Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The explosion cracked through the crisp afternoon air like a gunshot.

Katsuki Bakugo hit the pavement hard, boots skidding across the asphalt as he carved a smoking trench through the street. Heat rolled off his shoulders, smoke curling from his gauntlets as chunks of shattered concrete rained down behind him. The villain followed a heartbeat later, slammed into the ground with bone-rattling force. The street spiderwebbed beneath their unconscious body.

Bakugo didn’t spare them a second glance.

“Target secured,” he said into the comms device in his ear, already turning away. “Evac zone’s clear.”

Sirens wailed closer now—police, fire, medical. Civilians peeked out from behind overturned cars and temporary barricades, eyes wide with that same familiar mix of fear, relief, and awe. Phones were raised. Cameras flashing. Someone cheered.

Of course they did.

“Copy that, Dynamight,” the dispatcher replied. “Excellent work.”

Tch.

Bakugo didn’t bother responding. Praise was noise. He kicked off the ground in a sharp burst of explosions and shot upward, landing on the roof of a nearby office building just as emergency crews flooded the street below. He crouched at the edge, elbows resting on his knees, and watched the scene wind down.

Medics moved fast and practiced, hands steady as they checked vitals. Police secured the perimeter with efficient motions. A couple of pro heroes he recognized glanced up and gave him brief nods—wordless acknowledgments between people who understood the job.

Another villain down.

Another clean win for the Number Five Hero: Dynamight.

The ranking still felt strange when he lingered on it too long. Not because he doubted he’d earned it—he had, and he knew it—but because there had been a time when the numbers had consumed him. When there had only ever been one that mattered.

Number One.

He clicked his tongue and stood, rolling his shoulders with a low grunt. Sweat clung beneath his costume, fabric damp against his skin. His palms still burned pleasantly, the familiar ache of exertion steady and controlled. His explosions had changed over the years—sharper, tighter, less wild. No wasted movement. No unnecessary destruction.

Power, tempered with restraint.

Funny how long it had taken him to figure that out.

“Dynamight!”

A sidekick from another agency clambered up the fire escape, breathing hard by the time she reached him. “The media’s asking if you’ll give a statement.”

Bakugo shot her an unimpressed look. “Tell ’em to watch the replay,” he snapped. “They already got what they came for.”

She laughed nervously, nodded, and retreated back down the stairs.

Bakugo exhaled slowly through his nose and turned away from the edge of the roof. The city stretched out before him—Musutafu rebuilt and scarred all at once. New buildings gleamed in the sunlight, steel and glass rising where rubble once sat. Older neighborhoods still carried the weight of memory if you knew how to look.

Eight years.

Eight years since the war.

The thought slid in uninvited, like it always did when things went quiet.

For a moment, the sounds of the city dulled. Sirens blurred into something distant, replaced by sharper memories—screams tearing through smoke-choked air, the acrid stench of iron and ash. The crushing pressure in his chest. The split second of nothing before pain, darkness, and the cold realization that his body had finally given out.

He remembered waking up later, arm pulverized, heart stitched back together by hands that refused to let him die.

Bakugo’s fists clenched at his sides.

Damn it. Not now.

He forced the memories down the way he always did—tight, controlled, shoved beneath routine and motion. Training. Patrols. Missions. The steady rhythm of work that kept his hands busy and his thoughts from lingering too long.

He’d learned how to carry it.

That didn’t mean it was gone.

His phone buzzed against his hip, sharp and insistent. Bakugo scowled as he pulled it free, expecting an agency update or another request to cover a late patrol shift.

Instead, the caller ID made his thumb freeze.

…The damn nerd.

He stared at the screen for a second longer than he meant to before answering.

“What,” he barked.

“Ah—Kacchan!” Izuku Midoriya’s voice crackled through the line, bright and unmistakable. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

Bakugo snorted and stepped away from the roof’s edge. “If you’re calling to ask whether I found a sidekick, hang up.”

Izuku laughed softly. Still did that. Still sounded like someone who smiled even when he was nervous. “No, nothing like that. I just—I was hoping to ask you something.”

“Then spit it out, Izuku,” Bakugo grumbled.

“Right, right!” Izuku cleared his throat. “Um—after the class reunion, do you remember when I invited you to come by as a guest teacher?”

