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There is an extra mug in the cabinet.
Uraraka isn’t sure why she stares at it; brows furrowed in absolute bewilderment. Her fingers reach before her mind even consciously thinks about it - her body moving on its own. A closer view doesn’t help anything - doesn’t explain why her bones grow cold, or why she gently clutches it to her body with an overwhelming sense of grief.
Surely someone just brought a new mug - or brought a new one in from home. It’s an old mug - a faded All Might mug with tea stains on the inside. Years of gentle hands had worn through the printed image - nothing special, given how the mug looks like any mass printed unlicensed and cheap hero merch.
But-
Uraraka turns it over in her hands and wants to weep.
“Hey,” She says, around the lump in her throat, “Whose is this?”
Her words don’t get everyone’s attention - hero students are noisy, after all, but a few of her classmates turn from the living room chairs to glance at her. The rest are too absorbed in their friendly fortnightly board game night.
Iida looks up, because he is a good friend. Tsuyu quirks her head to the side, and the corners of her lips downturn when her eyes set on the mug.
“Maybe it’s Mister Aizawa’s?” Asui offers.
“I don’t recognise it,” Iida responds, “Best to leave it where it was found for when its owner returns. Especially if it’s Mr Aizawa’s.”
Uraraka feels something deep in her stomach twist; a combination of a newly developing hero instinct and something close to sorrow.
“Yeah,” She finds herself saying, with a wide smile, “You’re probably right Iida! I’ll just put it back.”
She slips the mug back where she found it but paused to stare with uncertainty clawing at her. It’s just a mug though, and she instead picks up her own mug from the shelf- an officially licensed Gunhead one - and closed the cabinet behind her.
The flips in her stomach grow worse and worse, and instead of making a coffee, she finds herself preparing a chamomile tea.
And the feeling never quite goes away, that something is deeply wrong.
-
The laundry room is small, in the Class 1-A dorms, but it is just big enough that Kirishima can give Momo a little privacy as she walks past him to unpack her washing machine. They’ve both finished their laundry at the same time, and they share pleasantries as they unload the wet clothing into their baskets. Outside is bright, cloudless and sunny, and Kirishima can’t wait to hang his clothing out to dry, and then jet off to the gym to join Bakugo.
And then Kirishima pulls something out of the washing machine, and he pauses in surprise. The fabric is a soft green - thin, as if it is well-loved. For a second, he thinks Tsuyu has left one of her ironic froggy-themed items behind, but Kirishima shakes it free and then his heart skips a beat in his chest.
This - is not his shirt.
It’s not even Tsuyu’s.
“Huh,” He says, bringing the t-shirt closer to his nose, “This isn’t mine. I wonder how it got here?”
Momo looks over, and Kirishima holds it up for her to see. It’s a very plain shirt - far too small to fit him - and the word ‘shirt’ is blazed across the chest. It’s unique - and Kirishima can’t imagine any of his classmates wearing it.
Kirishima’s hands twist in the fabric, and he bites down on his own teeth so much his jaw aches.
“It might have been caught in the washing machine,” Momo murmurs, “But I can’t remember any of our classmates wearing it? Maybe a sleep shirt?”
Kirishima brings it back to his face and can’t quite put a finger on why something screams at him that he’s forgotten something important.
“It might fit Denki? It looks a little big for Aoyama and definitely not his style - and too short for Bakugo,” Kirishima offered instead, and felt betrayed by his own words, “Maybe one of the girls?”
“No,” Momo shakes her head, “I’ve seen all their sleep shirts, and we haven’t been out of the dorms anytime recently to pick something new up.”
Kirishima frowns and is suddenly relieved when Momo does the same - as if she can also feel something dancing on the periphery of her mind. Something they’ve seen before and should have noticed.
Kirishima raises it to his nose and inhales. Behind the smell of detergent there is a scent - something that he should remember.
And suddenly-
It smells like ozone - and Kirishima thinks of dancing green lightning before he loses the thought as quickly as it has come.
“I’ll dry it off and then put it in the 1-A lost and found box,” Kirishima finally says, as his heart does another strange jump in his chest, “And let everyone know it’s there - just in case.”
