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“It’s alright, just keep your eyes on me.”
The villain was a surprise. When weren’t they?
“Breathe. Slow and easy, that’s it.”
Physical quirk too, so Aizawa was good as quirkless.
“Eyes open, kid, come on.”
Hell of a quirk it was, too. Transformation type. Sometimes he could erase those after they were activated, some he couldn’t. The category was uncommon enough to make finding exact parameters tricky.
“Don’t worry about the fight, they’ve got it. Just relax.”
This one was something to do with the villain’s bones. Sharp spurs jutted from each hand, thick plates extended over their back and shoulders, spines crowned their head, a long vertebrate tail lashed behind them. Creepy as all hell, especially all the shuddering and cracking noises when the bone first punched through their skin.
“I know it hurts, I know, but I need to keep pressure. Help will be here soon, but I need you to stay with me. Focus on me.”
As one could imagine, that quirk made them quite adept in a fight.
Aizawa knew he should be helping the others take the villain down. He had far more combat experience than any of his students, and he would never send them into a fight he wasn’t willing to take on himself.
He knew that, but he also knew that learning emergency first aid happened in their second year. How to deal with injuries with limited supplies, how to tell what could be fatal and what could be dealt with later, what to do to keep your teammates going until a real doctor showed up, that sort of thing.
He’d have to change the lesson plan, at least some parts. Then, next week they’d all nearly die because of whatever lesson he’d put off, because that was just how this class was.
It’d been a simple enough plan. The hero course students had broken into groups with other pros whose quirks were comparable to their own. Mic had been thrilled to find that Jirou was in his group, and Fatgum had personally requested Yaoyorozu along with whoever else he’d been assigned. It was an exercise meant to demonstrate the breadth of quirks, to encourage the students to think outside the box with a teacher who understood their limits better than most.
Aizawa took those whose quirks didn’t have obvious or wide-ranging uses for combat. They’d gone to an industrial district of the city: plenty of space to work, a range of different structures to maneuver through that they’d never used, and, hypothetically, few interruptions. From 1-B, Awase, Kuroiro, and Komori. From his own class, Hagakure, Kouda, and Ojiro.
The last of whom was bleeding out in front of him.
Ojiro had taken a claw to the gut, then a blow from the villain’s tail to the back, knocking him through the air and to the ground. It’d taken Aizawa entire seconds to notice that the hit was harder than he’d assumed as Ojiro rolled onto his side, a red stain already spreading into his white uniform. Aizawa was there in an instant, cursing the villain, the situation, and himself most of all.
He had first aid supplies in his utility belt like any pro with sense, but this was more than a scratch. Every part of him was screaming to break all the bones the villain was wielding and then some, but if he left, Ojiro would die. Simple as that. Logical.
So there he was, keeping pressure on a thick pad of gauze as his students battled around him. He kept an eye on them as best he could, hoping for an opening where he could get one of them to trade places with him, but the villain gave no time to breathe. If he shouted for someone now, the startle could very well get them killed. Avoiding that, it’d still become a major distraction, and he had these particular students specifically because of their difficulty in combat. Even if he did somehow get another to take his place, there’d be no time for a field medic crash course. This fight couldn’t afford to lose yet another pair of hands.
He glanced down after scanning the scene for half a second, only to see Ojiro’s eyes slipping shut. “Hey, hey, look at me. You need to stay conscious for me, alright? Talk to me.”
“Hurts,” was all the kid could say, and something in Aizawa’s chest clenched. The muscles under his hands spasmed and twitched as Ojiro’s body desperately tried to process the damage done to it.
“I know it does. Getting knocked down hurts, but you’ve gotten up every time before now, and you’ll do it again.” He put a little more pressure on the wound, in part to try and force the blood to stop, but also in the hope that the pain would keep Ojiro awake a little longer.