Bakugo raised a brow. “Yeah. What of it?”

“Well,” Izuku continued, words picking up speed, “I’m running a practical training exercise for my class this week, and I thought it might be good for them to work with active pro heroes. Ochaco and a few of our friends are helping out, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to—”

“You want me to help with a practical exercise,” Bakugo cut in.

“…Yeah.”

Bakugo’s gaze drifted across the city, toward the distant silhouette of U.A. High School rising above the skyline. The place where everything changed for him. Where he once had been arrogant, angry, terrified of weakness, and too stubborn to admit it.

He hadn’t set foot on that campus in years.

“I know you’re busy,” Izuku added, more carefully now. “And you don’t have to say yes. I just thought… the students could learn a lot from you.”

Learn from him?

Bakugo tightened his grip on the phone.

All these years of growing up, screwing up, and slowly—painfully—becoming someone better than the kid he’d been. Someone who knew how much damage careless words could do. Someone who understood that strength wasn’t about standing above others, but standing with them when it mattered.

He still cringed when he thought about how he’d treated Izuku back then. Still felt that familiar twist of guilt, even now, even after apologies and long conversations and years of fighting side by side.

He shut his eyes briefly before answering. “Which class.”

“My homeroom,” Izuku replied. “Class 1-A.”

Bakugo huffed. Of course it was.

He pictured wide-eyed kids in freshly issued hero costumes, bursting with ambition and nerves and unearned confidence. Kids who thought they understood what it meant to be a hero.

He’d been one of them once.

“Hmph. Fine,” he said at last. “One session.”

Izuku’s relief was instant and obvious. “Really? Thank you, Kacchan—seriously.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me, you damn nerd,” Bakugo snapped, though the edge was duller than it used to be. “Send me the details.”

“I will,” Izuku said, warmth clear in his voice. “I’ll see you then, Kacchan.”

The call ended.

Bakugo lowered the phone and stared out over the city again. The sky was clear. Peaceful, for now.

He wasn’t the angry kid chasing a single number anymore. He wasn’t alone, either—no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

Helping out at U.A. was just one session. That was it.

Still, as he launched himself off the roof and back into the flow of the city, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that stepping back onto that campus meant facing more than just a classroom full of students.

And maybe—just maybe—that wasn’t such a bad thing anymore.

Chapter Text

U.A. High School looked different from how Bakugo remembered it.

That was the first thought that hit him as he stood at the front gates, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hero costume replaced with civilian clothes and a long coat he didn’t really need. Not weaker—never that—but… contained. Familiar.

The iron gates were the same, tall and imposing, but polished now. Fresh paint gleamed under the late-morning sun. New security sensors were embedded along the fencing, subtle but unmistakable to a pro hero’s trained eye.

He snorted quietly.

Figures they’d beef it up even more.

Bakugo stepped forward, the soles of his boots crunching against the gravel path, and the gates slid open automatically. No alarms. No hesitation. Just quiet recognition.

Inside, the campus spread out before him.

Some buildings were unchanged—stubbornly so—while others had clearly been rebuilt or expanded. A new wing rose near the main structure, all sharp angles and reinforced glass. Memorial plaques stood near the courtyard, engraved with names Bakugo didn’t need to read to know by heart.

He slowed without realizing it.

Eight years ago, he’d stormed through these grounds like he owned the place. Loud. Angry. Certain the world would bend if he hit it hard enough. 

Now, students passed him in clusters, uniforms crisp, voices buzzing with energy. Some glanced his way and froze, eyes widening as recognition set in.

“Is that—”

“No way—”

“That’s Dynamight—”

Bakugo ignored them, shoulders squared, stride steady. He wasn’t here to bask in awe. He wasn’t here to prove anything.

Still, something in his chest tightened as he walked.

He passed the old training fields, memories flashing unbidden—explosions tearing up dirt, shouted challenges, rivalries that had once felt like life or death. He remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with his classmates, all of them convinced they’d be invincible forever.

He remembered learning how wrong that was—during his first year, nonetheless.

“Kacchan!”

A voice came from ahead of him.