“He’ll come back for it,” Momo says finally, and turns away to finish moving her damp clothing into the laundry basket, “Have a good day, Kirishima!”
He? Kirishima wants to ask, but it does feel right, and it does seem like something one of the guys would wear, rather than any of the girls.
Momo leaves, and Kirishima gently tucks the shirt into his laundry basket with a frown that threatens to drown him.
-
Sero’s elbows hurt. They hurt like when his tape jams in his joints, and he had to manually unjam them with tweezers. They hurt like when it’s too cold outside, and his natural adhesive sticks and freezes and makes him feel like his elbows are weights. It hurts like when he accidentally knocks them into a doorway, because he’s forgotten that his elbows are so much wider now, than when he was a kid.
Except, nothing is wrong.
It’s a Saturday. His homework is completed. It’s a day off. Sero has his hands wrapped around a handheld console - a retro one that his dad had used as a kid, with the kind of cartridges that you had to pull out and blow on to make sure they properly work.
Denki is flopped next to the couch, and definitely has homework, but that’s standard last-minute work from Kaminari who really needs someone around him to study. Sero’s fingers are dancing over buttons and defeating pixel villains, when Denki lets out a weird kind of confused sound.
“Hero ethics defeating you again?” Sero teases, but has already hit a save point anyway, so turns to help Denki before the blond gets too frustrated to finish the essay.
“I don’t know whose handwriting this is?” Denki says instead, and hands him a leaflet of paper, “Do you?”
It’s Kaminari’s draft essay. The one that Aizawa returned to him last week, when the whole class had received their drafts back; but Aizawa had also given Denki a rare encouraging comment that had lit a smile up on his face all day.
Aizawa’s handwriting was all over the page, in a lot more red ink than Sero would be okay with in his own work - but certainly less red ink than Denki’s first returned draft.
What is weird, is the green ink crossing the paper. There are lines of bright green ink, highlighting grammatical issues and offering small comments to help fix the essay. Suggestions on points to raise - criticisms of Denki’s arguments, but all written in friendly and helpful words.
Sero - also doesn’t recognise the handwriting.
‘A good try!’ The handwriting says, ‘You should look up Pro Hero Eletricatty and her fight with the villain Jelliflight.’
“That’s weird, right?” Denki says, “Do you think we have a class ghost?”
Sero snickers, “A ghost that helps you with your homework? Dream on.”
Denki huffs, “It could happen - quirks are weird. Maybe there’s a ‘help Denki Kaminari become a hero’ quirk out there.”
Sero’s snickers turn into a full belly laugh, “You turned the draft into Mr. Aizawa, right? Maybe he asked another teacher to review - you know, he’s a busy guy - or maybe he has a teacher’s aide we don’t know about. He’s a bit secretive.”
Denki frowns down at the paper, and smiles weakly, but nods back.
“Ahaha yeah,” Denki dismisses, “I’m pretty sure he’s back patrolling again, anyway. At least he came back late a few days ago?”
Denki takes the paper back, but sets it down on their living room table, and tucks his legs underneath it with a frown. Sero turns back to his game but can’t help but notice when Denki folds the paper in half and tucks it away carefully.
-
Ojiro is out of breath, and panting as hard as his lungs will allow, while Shouji is breathing steadily. They’re halfway through their nightly jog around campus, and Ojiro desperately needs a break, but doesn’t want to mess with the time they’re making.
Shouji has a weird look on his face tonight, but it’s not the first time that they’ve worked through difficult moments by hitting the gym or going for a long run. It’s plus ultra, or whatever.
They tend to jog at nighttime, mostly because the more explosive members of their class go hard in the morning, and there’s just something a little demoralising about Iida lapping them several times over, when he does a loop twice the size of their usual course.
Honestly, the more distance from morning Bakugo or morning Todoroki the better, since they both tend seem to personify the term ‘overcompetitive’ and work hard to one up each other on who it applied to more.
Night jogs are friendly jogs.
Warm down jogs.
Still - while Shouji is one of his quieter classmates, and one of the hardest to read, given the mask covering his face, Ojiro knows enough to tell when something is troubling him.
“Have you noticed the red shoes in the entrance?” Shouji says, when they’re almost back to their dorms, “Bright red, black laces. Steel caps. Worn and scuffed.”