A sharp gasp hissed through his teeth in response, eyes opening once more. They were still half-closed and pain hazed, but Aizawa would take what he could get. The awkward angle Ojiro was forced to lie in did them no favors. His tail prevented him from lying fully on his back, which meant for no help from gravity. Pressure was even more crucial here than most injuries of this sort. Another strike against them was it being an injury to his central mass, rather than a limb that could be elevated above the heart to slow blood loss. Another, the complete lack of supplies beyond the basics. Another, whatever dirt and grit that had been on the villain’s claw before it’d struck. Luck kept an artery from being nicked, at least as far as Aizawa could see, but there was no telling how severe organ damage was.
It’d be fine, it had to be. He had never lost a student before, and he had no intentions of doing so now.
Above them, Awase had welded loose rocks and bricks the fight had broken to one of the villain’s arms. It gave the blows added force and strength, but also significantly slowed them down. As long as all the students could keep dodging, the reduced speed would give them openings. It was a dangerous gamble, but their options were limited.
Aizawa examined Ojiro again, looking for anything he might have missed. There was nothing to elevate Ojiro’s feet with, and even if there was, he had to keep pressure, no matter what. The hit to the back had been low, so if he remembered correctly (which of course he did, this was too crucial to forget with the life of a student on the line), it wouldn’t lead to any neurogenic shock. Other than that, there was no telling what impact the blow made. Aizawa would have to stay here, in the middle of battle, unless absolutely necessary. One wrong move, and he could cause partial paralysis.
If Ojiro kept bleeding, it wasn’t as if that would matter.
Keep him talking. He needed to stay awake until help came. Aizawa had already sent an alert to the others, but he had no idea how far away any other group was, who would come first, whether they would have anything that could help, if anyone could reach them in time —
Focus. If he showed the slightest bit of worry, it might make Ojiro panic, and that would kill him even faster.
“D-do you think you can wrap that on me so I can get back to the fight?”
The question was so ludicrous it stopped Aizawa's train of thought right in its tracks. “You’re staying down. There’s no need to aggravate the injury if we don’t have to, and getting into that habit is unhealthy in the long run.”
Ojiro huffed what sounded like a laugh, then flinched with a groan. “Like Midoriya blowing his arms up every other day?”
“Don’t even get me started on him.” He let more emotion color the words than normal, hoping that it would encourage Ojiro to keep talking. “He’s lucky the one who he interned under managed to finally get that thick skull of his to realize that breaking your bones doesn’t count as strategy.”
“Seemed to… to work at the sports festival.”
“He lost the sports festival.” Ojiro didn’t reply to that, so Aizawa grabbed for a question. “I seem to remember you stepping out of the tournament rounds. Why?”
“Didn’t earn it.” Ojiro winced as a loud shout came from the still-chaotic fight, but, after a glance to be sure no one else was grievously injured, Aizawa ignored it.
“You fought as hard as anyone.”
“Brainwash quirk. Gotta… gotta earn it.” It was a reasonable point, and Aizawa didn’t want to argue against being fair or working hard. Before he could think of a reply, Ojiro continued around shuddering breaths. “All of them have… big quirks. Strong. I’ve got… a tail. Not much.”
Oh, hell. Aizawa had expected a conversation like this with his group, but he’d been hoping it wouldn’t be while his hands were slick with blood and his ears were ringing as a battle continued without him. Ojiro likely wouldn’t even remember this conversation after recovering, but it was a topic that might keep him awake, so Aizawa ran with it.
“You’ve proved yourself plenty of times in my class, and during training. Can you list some heroes for me who have simpler quirks?” After a pause, he looked up from where he’d been adjusting the gauze to see Ojiro’s eyes closed. “Hey, hey! Ojiro, look at me. Focus. Who are some heroes with simple quirks?”
Ojiro’s eyes were trained on the clear sky above, but his brow furrowed. “Midnight. Rock Lock.” The words came in halts and starts, his face tight with pain and sweat sticking blond hair to his forehead. “Ms. Joke. Fourth Kind.”
“Where did you learn about them?” Aizawa asked as his eyes flashed over the fight once more. He could barely see through air clouded with spores, likely by Komori. A patch of darkness skated across the ground, from which Kuroiro leapt to tackle the villain. They weren’t winning necessarily, but they weren’t losing either.