Izuku stood near the entrance to the main building, clipboard tucked under one arm, hero jacket slung over his shoulders as it belonged there, a pair of glasses on his face. He looked older—obviously—but not in a way that dulled him. If anything, there was a steadiness to him now. A grounded confidence that didn’t need to announce itself.

“Took you long enough,” Bakugo muttered.

Izuku smiled, wide and genuine. “You’re right on time.”

They stood there for a second, just looking at each other. Not awkward. Not tense. Just…quiet.

Bakugo hated that his chest felt lighter.

Before either of them could say more, a familiar voice chimed in from behind Izuku.

“Bakugo! You actually came!”

Ochako Uraraka stepped into view, hands clasped behind her back, eyes bright. She looked happy—truly, effortlessly happy—and the sight of it caught Katsuki off guard more than he liked.

“Tch,” he replied. “Like I’d bail after agreeing.”

She laughed. “Still charming.”

Izuku rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m really glad you’re here, Kacchan. The students are excited. Some of them have been asking about you nonstop.”

Bakugo scoffed. “They better not expect autographs.”

“Oh, they do,” Ochako said cheerfully. “And demonstrations. And probably shouting.”

“…Great.”

They started walking together toward the staff building, the three of them falling into an easy rhythm. It struck Bakugo how natural it felt—how little effort it took to walk beside them, like no time had passed at all.

“So,” Bakugo said gruffly, eyes forward. “You two living together, huh.”

Ochako blinked, then flushed slightly. Izuku nearly tripped over his own feet.

“W-We are,” Izuku admitted. “I mean—yes. It just... happened.”

Bakugo glanced at them from the corner of his eye. Ochako’s hand brushed Izuku’s, casual and familiar. There was no tension there. No uncertainty.

Good.

“About damn time,” Bakugo muttered, voice tinged with imperceptible amusement.

Ochako’s smile widened.

They reached the staff lounge, where the smell of coffee and chalk dust lingered in the air. A familiar figure lounged near the doorway, scarf draped loosely around his shoulders.

Aizawa eyed Bakugo over the rim of his mug. “You’re late.”

Bakugo scowled. “I’m early.”

“Hm.” Aizawa took a sip. “Try not to blow anything up.”

“No promises.”

From the far end of the room, a larger silhouette shifted.

“All might—” Bakugo started, then stopped.

Toshinori Yagi stood near the window, thinner now, older, but smiling in that same earnest way that made Bakugo uncomfortable and proud all at once.

“You’ve grown into a fine hero,” All Might said warmly.

Bakugo looked away. “You too. For a retired guy.”

Izuku laughed, the sound echoing softly around the room. “You know he’s now the vice principal.”

Bakugo whipped around, “Seriously?!”

Before the moment could stretch too long, the door slid open again.

“Hey, Bakubro!”

A familiar voice rang out, loud and unmistakable.

Bakugo turned just in time to see Eijiro Kirishima stride in, grinning from ear to ear. Behind him walked Shoto Todoroki, gaze calm and observant as ever.

Kirishima clapped Bakugo on the back hard enough to make the windows rattle. “Man, look at you! Number Five! Knew you’d bounce back in no time!”

“Get off me,” Bakugo snapped, though he didn’t shove him away.

Todoroki gave a slight nod. “It’s good to see you.”

Bakugo huffed. “Yeah. You too, Icyhot.”

The room felt fuller suddenly. Warmer.

Izuku clapped his hands together. “Alright—let’s head to Ground Beta. Class 1-A’s already waiting.”

As they filed out together, Bakugo cast one last glance around the hallway, hearing the echoes of the boy he’d been ringing in his ears.

He wasn’t that kid anymore.

But this place had shaped him all the same.

Chapter Text

Ground Beta sprawled beneath a wide, open sky—steel frameworks, artificial streets, collapsed-building simulations, and modular terrain stretching farther than the eye could see. Reinforced plating gleamed where old concrete once cracked, hazard drones humming softly overhead as they traced lazy patrol arcs.

They’d upgraded it. Of course they had.

Bakugo stood near the observation platform, hands planted on his hips, eyes sweeping over the gathered students. Twenty of them. Young. Loud. Brimming with the kind of restless energy that came from not knowing yet how easily things could go wrong.

He recognized it immediately.

The whispers started the moment they noticed him.