“…Do you want a pair?” Ojiro responded, staring back in absolute confusion at the non sequitur.
“Who do they belong to?” Shouji says, but it isn’t really a question, “They haven’t moved in weeks.”
Ojiro shrugs - most people have multiple pairs of shoes, and he doesn’t tend to keep track of changes in fashion like Mina or Kirishima or even Bakugo does.
Shouji huffed and picked up speed - forcing Ojiro to near bolt back to the dorm door. When he caught up, Shouji scanned them both inside, and then squatted in front of the communal shoe cabinet without taking off his own footwear.
“They were loved,” Shouji says, picking a red shoe from the cabinet - and there is a faint sheen of dust over the top, “Look - someone has stitched the lining back together.”
Ojiro takes the shoe and can indeed see careful stitches to repair the inside lining. There are scuffs all over the shoe, but he can also see how they’d been carefully cared for and cleaned regularly. Ojiro turned the shoe and looked at the rubble stuck deep in the soles.
“It looks like one of Bakugo’s blasts melted it here,” Shouji pointed to an area just near where a little toe would rest, “-but I can’t think of anyone who there would fit.”
The shoe was boxy - too small for most of the boys in their class, and not the style of the other half. Momo might be able to fit, but they’re look wrong on her, Ojiro is sure.
“Hmm,” Ojiro responded, and carefully tucked the shoe back with the other, “Maybe someone left these here on accident?”
Shouji frowned, “Left without their shoes?”
“Class 1-B?” Ojiro suggested but can’t see it happening - there are more than a few cross-class friendships, but no one who would leave their possessions behind.
“I can’t imagine anyone would leave in house slippers?” Shouji responds, and slips off his own shoes, “Although the weather hasn’t been so bad lately.”
“Maybe Sensei’s new mentee?” Ojiro responded, “Shinsou - the brainwashing guy?”
Shouji considered it as he put on his own house slippers and looked dubious as Ojiro followed his example.
“Maybe,” Shouji hedged, and then crossed his arms, “Does he even wear red?”
The shoes are still there, a month later.
-
Jirou is sitting on her bed, and her quirk is acting up. It’s just a feeling, and even though the full moon is streaming through her windows, she turns on the light above her, and tries to do the breathing exercises that Present Mic taught her.
Even though the dorms are meant to be sound proofed - her quick has been exceptionally strengthened since she first started class. She’s taken to wearing soundproof headphones to bed, in order to give her classmates some privacy - but there are some nights when she wakes up from a nightmare and for one second, she is convinced that her classmates are dead.
So, she listens to her heartbeats.
Some nights she wakes up convinced that the League has gotten them all while she slept. She wakes up to perfect silence and wants to scream - and she grapples for her headphones and shakes until she can tell them all apart. Bakugo’s heartrate is slow and steady, Shouji’s heartbeat is louder, and Mineta has a heart like a hummingbird. Hagakure breathes in deep and tends to ramble in her sleep - less sleep talking than sleep mummering.
Mina sometimes rams her horns against her bedroom wall in her sleep, and it startles her aware.
Uraraka sometimes slips loose from her gloves, floats and hits the ceiling.
But tonight - something isn’t right, and it sets her anxiety on edge. She shuts her eyes tight and focuses on them all - all 18 heartbeats of her classmate’s sound in their beds, and the more she focuses the more she feels a desperate claw struggling in her throat.
The heartbeats are right. She counts them all again and listens until she can put a name to them all, and then listens until she confirms they’re all where they’re meant to be - except for one.
Her legs shake as she throws a jumper over her pajamas and heads down to the common room towards the errant heartbeat. There’s nothing in the hallway - nothing until she reaches the ground floor and finds the lights already on.
Tokoyami greets her with a nod, as if he was expecting her to come down. Dark Shadow gives a merry little wave, which she returns with a small smile. When she settles down on the couch next to Tokoyami, he offers her a corner of his blanket.
“There is something amiss in the darkness,” Tokoyami announces, his hands are wrapped around his soft blank blanket, “You can sense it too?”
“Something isn’t right,” Jirou mutters, and then amends, “Something doesn’t sound right.”
Tokoyami inclines his head, and Dark Shadow looks contemplative.