“‘S a kid. Found… heroes with… simple quirks.” Looking for a role model, apparently. It was common for kids who wanted to be a hero to favor a pro that was similar to them, or to what they wanted to be.
“Which one is your favorite?”
Ojiro’s face had gone pale, sending another spike of worry through Aizawa. He didn’t answer for a long moment, long enough that Aizawa risked lifting a hand to snap his fingers in his face.
“C’mon, Ojiro, focus on me.” His hand went back to the blood-soaked gauze without delay, each second of pressure crucial. “Right here.”
“Wanted to be a… a singer… when I was little,” he mumbled.
Aizawa didn’t blink at the non sequitur. Considering the pain he was in on top of the amount of adrenaline that had to be running through him, it was almost a surprise it had taken this long. “Oh? Tell me about it.”
“I’d sing to… my sis’rs.” The mumbling was getting harder to understand, but as long as he stayed conscious it didn’t matter. “Twins. When they cried.” He coughed out another laugh. “Prob’ly wouldn’t get… killed while sing’n.”
“And you won’t be now. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this before it happened, but you’re going to be fine. Just keep talking to me, alright?”
Ojiro finally tore his eyes from the sky. “‘M hurt bad, sensei.” His voice was hoarse.
“You are, but injuries aren’t eternal.” The admission was a dangerous one — lying would be useless, but panicking him into shock was a death sentence. “You brought up Midoriya earlier, and he’s been hurt badly before and come out smiling. We’ll get you to Recovery Girl, and I promise you’ll be perfectly fine.” Aizawa had never found it difficult to keep his voice even and calm, but shoving away the whirlwind caused by the feeling of his student’s blood on his hands was no small feat.
“Gotta… bleach my costume… too.” His mouth was twitching, like he was trying to smile. Aizawa had no idea how his students had such endless good humor; they certainly hadn’t learned it from him.
“And add some reinforcement.” He understood prioritizing speed and maneuverability, but this was ridiculous. “This isn’t something I’m going to let happen again.”
“S… Sorry.”
Shit. Shit and fuck. “You didn’t come here planning to get stabbed, Ojiro. The villain is the one at fault.” How long had it been? Where the hell were the other pros? “There’s no need to apologize.”
“You should…” Ojiro’s breath was shallow, wheezing, his skin pale to the point of being ashen. “...put ‘em in… detention.”
“I’ll add that to my schedule,” he replied, attention scattered between the other students, the villain’s screeching, the damnably empty streets around them, the beat of the pulse beneath his fingers. “But you and your classmates have a history exam coming up, which I expect you to take, so I’ll be preoccupied with that.”
Discussing future plans as if they were assured was usually a staple in keeping those with field injuries calm, but Ojiro didn’t seem to be listening. His dark eyes were trained on Aizawa with a sort of hopeless determination, one hand grabbing for Aizawa’s wrist and catching the sleeve.
“My sisters.” His shaking fingers pulled anxiously at the fabric. “Yui… and Hinata. Wanna be heroes. Look for ‘m?”
Aizawa knew what was being asked of him, but that wasn’t a path he was willing to go down. Not now. Not here.
“No.”
When Ojiro blinked up at him, confused more than upset, Aizawa continued. “I won’t, because I won’t have to. They’d much rather their brother be beside them than some teacher they’ve never met, so you don’t get to give up on them like that.”
Ojiro’s brows furrowed. Clearly, he was having trouble processing the words, but enough had gotten through. He looked just shy of insulted. Good. “Not… not giving up.” Mere feet away, a group of rats scampered by, likely under Kouda’s influence. Somewhere behind where Aizawa was kneeling, Hagakure shouted a wordless battle cry. Ojiro didn’t react to any of it, the tunnel vision of shock hitting. “In case.”
“It’s an unnecessary precaution.” A foot came close to landing on Ojiro’s tail, one of the students’. Aizawa didn’t bother checking who as he flashed his capture weapon to wrap around their ankle and redirect the step. Another second and the student was gone, charging back into the fight. “Because, Ojiro, you are going to be fine, and you’re going to help your sisters more than I ever could. If you think this is where the Martial Arts Hero ends, you’re going to be sorely disappointed, because I will not let that be the case.”