“That’s him—Dynamight—”

“No way, he’s even scarier in person—”

“Do you think he’ll let us spar?”

Bakugo clicked his tongue. “If they start crying, I’m walking.”

Izuku snorted beside him, clipboard tucked under one arm. “They’ll be fine. Probably.”

Ochako stepped forward, clapping her hands sharply. “Alright, everyone! Settle down!”

The chatter died down—mostly. A few students still stared at Bakugo like he was a live explosive, pin pulled, waiting.

Good.

Fear kept people alert. It made them listen. And if they learned nothing else today, they’d learn that.

Izuku cleared his throat. “Today’s exercise is a cooperative rescue-and-neutralization scenario. You’ll be working alongside pro heroes to simulate a real emergency response. Focus on communication, adaptability, and—”

“Not dying,” Bakugo cut in.

The words snapped through the air like a fuse igniting. Several students stiffened instinctively.

Bakugo stepped forward, eyes sharp, voice steady and unforgiving. “You mess up, people get hurt. You hesitate, someone else pays for it. This isn’t a game. You want to be heroes? Act like it.”

No shouting. No theatrics. Just the truth, laid bare.

The students straightened without being told.

Izuku nodded, unfazed as ever. “You’ll be split into teams. Red Riot and Shoto will supervise the eastern and western sectors. Dynamight and I will rotate between zones.”

Bakugo shot him a sideways glance. “You volunteering to babysit me, nerd?”

Izuku smiled. “Someone has to.”

Before Bakugo could fire back, the first alarm blared.

Red lights flooded Ground Beta as the simulated city lurched into motion—walls rising, debris collapsing, smoke cannons firing in thick, choking plumes. Training drones buzzed to life, holographic civilians screaming and scattering through the streets.

“Scenario start!” a mechanical voice announced.

Bakugo was already moving.

“Speed-types, with me!” he barked, blasting forward in a controlled burst. Two students scrambled after him, barely keeping pace, boots skidding as they adjusted.

He landed hard in the center of a collapsed street, smoke stinging his eyes. A drone opened fire from behind cover, simulated blasts hammering the ground.

Bakugo didn’t hesitate. “Left flank! Now!”

One student froze—just for a second.

Bakugo grabbed the kid by the collar and yanked him forward. “Move when I tell you, not when you feelready!”

They cleared the corner as Bakugo detonated a tight explosion, shredding the drone without leveling the block. He skidded to a stop, already scanning for the next threat.

The students stared at him, wide-eyed.

“…That was awesome,” one breathed.

Bakugo scoffed. “That was basic.”

They pushed deeper into the zone, clearing hazards, pulling holographic civilians from rubble. One student broke formation, charging a drone head-on without waiting for backup.

Bakugo reacted instantly, blasting between them and taking the simulated hit on his gauntlet.

“What did I say about charging in alone?” he snapped.

The kid swallowed hard. “S-Sorry, sir!”

Bakugo’s jaw tightened.

For just a moment, the training field flickered—replaced by another battlefield, another charge made too fast, too reckless. The weight of someone else’s blood on his hands. The sickening realization that strength alone didn’t mean shit if you used it wrong.

He exhaled sharply.

“Think,” he said, quieter now, the edge dulled but no less serious. “You don’t win by being first. You win by being alive.”

The student nodded fiercely, gripping their gear like it was a lifeline.

Across the field, Bakugo caught sight of Izuku directing another team. Calm. Efficient. Adjusting on the fly, offering encouragement where it mattered and correction where it didn’t sugarcoat.

Damn nerd was good at this.

Better than Bakugo had expected. Maybe better than Bakugo himself, in some ways. That thought didn’t sting like it used to.

A heavier threat activated—an armored simulation unit erupting from beneath the street. Students faltered, instincts scrambling.

Bakugo cracked his neck. “Alright. Watch closely.”

He launched skyward, explosions precise and measured. No wasted movement. No excess force. He didn’t overpower the unit so much as dismantle it—blasting joints, destabilizing its stance, collapsing it inward without endangering the surrounding structures.

Control. Precision. Intent.

When he landed, the field had gone quiet.

Bakugo turned back to the students. “Power’s useless if you don’t know where to put it. Remember that.”