“Something’s missing,” Dark Shadow finally announces, “Something’s gone.”
Jirou startles, and she focuses - and there is something wrong. Something is missing from the sounds of the night, but she can’t name what it is. It’s fuzzy - like a song she listened to a long time ago, and can remember what is sounded like, without being able to hum the tune or sing the lyrics.
“Something’s gone,” She says again, and curls her legs up under herself on the couch, “But I can’t figure out what.”
There is a long pause, but certainly not a long silence. The wind is soft, and flutters blades of glass, blows leaves across the roof, Mina groans in her sleep and shifts in her bed, and Todoroki sniffles and adjusts his own temperature.
“What are you doing up?” Jirou asks, “What do you think is wrong?”
Tokoyami is quiet, but he glances towards the front door with eyes narrowed as if hoping the answer would suddenly appear.
“It will come,” Tokoyami finally said, and was clearly unhappy about the vagueness of this proclamation, “Something will come.”
Jirou inhales again and feels her skin prickle in fear.
-
Kouda is curled up against a tree when he first feels the many sets of eyes rest upon his back. It startles him for a moment, to suddenly be the centre of attention, but he is relieved when a flock of tiny little tawny birds jumps onto the lawn, with frantic little movements and joyous little songs.
“Hello,” He greets carefully, as to not frighten them away, “My name is Kouda - it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
He sets down his chopsticks and shuts the lid to his lunch carefully. Loud noises frighten even the oldest of his friends, and sometimes, they even frighten himself.
“Hello!!” One of the birds’ chips, which sends a wave of hellos from across the flock. He laughs softly as they bounce around and seem to relax in his presence - most birds are a talkative bunch, and it is very often that he finds himself the centre of their gossip.
“Are you flying south for the winter?” He asks, because winter is on the way, and he has never seen them before, “Do you need any food to help you make your way down?”
“No!!!” One of the birds’ chirps at him, “We are building nests here!”
Birds don’t often like to build their nests in UA. Children are noisy, and chaotic - especially children training their already strong quirks for heroics. The braver birds usually make their nests far away from the training fields, and almost perfectly the furthest distance from Bakugo.
“It’s very loud here,” He warned, threading his fingers together in his lap, “Very very loud. Most of your kind don’t build nests here, because they can shake free and fall.”
“Not so much now,” A bird chirps, “Now that the lightning child has gone away.”
-
Hagakure is conscious of just how much people don’t look too deeply at the things they cannot see. People run into her all the time, even when she wears the most eye-catching clothing she can possibly find.
But being aware of this, doesn’t always make her better at knowing what she cannot see. When she was younger, she’d ask her friends to lay objects on a table, show her, and then remove one item and ask her to describe what it was.
Hero training, she’d told them, and could feel in her bones that it would be useful when she went into stealth heroics.
A tray - an apple, a key, a bracelet, a pencil, an earring, a handkerchief-
She could always tell when something was missing - could stare at the hole it left behind and feel her hands itch in frustration at not knowing what object had been taken - even if seconds before she had been chanting the names in her mind to will herself to remember.
It took a year before she could start to respond back and describe what had been taken. To name it, to feel it, and to know the shape of it in her memory.
And now, that same itch of unknowing is back in her hands.
There are 19 students in Class 1-A.
The fact rolls around her head, again and again until the words are meaningless.
There are 20 students in Class 1-B.
Hagakure sits at the front of the classroom. Behind her sits Bakugo, and behind him-
There is an empty seat.
The seat has been empty for as long as she remembers. She glances around the room - Eraserhead is drawing diagrams on the board and everyone else is taking notes, but the stifling feeling that something is wrong is overwhelming. She turns in her chair and cranes her head past Bakugo to stare at the empty chair and try to figure out what is missing.
“Oi extra,” Bakugo snaps, drawing the attention of the room, “What are you looking at?”
“Mind your business,” She snaps back, because she’s not afraid of him, “I just- I thought I saw something.”
Bakugo glowers back at her but follows her line of sight with a weird crinkle of his lips. He’s bemused, she thinks, like he isn’t quite sure what to say to her.
…why did Bakugo sit there, out of order?