Ojiro stared at him, and his eyes filled with long-overdue tears. “I… I don’t want to die.”
“And you won’t, but I need you to stay fighting. Don’t decide that this is it.”
With a shaky nod, whatever attempt at peaceful resignation Ojiro had tried for faded away. Aizawa never wanted to see that emotion on a face so young again. Knowing that he almost certainly would was a problem for another day.
The minutes passed with excruciating delay. Aizawa tried to keep him talking, tried to keep Ojiro conscious, but with shock on top of blood loss just shy of severe, there came a point of inevitability. Passing out, while not itself fatal, was a sure sign of the precarious balance his student hung in. They were running out of time.
Plenty of stories have told of reinforcements arriving at the last possible second, bringing with them a ray of hope and relief. Though it was, thankfully, not the last possible second, the relief that flooded through Aizawa at Present Mic’s voice was unparalleled regardless. Only steps behind were students whose quirks fought against precision as Mic’s did: Jirou, Bakugo, and Kaminari, along with Shouda and Bondo from 1-B.
“Mic!” His voice was a whip crack, loud and sharp. It was a testament to their many years of working together that Mic didn’t hesitate for the merest fraction of a second, right at Aizawa’s side before the echoes of his shout finished bouncing on the buildings around them.
“Took a blow to the spine and stab to the abdomen, no visible artery damage.” There was no time to detail further, but Mic didn’t need anything else. Though Aizawa didn’t look up, he could practically hear his friend process the scene in an instant.
“Bondo, with me.” The cheerful humor that normally buoyed Mic’s voice had vanished along with the clumsy lack of control over its volume infamous to all who knew him. This was not Hizashi, the radio host and minor celebrity. This was Present Mic, the intelligent, capable hero who’d earned every bit of his license, and that demanded a respect his students couldn’t ignore. Bondo broke away from the group without question, and after a nod, the others flew on the villain.
The students in Mic’s group were their grade’s powerhouses, the steamrollers, so far from the unrefined bunch Aizawa had been entrusted with. Learning subtlety was far on the horizon, but subtlety was the last thing they needed. As one, they hit like a wrecking ball, ferocious and indiscriminate in their fury. The villain wasn’t yet subdued, but Aizawa could feel the tension thrumming through him lessen by a degree.
Mic knelt next to Aizawa, taking in each detail, while Bondo hovered behind him as he waited for orders.
“Spinal damage?”
“The lower back. Below the T6, so neurogenic shock is unlikely.”
A sharp nod. “Bondo, stabilize his back as best you can. We need to prevent any more damage.”
Before Mic even finished, Bondo complied, carefully lowering his head to pour a thick grey fluid from the gaps of his helmet. As soon as it hit, the fluid hardened into what looked like a cross between cement and glue. Had Aizawa not been otherwise occupied, he would have spared a moment to be morbidly interested.
“This won’t come out of his costume,” Bondo warned as he sat up again. “He’ll have to get a new one.”
A small price to pay, in Aizawa’s opinion. “Much easier to replace it than his spine.”
An explosion rocked the ground, only a hair louder than Bakugo’s accompanying roar. Debris scattered around them, though if any shrapnel hit him, Aizawa couldn’t feel it. Despite that, it served as a reminder of their dangerous environment.
It took only a second for Aizawa to yank his capture weapon off, but he hesitated. He wanted to fight, wanted to vent his fury toward a villain that dared so grievously injure someone under his protection. During a training exercise, no less. The desire — need, even — hissed in his veins, white hot and acidic.
And yet, as Aizawa had learned a long time ago, part of being a hero was knowing where you were needed. Right now, he was needed by his student, and that outweighed any desire for retribution.
Rather than charge into the fray as every part of him wanted to, he used his weapon to bind the gauze tightly against Ojiro’s stomach, the makeshift brace allowing Aizawa to work without fear of making things worse. They’d have to move, but any second of lost pressure, any drop of blood escaped, was that much closer to the tipping point. It wasn’t a perfect method, but it didn’t have to be. It would only have to tide them over until they reached safety.
