Homeroom let out in its usual shuffle—chairs scraping, bags zipping, the kind of noise that fills a room without anyone really meaning to. Aizawa leaned against the doorway, scarf draped loose, his expression unreadable.
"Rescue training today. Get your suits and meet at the bus."No theatrics. Just instructions, clipped and plain.
The class funneled out. Iida tried to herd everyone into neat pairs as if we were marching in formation, murmuring "please move efficiently" while adjusting his glasses. Midoriya tripped over his own feet trying to comply. Bakugo brushed past too close, muttering something sharp, and Sero shot out a line of tape just to snag the doorframe for a laugh. Kirishima's chuckle rolled after him.
Harry kept to the middle of the pack, tugging his robe a little tighter, making sure the pouches sat where they should. Beside him, Jiro wound one earphone jack around her finger before letting it swing free.
The bus was warm, smelling faintly of vinyl and dust. The low hum of the engine settled into the floor. Harry slid into a window seat without thinking; Jiro dropped into the aisle spot next to him.
He tapped two fingers against the glass, listening to the vibration. "Sound travels differently through this. Blurry."
Jiro raised an eyebrow, then pressed a jack against the window—soft thrum. She tapped the seat bracket with the other—sharp ping. "Glass muddles it. Metal gives edges. Stone swallows the high end, so lows crawl farther. In rubble, you'll hear weight before you hear shape."
Harry leaned in, intrigued. "So, low frequency to catch hollow spaces. High for structure?"
"Exactly," she said. "And patterns—fans, pumps—don't mistake them for walls."
"That helps," he admitted. "I've been… trying to map things with sound, but it's rough."
"You're serious about this." Her tone wasn't mocking. Just curious.
Harry nodded. "If we get split, maybe I could… build something. A way to talk across distance without shouting. Not radios. Something paired. Bone conduction, maybe."
Jiro smirked faintly. "Hands free, huh? That's smart. Privacy's the real problem. No open mic."
"I could lock it to wearers. I just don't know how to stop interference yet."
"I'll test it for you," she said. Matter-of-fact, not a favor.
Harry blinked at her, surprised at how easily she'd said it. "…Thanks."
From the seat ahead, Iida turned, clearly having caught enough to be excited. "If you standardize signals—hand, verbal, and… jaw-tap—it would reduce confusion!"
"We'll keep it simple," Jiro said before Harry could answer.
Across the aisle, Ochako slipped Midoriya a stick of gum. He startled, nearly dropping his notebook, then chewed as though it were a secret. Kaminari tried flashing a grin down the row and got nothing for it. Sero discreetly taped Mineta's belt loop to the seat when he leaned too far toward the girls; Mineta sulked but didn't protest.
Momo was counting items softly—"vests, flares, respirators"—while Todoroki, without looking away from the window, commented flatly, "Smoke stratifies. Hot rises. Cold falls." Tsuyu tapped her throat with two fingers and repeated, "Airway, breathing, circulation," in a steady rhythm, filing the words away.
The chatter ebbed as the dome came into view, sunlight traded for the steel ribs of the USJ. From the outside it looked like a bowl. Inside, it was a patchwork of disasters: salt tang from the shipwreck zone, heat shimmer from the conflagration sector, steel staircases rising over the landslide slope.
We filed into the plaza, the fountain splashing bright water in the middle. Thirteen waited, suited and steady.
"This facility exists to practice rescue," Thirteen said. Their voice wasn't loud but carried cleanly. "Power is dangerous when used carelessly. Today is about learning how to save people, not show off."
The class quieted, the words sticking. Momo raised a thoughtful question about mixed casualties and triage tags. Thirteen answered patiently, cadence like a checklist. Tsuyu murmured the order under her breath, committing it. Bakugo scoffed, and Kirishima grinned, elbowing him with a "Save the explosions for later, bro."
Harry stood a pace behind Iida, near Jiro. She leaned closer just enough to murmur, "If you're going to smoke us, warn me. Twice."
"I will," Harry promised.
Aizawa drifted behind them, silent shadow until he spoke. "If things turn bad, prioritize movement and communication. Don't try to be flashy. Just be effective."
Iida straightened until he couldn't straighten more. Jiro tapped a quiet rhythm against her thigh and then let it go. Harry filed the instruction away.
The fountain's spray kept falling in the same rhythm, almost enough to lull them. Until the sound missed a beat.
A shimmer wrinkled the air above the water. Black mist unfolded from nowhere, swallowing space as if it had always been allowed. It shaped itself into something like a man with a silver collar, voice smooth and wrong.
"Good afternoon, prospective heroes," the mist said politely.
And then more figures stepped through—some costumed like stage villains, others raw and ugly. One wore a hand on his face, each finger curling in a way that made the tile beneath his bare feet look offended.
Thirteen's voice cut sharp. "Aizawa—"
Aizawa pulled down his goggles and let his scarf unwind like it had been waiting. "Class, fall back with Thirteen." His scarf snapped forward, tangling the first villain's wrist; eyes glared red, and quirks winked out.
"Move!" Thirteen ordered, hand raised, every vent on the suit alive.
Iida spun, guiding the group in controlled steps. Midoriya's hands twitched open like he was caught between note-taking and fighting. Ochako's lips pressed thin but her eyes stayed steady. Jiro's cables dangled loose, ready. Todoroki's gaze tracked the mist itself, cold calculation already underway.
The fountain still splashed, pretending nothing had changed.
The mist spread wider, tendrils curling toward their feet.
The floor tilted. Sound fell away. The world pulled them in.