“Hagakure, Bakugo,” Aizawa warns, and so Hagakure turned back to face the front with a pinched look to her face, and an itch growing up her arms, “Pay attention.”
Bakugo tsks but it’s a better outcome than usual, so Hagakure is pleasantly surprised at the emotional growth happening behind her. Her eyes are focused on the board while Eraserhead returns to explaining… whatever it is that he is explaining - but her eyes can’t help but wander around again.
All her classmates, spread out like items on a table-
And someone is missing.
-
Tsuyu prides herself on being attentive and analytical. She has always been able to objectively look at something and work her way back to a logical conclusion. She is also good at noticing things and filing away information for later. It makes her a great student, and lately, a good friend.
“Ochako,” Tsuyu says, with a piece of tofu halfway to her mouth, “When did you get the All Might keyring, kero?”
Uraraka is busy devouring her own lunch, while Shoto is staring down at his hands like he is utterly perplexed.
“Wha?” Uraraka responds, then swallows while Iida scows at her manners, “Oh, this?”
She pulls her bag up from the space next to her, up on the table. A tiny All Might hangs from her zipper, and Tsuyu looks at it in a strange, peculiar way.
“I got it for Christmas, remember?” Uraraka says, “During the secret Santa.”
“Yes,” Tsuyu responds, “But who gave it to you?”
Uraraka shrugs, “It was a secret Santa.”
“Who got your gift?”
Uraraka opens her mouth to reply – but, can’t quite piece together who had received her gift. It was – a bag of chips, she thinks? There’d been a very small budget set for their Secret Santa, and it’d been the best she could think of at the time.
“I can’t remember,” She replies, and then frowns, “Wow, I must have a really bad, memory, huh?”
“But you don’t, kero,” Tsuyu responds, and frowns, “I can’t remember either.”
Uraraka leans forward, head slumped in her hands as she tried to remember what everyone received – but there was a distinct hole where her gift had gone.
Iida was frowning too, and when he reaches out to touch the All Might keyring, he hums and then looks at Todoroki with a face that was uncomfortable. He rubbed his hands thoughtfully, like he often did, when the injury from his work experience with Manual flared up.
“Todoroki?”
Shoto blinked a few times, stares down at his hands and then glances back up, “Does anyone know where we can watch a copy of the Sports Festival?”
-
Shinsou is frustrated. Frustrated with how he’s plateauing in training - how he’s never quite fast enough, or limber enough, or strong enough to be able to impress Eraserhead. The capture weapon in his hands can feel as strong as iron in his grip, or as uncontrollable as sand slipping through his fingers.
Today is a day where he can’t seem to make it work; and he falls more than he manages to successfully direct the weapon. His shoulders are aching with the work, and when he starts shaking from the effort of constantly throwing and pulling the scarf, Aizawa sits down on the mat and pats beside him.
Shinsou slinks in with shoulders slumped in misery.
“You’re getting better,” Aizawa says, “A plateau is to be expected when you’ve been working hard. It isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a sign of progress.”
Shinsou nods and accepts when Aizawa hands him a bottle of water with a muttered thanks.
“You’ve come a long way since the Sports Festival,” Aizawa acknowledges, “And you did very well in your trial with Class 1-A and Class 1-B. Both in your quirk use, and in your physicality.”
“Until that guy,” Shinsou says, and then narrows his eyes in frustration, “Uh, with the? You know?”
He gestures aimlessly, and then pauses to try and recall what it was that he had thought, before it was snatched away. Something – something terrifying, something destructive – something unexpected.
Aizawa nods, and then pauses himself. Shinsou can see the moment that Eraserhead’s expression turns dangerous – it’s a cool, calm and collected expression, which sends a thrill down Shinsou’s spine.
“The guy?” Aizawa prompts and considers Shinsou for a moment. Shinsou nods back, until he realises Aizawa wants him to keep talking, and then he scrambles to try and recall something that keeps slipping away.
“The guy?” Shinsou responds again, “With the? Um – we had to stop the battle trial – um, I – did I help?”
Aizawa considers him for a long moment, and then stands up with an urgency that makes Shinsou rise and scan for danger.
“We’ll have to cut this one short, Shinsou,” Aizawa announces, “Something – something has come up.”
