," came Kinoko's voice through the wood, followed by a series of suspicious giggles.

Right.

I turned and headed for the kitchen.

The rest of us fell into rhythm quickly. Boxes taped. Cabinets cleared. Manga and Honenuki started arguing about whether the rice cooker needed its own suitcase. Awase rewired a power strip into a custom cable bundle. Shoda carried full boxes like they were paperweights, organizing them in a tight grid by the door.

Pony peeked out once. Just a sliver of her face and her hair falling over one shoulder. She watched us with a tiny, overwhelmed smile.

Then she squeaked and retreated again.

---

At first, I was doing a pretty good job of giving the girls their privacy.

They'd barricaded themselves in Pony's room with a flurry of giggles and a very clear "Don't look over here!" while the rest of us kept to the main room—boxing up dishware, wiping down shelves, disassembling furniture. Normal moving-day stuff.

But the walls weren't very thick.

And I had super hearing.

Which meant despite my best intentions—and my very real attempt to focus on a box labeled "KITCHEN MISC (FRAGILE!!)"—I couldn't help but catch bits and pieces from the other side of the door.

Soft laughter. Shuffling fabric. The occasional yelp of surprise when someone found an embarrassing plushie.

And then—

"Ibara," Kendo's voice, teasing and smug, "you've been watching Clark a lot today."

"I have not," Ibara snapped back, just a bit too quickly. "I was just thinking… maybe I'll ask him if he wants to come to my church this weekend."

That earned a wave of delighted squeals. I could hear Setsuna practically bouncing off the floor.

"Ohhh, a blessed little date!"

"That's so pure it feels illegal."

"I mean, that boy scout smile? He'd fit right in."

"Ibara and Clark at church… that's such a power couple move. You'd look like a Sunday morning postcard."

Then it spiraled.

"Okay, but have you seen Kojiro's arms lately?" someone said—Setsuna, probably. "The guy's basically a vending machine with delts."

"He's got competition," Kinoko chimed in. "Awase's shoulders? Built for bridal carries."

"He blushes so easily, though! It's adorable."

"Ibara, admit it, you've imagined Clark in a suit. At least once."

"No comment," came Ibara's prim response, which just made the giggling louder.

I lost my grip on the dish rack.

Caught it an inch from the floor.

And walked—briskly, silently—straight over to Bondo, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and said through gritted teeth, "Music. Loud. Please."

"Uh—what kind?" he blinked.

"Yes."

He hit play on his phone's speaker. Electric guitar flooded the room. The blessed chaos of noise filled every crevice of awkward silence.

"Clark-san, are you alright?" Reiko asked, glancing over from the sink with a tilted head.

"Perfectly fine," I said. "Focused. Laser-focused. Just… you know. Needed a soundtrack."

She blinked once, then shrugged. "Alright."

Meanwhile, Awase kept welding furniture like none of this was happening.

"I didn't hear anything," I said, applying tape like my life depended on it.

Eventually, we finished.

The last box was taped, labeled, and stacked. The apartment was clean. Awase had built a custom crate rack to make carrying everything easier. Kojiro and I tested the weight balance while Manga did dramatic fake checks with a walkie-talkie he definitely wasn't using properly.

And then the bedroom door opened.

The girls stepped out in a procession of arms full of bags, backpacks, and an army of plush animals. Pony looked especially flustered—her cheeks pink, her blond hair back in a quick half-tie, tail flicking fa. Her horn almost clipped the doorway on her way out.

Setsuna stopped mid-step, eyeing the still-blaring music speaker on the windowsill. "Why is the music so loud?"

I tapped my ear and gave them a sheepish smile. "Didn't want to, uh… accidentally overhear anything."

A beat.

Then the group realization hit like a thunderclap.

An incredible group blush lit up the hallway.

"It wasn't anything weird!"

"Definitely not specific!"

"I—it was a prayer circle!"

"WE WERE CLEANING."

Pony let out a squeaky yelp and tried to hide behind her plushies. Kinoko dropped her box, then scrambled to pick it up, muttering to herself. Even Reiko, usually unreadable, suddenly found a very interesting spot on the ceiling.

But then, Ibara stepped forward.

Composed. Serene. Still very red in the ears, but unfazed in that monk-like way only she could manage.

She adjusted the box in her arms and looked up at me with calm sincerity.

"Clark-san," she said, voice soft, "if you're ever free on a Sunday… I would be honored if you joined me for church. It would be a blessing to share faith with someone else who understands."

The room fell quiet again.

Even the music faded into the background hum.

I blinked—caught off guard. But I nodded.

"I'd like that," I said. "Yeah. I'd like that a lot, been a while since I attended Sunday service."

She gave a small bow, then turned and walked off to help Pony with the next stack of boxes like nothing had happened.

The others stared after her like she'd just walked away from an explosion in slow motion.

Manga whispered, "Holy crap. She's smooth."

I sighed, picked up the crate Awase had reinforced, and smiled to myself.