Chapter 18: Parades, Pledges, and a Problematic Vending Machine
The air itself was electric. It was a physical presence, a humming, roaring entity comprised of the voices of a hundred thousand spectators, the thrum of news helicopters circling overhead like metallic dragonflies, and the tantalizing, greasy aroma of fried noodles and grilled squid rising from a hundred bustling food stalls. The U.A. Sports Festival stadium was not just a venue; it was the heart of a nation, and today, its pulse was a thundering beat of anticipation. This was more than a school event; it was a national holiday, a glimpse of the future, the grand stage where aspiring legends took their first steps.
To Saitama, it was mostly just loud.
His official role for the day, as outlined in a memo from Principal Nezu, was "On-Site Structural Monitor and Custodial Support." This meant he had been given a bright orange, high-visibility vest with "STAFF" printed on the back and a simple directive: wander the stadium and make sure nothing collapsed. He had also been given a map of the staff corridors and a two-way radio that kept crackling with incomprehensible security codes. His personal mission, however, was far more urgent. He had been informed by a passing teacher that there were three, fully-stocked "Dr. Salt" brand vending machines in the stadium's subterranean levels. His day had a purpose now.
Deep beneath the roaring stands, in the stark, concrete waiting room for Class 1-A, the air was thick with a different kind of energy. It was a suffocating, palpable tension. Tenya Iida stood, stiff as a board, attempting to deliver a motivational speech.
"Everyone! We represent U.A. High! Let us conduct ourselves with the utmost professionalism and show the world the fruits of our training! We must strive to be paragons of—"
He was cut off by the scraping sound of a chair. Shoto Todoroki rose to his feet, his heterochromatic eyes fixed solely on Izuku Midoriya. "Objectively speaking, I am stronger than you," he stated, his voice a cold, level monotone. "All Might has his eye on you, doesn't he? I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to win." The declaration was a splash of ice water, silencing the entire room.
Midoriya could only stare, his heart pounding. The pressure was immense. The weight of his borrowed power, the expectations of his mentor, the challenge from his most powerful classmate—it was all converging on this single moment.
Saitama, meanwhile, was having a conversation with a vending machine.
"Come on," he muttered, jiggling the coin return lever. "I put the money in. Just give me the coffee."
He was in a deserted, echoing service corridor, the distant roar of the crowd a faint rumble through the thick concrete. He had found the first machine on his map, but it had greedily consumed his 500-yen coin without dispensing his drink. This was a grave injustice.
Faintly, he heard the booming voice of Present Mic echoing from a distant speaker. "ALRIGHT EVERYBODY, MAKE SOME NOISE! THE FIRST-YEARS ARE ENTERING THE ARENA! GIVE IT UP FOR THE HERO COURSE STARS, CLASS 1-A!"
The students walked out of the dark tunnel and into a blinding wall of light and sound. The cheers were deafening. Midoriya felt a wave of nausea, his legs trembling. He looked at the sea of faces, the endless cameras, and felt terrifyingly small.
Midnight, the R-Rated Hero, took the stage to officiate, and called for the first-year student representative to deliver the Athlete's Pledge. That representative was Katsuki Bakugo.
He stomped onto the stage, shoved his hands in his pockets, and leaned into the microphone, his expression a mask of pure, arrogant disdain. The stadium quieted, waiting for some inspiring, heroic words.
"I pledge," Bakugo growled, his voice dripping with contempt for everyone in the stadium, "that I'm gonna win."
A beat of stunned silence was followed by an avalanche of boos and jeers from every corner of the stadium. In the commentary box, Present Mic screamed with laughter. Aizawa just sighed, a long, suffering sound. "That idiot is a disgrace."
Underneath the stadium, Saitama gave the vending machine one last, frustrated look. He was completely oblivious to the drama unfolding above. He had heard a faint, angry yelling sound, but had dismissed it. "Sounds like that angry blond kid is at it again," was his only thought. "He's going to make himself hoarse if he keeps that up."
He had a choice. He could walk away, defeated, and write off the 500 yen as a loss. Or he could escalate. He chose escalation. He pulled his hand back, not for a punch, but for a light, firm, corrective tap, the kind one might give a faulty television set.
Thwack.
As Midnight's whip cracked above to signal the start of the first event, a similar, though far more momentous, sound echoed in the lonely corridor. The vending machine shuddered violently. Then, with a glorious, rattling crash, every single beverage inside—cans of coffee, bottles of tea, sodas of every flavor—tumbled out of the dispenser, forming a huge, clattering pile on the floor.
Saitama stared at the mountain of free drinks. He looked in the direction of the roaring crowd, where the Obstacle Race was about to begin, the single most important event in his classmates' young lives. He then looked back at his bounty.
"Well," he thought, picking up a cold can of Dr. Salt. "At least I won't get thirsty."