Shinsou nods but cannot hide the flash of disappointment across his face. Aizawa notices, and his face softens for just a moment.
“Go straight back to your dorm,” The hero says, “Get a good sleep, and we’ll meet up again next Friday at the usual time.”
-
Shoto is peered over Mina’s laptop with a look of disbelief on his face. The Sports Festival footage is not great, and it’s meant to be an archival copy hosted by UA servers. They dig around on the internet and across social media for a better copy, but can’t find anything without strange cuts and static, on what should have been a digitally broadcast signal.
“This is super weird,” Mina announces, as Uraraka watches a firmness to her jaw that makes her look angry, “It’s like someone took a knife to the footage.”
There is not a single camera which caught sight of who won first place in the first event. Not a face. Not a name. Not even a shadow. The crowd cheers but the screen goes black.
“I can’t see you in the second event, girl,” Mina says, forwarding through the footage, “Can’t you remember who was in your team?”
Uraraka pauses, and the names spring to her so easily, effortlessly. Tokoyami, Hatsume, and –
Uraraka shakes her head, and her eyes start to widen.
“Have we been hit by a quirk?” She asks, because she cannot think of any other explanation.
“I don’t think it was us,” Mina responds and then looks down at the screen, “But to affect even the cameras…?”
Shoto glances and leans forward to click through to the end – to the one-on-one tournament. There’s the purple haired kid – Shinsou, the guy from General Ed who turned up to just to challenge them all.
He walks onto the platform, and levels a firmly unimpressed look at his opponent – and the camera angle flips and-
The screen glitches and the video freezes and jumps – but just for a second, they all see what is there. An eldritch horror, something ancient and angry, something that makes their hair stand up on edge and the smell of burning plasma to flood the room. They inhale as the pressure shifts, and it’s like the room has been thrown into that arena – into the path of something impossible and dangerous.
There are ghosts – maybe seven different shapes and colours, screaming and howling full of rage. There’s a buzzing growing in their ears – something subsonic, like TV static and static electricity rolled into one, and it grows until their teeth are vibrating in her jaws. Shoto can taste copper and iron in his mouth, and his eyes burn with the spectral afterimage of a tiny boy with green hair and tired eyes.
Mina slams shut the laptop, and whirls around with wide eyes and a persistent shiver.
“Iida, I think we need Mr. Aizawa.”
-
It is far too early in the morning, but Aoyama can hear the brash sounds of Bakugo knocking around in the kitchen. Bakugo often cooks in the morning, since he’s a big fan of highly nutritious meals, but he also cooks because Kirishima and Kaminari will eat anything.
It’s pancakes, if Aoyama could hazard a guess – since Kirishima and Kaminari are celebrating with loud whoops and cheers that threaten to wake up any of their classmates who are not yet awake. There had been some kind of wager, Aoyama thinks – something about Kaminari getting at least a 69% on the latest math test, and Kaminari had done unexpectantly well. That said – Bakugo had been cooking more often lately – more willing to indulge in the sweet tooths of his classmates.
The one thing about Bakugo, though, is that he does not change his routine for anyone – if you want to eat, you eat at 7am.
You also do dishes at 7:45am or risk a category 10 Bakugo rant on hygiene.
Technically Bakugo would cook for anyone – really one of his few saving graces, is that he does worry about what everyone is eating. Bakugo might yell at you if he feels you’re an embarrassment to the profession because you’ve been eating junk for a few days, but he’ll also whip up a bunch of healthy snacks and leave them in the kitchen for the taking.
You just have to be brave enough to head downstairs and ask.
Aoyama has never considered himself a brave person. It might be surprising to his classmates, who all think he’s a little show-y and sparkly, like he’s destined to be a slightly bubblier and effeminate version of Present Mic.
They might consider him brave, because he wears sparkly earrings and fluffy poet shirts, and because he delights in making people laugh. They might also consider him brave because he had thrown himself into UA as an international applicant and steadily kept up even though Japanese wasn’t his first language. His grandparents had all been Japanese - both sides but from vastly different ends of Japan. His father spoke very limited Japanese, and his grandparents were all dead. His mother spoke the Japanese of her childhood home in France in Lille, – about half a century out of date and heavily coloured by the Japanese poetry she had read to him at bedtime.
