Zion slumped against the bathroom sink, the air heavy with sweat and lust, his body still buzzing from the threesome. Momo, her sweater half-buttoned, full breasts barely covered, smoothed her skirt, her appeal locked at 95. Ochaco, blouse tucked sloppily, cheeks flushed, adjusted her hair, her appeal at 90. The toilet stall's tiles gleamed under dim lights, their moans—Momo's raw screams, Ochaco's desperate cries, his own grunts—still ringing in his head. The system had dropped 15 stat points for Ochaco's conquest, matching Momo's, and he'd funneled them into Energy, Endurance, and Strength, his veins humming with power. Both girls stood, catching their breath, Momo steady but shy, Ochaco dazed, eyes flickering with something fragile.
Zion watched them, mind sharp. Momo's Creation Quirk could arm a rebellion; her sharp mind made her a linchpin for his cause—smashing the world's two-faced bullshit, hero lies included, by any means. Ochaco, though, was too raw, her heart still reeling from what they'd done. She's not ready, he decided, keeping his plans locked tight, his face a mask of cocky ease. "You two alright?" he asked, voice rough, tossing them a grin.
Momo nodded, tucking a stray hair. "We… should go," she said, voice soft but firm. Ochaco mumbled agreement, avoiding his gaze. They slipped out together, leaving Zion alone, his thoughts already on tomorrow—building a crew, starting with Momo, no charm, just truth.
Morning slammed in with UA's grind—classrooms thick with chalk dust, Aizawa's voice scraping through hero ethics, the cafeteria a mess of clanging trays and loud laughs. Zion blended in, eyes scanning the crowd. Todoroki sat by a window, his coffee steaming, his dual Quirk a prize Zion craved to snatch. Mina twirled a fork, her Acid Quirk sparking ideas for sabotage. Deku hunched over notes, still stung from their spar, and Zion flicked him a taunt, "Still saving the world, bookworm?" Deku's eyes narrowed, but he bit back a reply, earning a smirk. Ochaco sat with Jiro, picking at eggs, her gaze distant. Let her simmer, Zion thought, her appeal high but unsteady.
He tested Kirishima at lunch, clapping his shoulder. "You ever think this hero shit's a scam, Red?" Kirishima grinned, chewing. "Nah, man, it's about helping folks. You got a wild streak, though." Solid, but maybe bendable. Tsuyu, sipping tea, caught his eye, her appeal at 30. "You're always watching, Zion," she said, ribbiting. "What's your deal, kero?" He winked. "Just looking for real ones, Tsu." Her smile was small, sharp—worth a second look.
After classes, Zion found Momo in a dorm study room, a cramped space with sagging shelves and a wobbly table, sunlight slanting through dusty blinds. She sat alone, sketching Quirk blueprints, her sweater clinging to her curves, ponytail brushing her neck. "Yo, Momo," he said, shutting the door, no grin, no flirt. "We need to talk. For real."
She set her pencil down, eyes curious but guarded. "About what?" Her voice was calm, but she leaned forward, sensing his weight.
He sat, elbows on the table, voice low, stripped bare. "I'm not one of these hero drones. The world's a lie—people wave justice like a flag but crush anyone who doesn't fit their mold. I got burned by that, bad." His tone hardened, memories of a life before UA—hunted for All for One, branded a monster, betrayed by those preaching virtue—spilling out, vague but heavy. "Heroes are the worst. All Might's smile, Endeavor's fire—they're masks for a rotting system. I want to shatter it, no matter what it takes—force, tricks, whatever. I'm done with their fake ideals."
Momo's hands tightened, her face a mix of shock and thought. "Zion, that's… heavy," she said, slow. "Heroes mess up, sure. I've seen pros chase fame over lives, systems that let people slip through. But tearing it all down? That's anarchy. People need structure, hope." Her voice was firm, her hero training kicking in.
He leaned closer, eyes burning. "Hope's a trap when it's built on lies. You've felt it—Momo, you're too smart not to. The way UA pushes 'hero' like a brand, the way pros ignore the poor. I'm not saying burn cities, but we cut the rot out, start clean. Your Quirk—making anything—could arm a real change, not this bullshit pageant." His voice cracked, raw, not an act, his pain real enough to sting.
She frowned, tracing her sketch, silent for a long beat. "You're not wrong about the flaws," she admitted, voice soft. "My family's wealth, my Quirk—I've seen how privilege twists justice. But your path… it's dangerous, Zion. You're asking me to betray everything I've trained for." She met his gaze, torn. "Why me? Why not use your… charm, like with others?"
He shook his head. "This ain't about games. You see through the noise, Momo. You're not just a tool or a pretty face—you think, you question. I'm betting you'll see what I see, eventually." He paused, letting it sink in. "No pressure, just truth."
Momo's eyes softened, conflicted. "I… I need time," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "What you're saying, it's not simple. It challenges everything—heroes, UA, me. I won't tell anyone, Zion, but I can't promise more. Not yet." She stood, clutching her sketches, her face a storm of doubt and respect.
Zion nodded, standing too. "Take your time, Momo. I'm not going anywhere." He left her there, her pencil trembling, his first seed planted.
The day rolled on—lectures, dorm chatter, Zion weaving through UA's pulse. In a Quirk lab, he watched Todoroki's ice coat a dummy, his temper a crack to exploit later. Mina's Acid ate through a target, her grin catching Tsuyu's—both potential allies, if he played it right. Deku dodged him, but Zion caught his glance, tossing a mock wave that made him bristle. Ochaco ate alone, her fork slow, her appeal untouched for now.
His phone buzzed—Mirko, texting: Kid, you slipping at UA? Don't let those pros play you. Her fire was hot, her appeal at 45. He shot back: Owning it, come watch me shine. Her reply was sharp: Soon. Keep your head up. Her flirty edge stirred him, but Momo's doubt held his focus.
Evening fell, and the dorm common room—stained couches, snack wrappers—was packed when Aizawa barged in, scarf loose, eyes like knives. "Quiet," he snapped, killing the noise. "Emergency training mission, tonight, UA's forest zone. You'll hunt a mock villain—pros in disguise. Teams of four, stealth and strategy, no heroics. Starts at dusk, gear up." He paced, voice low, intense. "The woods are dark, the terrain's rough, and there's word of… complications. Stay sharp, or you'll regret it." His stare swept the room, lingering on Zion, heavy with unspoken warning.
The class stirred, Kirishima pumping a fist, "Let's do this!" Deku scribbled team plans, Ochaco nodding beside him. Momo stood apart, her eyes meeting Zion's, still wrestling with his words. Zion's team—him, Tsuyu, Kaminari, Shoji—gathered, heading to the locker rooms. The forest loomed outside, a tangle of shadows and mist, the air thick with unease. As Zion laced his boots, a folded note slid under the locker room door, no name, just scrawled words: The woods aren't safe tonight. His All-Seeing Eye scanned it—no traces, no hints, just a chill that said someone was watching, waiting.
*****