Chapter Text
To call the written exam 'a drag' would be putting it mildly. You didn't bother to read it, just answered 'C' for everything; you grin, imagining the proctors face when they see the big fat 'c' artfully drawn in the space for the essay, you'd even taken the time to draw fireworks and your trademark stars with a hand giving a middle finger.
What were they going to do? Not pass you? Fat chance, they practically forced you to be here, making you sign shit. Then they had to sign more shit, and by then, it was less a forgone conclusion and more a contractual obligation; in short, the test is a formality, and they can suck it.
Less impressive is what follows: A practical exam. You had imagined a paunch belly, balding middle-aged man, dressed in a grey track suit with a baseball hat and oversized whistle, dropping cars on people to decide if their quirk made the cut. Or, like, some sort of obstical course labyrinth with talking doors that make you ask pointless questions. Not, whatever this shit is.
"Woo, yeah, pretend active war zone. What's more badass than letting a bunch of kids play soldier to stroke already over inflated egos? " You mutter, sarcasm dripping off your tongue.
"Teh, if you don't like it, fucking go home" a gravely voice responds, and your eyes snap up, meeting a deep crimson glare.
"Why? Don't think you can pass without thinning the herd?" You reply, your own eyes steely despite your smirk as you look him up and down critically.
Sure, he's cute, you suppose, if you're into that sort of flawless beauty and built physique that makes photoshopped actors green with envy... ok, so the guy is freaking hot as fuck; but his aura totally screams that he knows it, and expects everyone else to fall in line. "Checks out, wouldn't want to mark up that perfect face, pretty boy."
He blinks, looking at you like you've lost your mind; jokes on him, you never had one to start with.
"You have a fucking death wish? Just stay out of my way shity extra!" You can practically feel the fire coming off him. Too bad he's an entire parade of red flags, and you lack both time and willpower to fix him. Besides, you're fairly sure that between the two of you, you're the bigger psycho.
You grin unintimidated by the blond bombshell currently looming over you. If anything, the crackling of his palms and the growing scent of caramel and almonds makes you eager to fuck around and find out; a sentiment he seems to agree with, pushing closer into your space. He's tall, you note, not exactly the advantage he seems to think it is, given the top of your head bairly reaches his well formed jawline, he might hit harder, with the toned muscle to pack serious power into his punches, but you'd bet everything you have that you're faster.
Before you can do more than raise a brow in amusement, body tensing to go, a small mountain is gently, if firmly, pushing the blond back.
"You know, it's not very manly to threaten people," the mountain announces as though discussing the weather, and it takes you a moment to realize the mountain is a man. A very, very tall man who seems made entirely of abs and biceps.
Where you only came to the blonds chin, you could have a staring competition with the mountains nipples without even having to bend your neck. Luckily for you, he's wearing a shirt, forcing you to look up as his eyes instead.
And if you had a bullet for every set of ruby eyes that had met yours today, you'd have two bullets, which isn't much but is enough to take down a chem lab outpost if you use them right.
You barely catch the blonds mumbled, "Whatever, Shitty Hair."
"Hey, don't worry about him, let's all just do our best! I'm sure the heroes won't let anyone get too badly hurt!" And holy fuck, if this guy had a tail, it would be wagging a mile a minute, talk about golden retriever himbos, this guy is the embodiment. The literal puppy in a human body grins in a way you don't doubt is meant to be reassuring if it didn't display a row of sharks teeth that has your heart raceing in a way that has you quickly turning away, cheeks pink.
Somewhere next to you, a quirk hisses as it activates in preperation, snake-like and menacing. Your stomach twists, a butterfly infestation that seems to be hatching in your intestines suddenly, making it hard to breathe. All these clean cut bright eyed teenagers, trying so hard to look cool while playing a game they don't understand. It doesn't even feel real; around you, students bairly out of childhood are laughing, taunting each other. To them, the steaks are dauntingly high, their entire future henging on this final moment. But the reality is that failure only means going home and going to a different school.
They still get to go home. They have homes to go to. They're a bunch of literal teenagers, playing make believe at something they have no concept of, to impress eachother with a fake valor they have no right to, it's all just bragging rights, as though they have any tangible understanding of-
The buzzer sounds, but you're already moving.
🧨
"Yo, that little listener is killing it out there!" Present mic comments loudly, gesturing to the screen.
Behind him, Aizawa humms, nonecomittedly, eyes narrowed as he scrutinizes your movements.
If it were anyone else, he'd be impressed. You're fast, reacting, and setting up moves and counters faster than most participants can even register. You're currently sailing through the air, sniping targets with a gun you'd gotten... from somewhere. He'll have to review the recording later to try and figure that one out.
Both men wince when an explosion catches you mid air, sending you spiraling in an impressive display of acrobatics, propelling yourself off debris while snatching makeshift weaponry out of the air around you as you go, undetered by the sudden change in trajectory.
"Guess that's why they called her omen." his husband muses, but Aizawa is already shaking his head, reaching to unwind his capture weapon.
"She's struggling. We should pull her before she gets someone killed." 'Probably herself', goes unsaid.
"Now Shouta, she deserves to go through the full exam, just like every other student" Nezu reminds him, pointedly ignoring the twitching of the man's eye, though the adorable and beloved university president makes a mental note to schedule a mandatory exam with recovery girl before the start of term. After all, he needs his faculty in tip-top shape if they're going to torture - he means 'educate', the minds of the new students.
"She isn't every other student," Eraserhead reminds him, voice tight.
Haizashi rubs his husband's back soothingly, quietly whispering "there there". It doesn't help.
"She's already enrolled, the exam is pointless. If anything she should have been placed with the recommendation students" he reasons, eyes still locked on the screen where your grin has stretched, turning manic, bottom lip caught between your teeth and your eyes starting to glaze. Your actions are less controlled and more erratic; fuck, he's not even sure you remember where you are any more.
Nezu humms agreeably, the toddler sized rodent taking another sip of his tea. "But where would the fun be in that?"
Aizawa has never wanted to punch his employeer as badly as he does right now.
🧨
Your vision blurs as you move, and you can feel your body straining to keep up. It's disorienting, but you welcome the burn even as you fight to adjust to the lag in your movements. Months hiding in your shiny new apartment have taken their toll; the price of alternating between laying on the floor letting the city lights illuminate your skin, and huddling in a corner, flinching at loud noises and the sounds of your neighbors yelling at eachother penetrating the shared wall.
yelling, you know yelling, and explosions, shrapnel shooting past you so close you can feel the heat of it warming your cheek as it passes, the scent of burned oil and gunpowder burning your nasal cavity.
screams erupt around you, a battlefield soaked with blood, obscured by smoke, turning the enemy into faceless shapes in the haze.
You're not flinching now, staring down the barrel of a tank, grin stretched wide as you bite your lip, eagerly leaping forward to meet the artillery round rocketting toward you head-on.