He’d grown up speaking like his mother, but with nowhere near the fluency of his 1-A classmates. He’d been born and raised in Le Vésinet, until he’d stubbornly looked his parents in the eye and told them he wanted to be a hero.
And UA was the BEST.
And he’d wanted that, until he’d been told the price of his quirk was to spy on the heroes. To betray his friends.
Aoyama made breakfast in his room and ate alone, and tried to pretend that he was a hero at all. Breakfast in his room was a simple affair – a slice of tartine or baguette, depending on the day, heavy with jam and butter, and a coffee he’d brew while the kitchen was empty in the morning. Lunch would be a similar affair – hidden away in the classroom, so he wouldn’t have to lie if anyone asked him if he’d heard anything.
And now, he was just afraid.
Afraid of what would happen when they finally found out. Afraid of what would happen if they didn’t. Afraid that one day, one of his friends would die, and he’d stare down at his hands and only see blood.
Aoyama was not brave enough to head downstairs. Eating a meal made by Bakugo’s own hand, while he was unaware that Aoyama had been the person to betray him-
To sell them all out to the league, and to All for One.
And, judging by the empty space in their classroom, afraid, that he already might have.
-
Aizawa is met halfway back to the dorms by Iida, who is wide eyed and shaky. It takes more time than Aizawa would prefer until Iida can shakily explain what is wrong. Aizawa does not like co-incidences, and when they cross the threshold into the Class 1-A common room, there is a persistent chill that feels as choking as a funeral dirge.
Uraraka is sitting on the couch beside Ashido, and they both are staring at a laptop with wide eyes. Shoto is staring at his hands, flashing his quirk in succession – ice and then fire, ice and fire, back and forth. It surprises Aizawa, and which then strikes confusion at his own surprise.
Todoroki had been consistently using his fire side since the Sports Festival.
Kirishima and Kaminari are hovering over Mina, and Iida’s quick hello tells him that they have come on Ashido’s call. Sero is in the kitchen making mugs of tea to calm everyone’s nerves. He waves, grabs another cup from the drying rack, and goes to pull the instant coffee down from the shelf.
Ah, sometimes he can have favourite students.
“Show me,” he says, and his problem children do. They can get a three second clip from the screen; feel the howling rage of superimposed clips, until Mina’s laptop shrieks and it blackens and breaks.
Aizawa stares at the screen in absolute disbelief, and then stands up straight as the sound brings more of his class flooding into the room to investigate the noise.
The children stare at him, and for the very first time, he is rendered speechless.
“There was also a keyring,” Uraraka says loudly, “And I don’t remember who gave it to me – and, a mug, I think.”
“A shirt,” Kirishima announces hesitantly, “I couldn’t figure out whose it was.”
“I got a comment on my essay,” Kaminari says, “I didn’t recognise the handwriting.”
“Shoes,” Shouji announces, “In the cabinet. Bright red.”
“Something is missing,” Tokoyami muses, and sits down on the couch with a serious face.
“Lightning,” Kouda signs, and then won’t say anything more.
“Senshi, why don’t we have 20 students in our class?” Hagakure asks, “Someone’s missing.”
Aizawa pauses and struggles, he flashes his quirk for a second, just to make sure – but it doesn’t change the fact that he can feel the missing piece in his mind but can’t quite figure out what is meant to go there.
“Fetch all your classmates,” Aizawa announces, “And bring all these objects you’ve found.”
It takes twenty minutes until Class 1-A is gathered in the living room; a handful of objects laid out of the table to tell a story with extraordinarily little to guide it. Aizawa arranges them by the order in which they were found, but it does very little to create a consistent timeline. Bakugo looks at them like he wants to say something but turns away with a deepening frown.
He leaves them to check all the empty rooms for any evidence of a missing child, but they’re all as empty as they should be. When he returns, he counts all of his students again to make sure he hasn’t lost another, and then freezes as he realises there would be no way for him to tell. In his absence, the class have post-it notes, and have wrapped blankets around their shoulders.
“He was loud,” Jirou says, “Not – loud like Bakugo, but consistent. Reliable. Talkative.”
“Green,” Satou says, “His hair?”
“Like on the video!” Mina cheers.