The alarm sounded again.

“Scenario complete.”

Cheers broke out across Ground Beta—ragged, breathless, exhilarated. Students laughed, some collapsing where they stood, adrenaline still buzzing through their veins.

Bakugo stepped back, chest rising and falling. Sweat traced down his temple, his palms tingling with spent heat.

Izuku jogged over, eyes bright. “That was incredible. You adapted perfectly to their mistakes.”

Bakugo huffed. “They were sloppy.”

“They’re first years,” Izuku said gently. “We were in their shoes once.”

Bakugo paused.

The words settled heavier than he expected.

His thoughts drifted back to the first time he’d stepped onto this training field in a brand-new hero costume—back when his biggest concerns were grades, rankings, and proving himself. Back when the idea of being run through the chest by the most dangerous villain of his generation hadn’t been more than a distant, abstract fear.

He could almost hear it: the familiar banter of his classmates, Aizawa’s dry voice cutting through the noise. The memory of his younger self made him wince, sharp and rough around the edges, but beneath that came something else—unexpected warmth, slow and steady in his chest.

For the first time in a long while, those high school memories weren’t poisoned by the final war against All For One, and the aftermath that followed it.

“…Yeah,” he muttered.

His hand rose without thinking, pressing briefly over his chest, feeling the steady, living beat of his heart beneath his fingertips.

Chapter Text

The sun was already sinking by the time they left Ground Beta.

The training field lay behind them in a state of controlled ruin—scorched pavement, displaced barriers, smoke still clinging faintly to the air. Students dispersed in loose clusters, laughter and animated chatter carrying across the grounds as adrenaline slowly burned away and lessons settled into muscle memory.

Bakugo walked a few steps behind the others, hands shoved deep into his pockets, gaze unfocused.

His body ached in the familiar way it always did after a long day. Not the sharp pain of injury, not the hollow exhaustion of battle—but the dull, grounding soreness that came from effort well spent. From doing something that mattered.

Useful, he thought.

Kirishima clapped him on the shoulder as they reached the edge of the facility. “Man, you were insane out there. Those kids are gonna be talking about that session for weeks.”

“Tch,” Bakugo replied. “If they remember anything other than the explosions, I’ll be impressed.”

“They will,” Todoroki said evenly, adjusting the strap of his bag. “You were clear. Direct. Effective.”

Bakugo shot him a look. “…You don’t gotta say it like you’re grading me.”

Ochako laughed. “He means it as a compliment.”

“Whatever.”

They headed back toward the main campus together, the tension of the exercise dissolving with each step. Students bowed and waved as they passed, some calling out thanks or excited goodbyes. Bakugo ignored most of it—but he caught Izuku’s reaction instead, the quiet pride in his expression as he watched the students disperse safely.

Once inside the main building, the group split off. Kirishima stretched dramatically, already complaining about dinner and patrol schedules, while Todoroki paused to check his phone, brow furrowing briefly.

“I’m heading out,” Kirishima said. “Early patrol tomorrow. You coming, Shoto?”

“I will,” Todoroki replied after a moment. He glanced at Bakugo. “It was good seeing you again.”

“…Yeah,” Bakugo said. “You too.”

Ochako slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to Izuku. “I’ll head home and start dinner. Try not to keep Bakugo too late.”

Izuku laughed. “I’ll try.”

Bakugo scowled. “Oi.”

Ochako only smiled and waved before heading off, her footsteps light as she disappeared down the hallway.

Soon enough, only Bakugo and Izuku remained.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. Not really. It was the kind that came from years of shared history—battles fought shoulder to shoulder, arguments weathered, apologies spoken and unspoken. Comfortable, but heavy with things that didn’t need saying.

Izuku cleared his throat. “Uh—before you go, do you mind helping me with something?”

Bakugo raised a brow. “You mean paperwork.”

“…Yes.”

“Tch. Figures.”

They moved into the faculty office, Izuku’s space orderly but lived-in. Neatly labeled binders lined the shelves, lesson plans stacked with careful precision. On the wall sat a handful of photographs.

Bakugo recognized one instantly.

Their class, captured early in their second year—mid-laughter, bruised but standing, still reeling from everything the war had taken and somehow already rebuilding.

