Chapter 24: Puppets, Passion, and a Poorly-Placed Puddle.
The festive atmosphere of the lunch break evaporated the moment the first match of the final tournament was announced. The stadium lights dimmed, a single spotlight illuminating the pristine stone ring. A hush fell over the crowd.
"FOR OUR FIRST MATCH OF THE FINALS!" Present Mic's voice boomed. "FROM THE HERO COURSE, THE MAN WHOSE PERFORMANCE HAS BEEN NOTHING SHORT OF MIRACULOUS, IZUKU MIDORIYA! VERSUS! FROM GENERAL STUDIES, THE DARK HORSE WHO HAS SHOCKED US ALL, HITOSHI SHINSO!"
Midoriya walked into the light, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He remembered Ojiro's warning: do not, under any circumstances, answer Shinso. But the taunts began immediately, sharp and cruel, poking at his insecurities, at his relationship with Bakugo, at the very nature of his Quirk. In a moment of anger, a single, foolish word escaped Midoriya's lips.
And just like that, his world went blank. A thick, impenetrable fog flooded his mind, erasing all thought, all control. His body turned, a puppet on invisible strings, and began to walk calmly towards the boundary line.
The crowd gasped. All Might, in the stands, leaned forward, his skeletal hands gripping the railing. "No, my boy…"
High above the spectator seats, in the upper reaches of the stadium's superstructure, Saitama was at work. During the break, a child had spilled a giant, sixty-four-ounce soda, and the sticky liquid had streamed down a long flight of concrete stairs. He had been dispatched with a mop and a large bucket of soapy water to deal with it. It was a tedious, thankless job. He started at the top, sloshing water and methodically working his way down with the mop, a bright yellow "Wet Floor" sign his only companion.
Down in the arena, Midoriya's foot was inches from the line. In the void of his mind, a flicker. He saw them—eight spectral figures, their eyes glowing. He felt a presence, a legacy, a power that was not just his own. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his fingers as One For All surged, a desperate, rebellious shock to his system.
On the outside, his finger twitched, a tiny, spastic movement. He stopped his inexorable march just short of the boundary.
Saitama, thirty stories up, had just finished mopping the top landing. He swung his mop, sloshing some of the excess soapy water over the edge of the staircase. It dripped down, landing in a small, innocuous puddle on the ground below, right in front of the massive screen displaying the fight, far from any pedestrians. He looked down from his perch and saw the green-haired kid on the screen below suddenly stop walking. The kid was right at the edge of the ring.
"Good," Saitama thought, leaning on his mop. "He stopped. If he'd kept walking in this direction and somehow ended up all the way over here, he might have slipped on the puddle I just made. That would be a major liability issue." He had, in his own mind, just witnessed an act of profound safety-consciousness from a student. He nodded in quiet, custodial approval.
The snap of Midoriya's finger had broken the spell. He turned, his eyes blazing, and charged. The rest of the fight was a brutal, desperate contest of will. Shinso, with no combat training, was outmatched, but he did not give up. In the end, a final, clever push-pull from Midoriya sent Shinso stumbling out of the ring.
Midoriya had won. The crowd roared, a mix of relief and excitement. Aizawa, in the commentary box, watched Shinso walk away, and a rare, genuine smile touched his lips. That kid had potential.
Saitama finished his mopping. The stairs were now sparkling clean, though dangerously wet. He carefully placed his yellow sign at the top of the stairs. His work was done. He heard the announcement for the next match: Todoroki versus Sero. He leaned against the railing, looking down at the tiny figures in the ring from his god-like vantage point.
"Okay, the ice kid is next," he mused, watching them take their places. "After what he did to that wall earlier, I should probably keep an eye on him. Don't want him breaking anything else."