“Definitely a guy,” Mineta says, “I’d notice for sure if a chick disappeared.”
“I wish you would disappear.” Mina grumbled back.
Before Aizawa can respond further, Bakugo sighs from the couch, and crossed his arms across his chest.
“Are we finally talking about Deku?”
-
His name is Deku, and he is a pro hero. He fights and fights until Shigaraki finally rips One for All from his body and breaks his neck.
His name is Deku, and he is a pro hero. He has been given a second chance, and he fights and fights until he has defeated Shigaraki, but All for One is quicker, and burns his quirk from the inside out.
His name is Deku, and he is a pro hero. He fights and fights until there isn’t anything worth fighting for anymore, because All for One has won.
His name is Deku, and he dies in middle school.
His name is Deku, and he dies quirkless in the UA Entrance Exam.
His name is Deku, and he dies choking on sludge.
His name is Deku, and he dies when he activates his quirk for the first time in the UA Entrance Exam, and he explodes from the inside out.
His name is Deku, and he dies when he doesn’t dodge.
His name is Deku, and he dies and dies and dies trying to free Eri.
His name is Deku, and he makes sure Bakugo gets One for All next time around, and then dies anyway when the quirk mutates into a self-destructive atomic bomb.
His name is Deku, and he makes it to the end, and dies when Shigaraki greets him with Shinsou’s quirk in his mouth.
He is Deku, and never goes to UA, and Bakugo is executed by the League on national TV.
His name is Deku, and he is a vigilante. He meets All Might as expected, just long enough to take the quirk and then disappear.
His name is Deku, and the next time around he starts to forget what he needs to change.
His name is Deku, and he is so very tired.
His name is Deku, and he is so very tired.
His name is Deku, and he is so very tired.
His name is Deku, and he forgets sometimes that he used to be someone else.
-
“Deku?” Uraraka responds back, and then repeats the word again and again, until it settles in her mouth with the familiarity of an old friend.
“Izuku Midoriya,” Bakugo responds, and then crosses his arms across his chest, “He’s not here this time around. He - needed a break.”
“A break?” Aizawa responded, “Bakugo.”
“You won’t remember this,” Bakugo laughed, something bitter and old, “You never do. I’m just stuck along for the ride. Sometimes All Might remembers, but usually not. There’s not really any point in this little séance, is there? The more he tries, the thinner it all gets. Things keep slipping through.”
“…Are you suggesting you’re stuck in a time loop?” Aizawa asks, because there is a horrifying precedent for this situation, but not one he’s ever had to deploy involving a student.
“Nah,” Bakugo announces, “Would be easier if everything just reset back to the start, the same as it was. Would even be easier if we knew who the hell was doing this. Deku reckons that someone is trying to rewrite the past – erasing things over and over again but leaving stuff behind to bleed through. Fuckin’ amateur. It’s not the League – but can’t figure out if it’s All for Shits, or not. Fucker would have a backup plan.”
Aizawa stares at him, and Bakugo laughs and laughs and laughs. He laughs until tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and then laughs even harder.
“We can fix this,” Aizawa responds, because he is still their teacher, even if he never knew one of them. Because he is there to help, and he has realised a second too late that some of his students are incapable of asking for that. He has failed them, over and over, but maybe here, he can at least save one.
“With all due respect Sensei,” Bakugo responds, through his fracturing grin, “It always resets a day after Deku dies, so I’ve got a good ten minutes before we’re going to try again.”
-
There is an extra mug in the cabinet.
Uraraka isn’t sure why she stares at it; brows furrowed in absolute bewilderment. Her fingers reach before her mind even consciously thinks about it - her body moving on its own. A closer view doesn’t help anything - doesn’t explain why her bones grow cold, why she gently clutches it to her body with an overwhelming sense of grief.
“Hey,” She says, around the lump in her throat, “Whose is this?”
It’s an old mug - a faded All Might mug with tea stains on the inside. Years of gentle hands had worn through the printed image - nothing special, given how the mug looks like any mass printed unlicensed and cheap hero merch.
But-
“Mine,” Bakugo snaps, and glowers at her through his tired red eyes, “Don’t touch it round cheeks. I mean it.”
Uraraka scowls and slips the mug back into the cupboard.