Izuku noticed his stare. “I keep that one there,” he said quietly. “To remind myself why this matters.”

Bakugo looked away. “You’re a nerd.”

Izuku smiled anyway.

They spent the next hour working through reports and training data. Bakugo complained the entire time—but he stayed. He pointed out flaws in the scenarios, suggested harsher variables, insisted the students needed to experience failure in controlled ways before the real world taught them far worse lessons.

Izuku listened. Took notes. Asked questions.

At some point, Bakugo realized something that made his chest tighten uncomfortably.

Izuku trusted him.

Not just as a fellow hero. Not just as raw firepower.

As someone whose judgment carried weight.

When they finally finished, night had settled fully over Musutafu. The campus outside was quiet, lights glowing softly along empty walkways.

Izuku stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Thanks for helping me out today, Kacchan.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Bakugo muttered.

They stepped outside together, cool night air brushing against their faces. The city hummed in the distance—steady, alive.

They stopped near the edge of the courtyard, beneath an open stretch of sky.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“…You did good today,” Izuku said at last.

Bakugo scoffed. “You already said that.”

“I know,” Izuku replied. “I’m saying it again.”

Bakugo clicked his tongue but didn’t argue. His gaze drifted upward instead, jaw tight.

“You ever think about how stupid we were?” he asked suddenly.

Izuku blinked. “All the time.”

Bakugo let out a quiet huff. “Thought strength meant never backing down. Thought if I yelled loud enough, hit hard enough… everything would fall into place.” His voice dipped. “Then everything happened. The villains. The war. My heart—when it—”

He cut himself off.

Izuku didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

“…I was an ass,” Bakugo continued. “Especially to you. I don’t know how you put up with me back then.”

Izuku shook his head gently. “We were scared. Both of us. That year turned everything upside down—I don’t think anyone walked out of it the same.”

Bakugo glanced at him, caught off guard.

Izuku met his gaze, calm and sincere. “You’re not the same person you were back then. You owned up to it. You changed. That matters.”

The words settled between them, heavy but steady.

Bakugo looked away again. “Still… I don’t say it enough. I’m sorry.”

Izuku smiled faintly. “You don’t have to. I’m just glad we’re both here. Still doing this.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, the space between them small but deliberate. Two survivors. Two friends who had learned—slowly, painfully—how to move forward without leaving each other behind.

Then the night shifted.

A sound rolled across the sky—deep and thunderous, vibrating through bone and air alike.

Bakugo stiffened instantly. “Did you hear that?”

Izuku’s expression sharpened. “Yeah.”

The air trembled. Clouds above Musutafu twisted unnaturally, colors bleeding into one another like fractured glass.

And then the sky split.

A massive tear burst open overhead, light spilling out in shifting, impossible hues. The clouds warped around it, reality itself seeming to strain under the pressure.

Alarms screamed to life across the city. Distant shouts followed.

Bakugo’s heart slammed into overdrive. “What the hell—?!”

Izuku took a step back, eyes wide. “What is that?!”

“I don’t know,” Bakugo snarled. “I got no idea.”

Izuku was already moving. “I’m suiting up!”

Bakugo turned toward the city, palms crackling with explosions as adrenaline surged. Fear, excitement, and something darker coiled tight in his chest.

Whatever that thing was—

It wasn’t natural.

It wasn’t possible.

And it wasn’t waiting.

Bakugo launched himself into the night as Izuku emerged moments later in full armor, eyes burning with resolve.

Side by side, they raced toward the chaos as the sky above Musutafu roared.

Chapter Text

The city moved like a body jolted awake.

Sirens wailed in layered harmonies—evacuation alerts, hero dispatch frequencies, emergency broadcasts hijacking every screen across Musutafu. The ground trembled in uneven pulses as debris rained from the sky, each impact followed by a concussive boom that rattled steel, concrete, and bone alike.

Above it all, the tear loomed.

It wasn’t a hole so much as a rupture—space itself peeled back in jagged, prismatic layers, light refracting and collapsing inward like a shattered lens. Color bled where it shouldn’t exist, hues that didn’t belong to any known spectrum twisting violently against the night sky. Every few seconds, something tore free from its edges, shrieking as it fell.

Bakugo rocketed through the chaos, explosions snapping like gunfire behind him as he took in the scene at a glance.

Former Class 1-A was already deployed.

“Civilians on the north block are clear!” Iida’s voice cut sharply over the comms, breathless but steady. He blurred past Bakugo in a streak of blue, carrying two injured civilians under his arms before vanishing down the street.

“Good!” Yaoyorozu responded immediately. “Sero, reinforce the western barricade—Jiro, confirm any additional incoming impacts!”

“Got it,” Jiro replied, her jacks pressed to the pavement. “There—three more objects falling, southwest quadrant! Large mass!”

“Shit,” Bakugo muttered.

He adjusted course midair towards the plummeting debris.

Todoroki was already there.

A surge of ice erupted from the street, forming a massive angled ramp that redirected flaming debris away from nearby residential buildings. Steam exploded outward as Todoroki countered the heat with precise bursts of fire, regulating the temperature so the ice held instead of shattering.

“Nice timing!” Kirishima shouted, slamming himself into a collapsing support beam and hardening just in time to hold it in place. “Any more of those and I’m charging rent!”

“You’ll live,” Bakugo snapped, blasting overhead.

Across the avenue, Ochako lifted entire slabs of roadway free from the ground, guiding them carefully into open lots where they could do the least damage. Tsuyu bounded between rooftops, securing civilians with her tongue and relaying headcounts back to command.

Sero’s tape snapped tight, forming aerial nets to catch smaller debris. Ashido skidded across scorched asphalt, her acid dissolving burning wreckage before it could spread. Kaminari braced himself against a downed power line, absorbing a dangerous surge before it could cascade through the grid.

They weren’t students anymore.

They were pros—experienced, scarred, terrifyingly competent.

Bakugo felt something sharp and familiar settle in his chest.

He dove, intercepting a burning object seconds before it could plow into a hospital wing. The impact blasted a crater into the street, smoke and sparks erupting outward.

Bakugo landed hard at the rim, gauntlets smoking. His gaze snapped downward.

“The actual hell…?”

Now that he could see it clearly, the object was…odd—metallic but warped, its surface etched with unfamiliar patterns that pulsed faintly before flickering out. It looked ripped straight out of a sci-fi movie.

Almost like—

A space capsule.

Bakugo stiffened, palms crackling.

Something rattled inside.

The hull split further with a metallic groan, and—

A shape pulled itself from the wreckage, staggering into view.

Bakugo’s eyes widened.

What the fuck.

She dropped to her knees, breath ragged. Short and stocky in build, her skin was a smooth slate-gray—like weathered stone brushed with ash. It lacked the warmth or variation of human flesh, light sliding across it without quite reflecting back.

Her hands hit the pavement next. Not gloved—clawed. Golden nails tipped like small talons scraped audibly against the concrete as she pushed herself upright. Pointed ears—long, tapered, and sharply angled—jutting from the sides of her head twitched faintly with every uneven breath.

Wild black hair clung to her face, what had once been a bun now half-fallen and tangled. From the crown of her head, horns curved upward in bold arcs, colored deep reddish-orange at the base and fading to yellow-orange at the tips. They reminded Bakugo of candy corn, as odd as the comparison was.

Her clothing was battered from the wreckage: a sleeveless black high-neck dress torn at the hem, a long gray cardigan hanging crookedly from her shoulders, edges singed and dirt-streaked. Knee-high black boots were cracked and scraped raw by the impact.

Perched crookedly on her nose were circular-framed glasses, lenses tinted a flat, burnished gold. They concealed her eyes completely, catching the fractured glow of the sky above and revealing nothing of what she was thinking.

Bakugo didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t fire.

Her head snapped up the moment she saw him, body going rigid.

For a heartbeat, the city noise dulled, as if the world itself hesitated.

They stared at each other across the smoking crater.

Bakugo’s heart slammed against his ribs, adrenaline screaming at him to act—to restrain, to interrogate, to blast first and ask questions later.

But he didn’t.

Neither did she.

Above them, the kaleidoscopic tear churned violently, light spilling through fractured edges as the city held its breath.

And for the first time since the alarms began, Bakugo understood one thing with absolute clarity:

Whatever this was—

It had just changed everything.