“Bondo, carry him to the rendezvous and get him to Recovery Girl. Aizawa will lead you there.” Normally, Aizawa would be the one giving orders, but part of him was thankful that he could give the reins to Mic for a time, however brief. “Move him as little as possible. We’ll take care of the villain. Go!”
There was no hesitation from either party as they sprinted off in their respective directions, hoping beyond hope that their efforts were not in vain.
It stood to reason that those who manufactured hospital chairs did so with the expectation that people may sit in those chairs for hours on end, even going so far as to sleep in them. Such was inevitable in a building full of sick and wounded loved ones.
And yet, they were as comfortable as rocks. Had he not known better, Aizawa could believe that they went out of their way to make them worse on purpose.
Thankfully, he hadn’t been stuck in one for long this time. As soon as he arrived he had a quick, tense conversation with Recovery Girl as he told her everything she needed to know about the injury. She didn’t give any empty reassurance, having learned back when he was a student that he didn’t much appreciate it. Rather, she told him to expect her within two hours, then ducked back into the room Ojiro had been carried into.
After making the necessary calls to Ojiro’s parents and to Nedzu, he leaned against the wall. Despite being next to the door, he could hear nothing from the inside, for better or worse. As he watched a loop of the last hour play over and over in his head, he barely noticed Hizashi coming down the hall.
“Shouta?” Aizawa blinked out of the useless haze to see his friend. Hizashi looked concerned, and while he’d hate that on the best of days, being without the shield of his capture weapon made him feel particularly vulnerable.
“Did you apprehend the villain?”
“Of course, who do you think you’re talking to?” Hizashi smiled at him, nowhere near one of his usual cheesy grins, but comforting nonetheless. “Apparently, she had some drug operation going on in one of the warehouses you guys were near, and assumed you were there to bust her.”
“I was the only adult there, and she still thought that?”
“Hey, not every villain can be an evil genius. It wasn’t long after you left that she went down.” He sobered. “Are you alright, Shouta?”
Were it anyone else, Aizawa would brush them off, but Hizashi knew him better than anyone. Attempting to dodge the question would be a waste of time. “Only frustrated that I allowed this to happen.”
“It was a training exercise, you can’t be blamed for not being on high alert.”
“It was a training exercise, so such a severe injury shouldn’t have happened at all.”
“You can’t account for every possibility, you know that. There’s more though, right?”
Aizawa’s brow drew. “What do you mean?”
“You…” Hizashi hesitated. “You haven’t washed your hands. That can’t be helping anything.”
He glanced down to his folded arms. Sure enough, dried blood was crusted onto them, under his nails and in the creases of his palms. He must be more distracted than he thought.
After he didn’t respond, Hizashi put a hand on his arm, the gentle touch pulling him away from the wall. “Come on, let’s get that taken care of.”
And, if he let Hizashi give him a long, tight hug afterwards, that wasn’t anyone else’s business, was it?
Now, here he was, resting as much as was possible in such an uncomfortable chair next to his student as he waited. Ojiro’s parents were en route, and Nedzu had already tackled the challenge of an official statement. Recovery Girl had healed as much of the wound as she could, considering how limited Ojiro’s stamina already was. The internal damage was almost fully healed, and she’d keep a watchful eye out for possible future complications. The wound was packed and had the necessary drainage tubes. He’d received a blood transfusion, and an IV administered what had to be an extensive amount of painkillers. The spinal injury only went as far as bad bruising. Ojiro would, by all rights, be fine.
And yet, a restless buzz still hummed through Aizawa. Seeing his students in hospital beds was nearly as bad as seeing them injured in the first place, but for some reason, most of this year’s class had no issue with landing themselves there over and over. He’d be shocked if they made it to graduation without turning his hair grey or giving him an ulcer.
A soft rustle and groan snapped him out of his thoughts, and it took only a glance to confirm his hope: Ojiro was waking up. It was a slow process after the anesthesia; a shift, a hand curling into the blanket, a slight furrow in his brow. His eyes slid just barely open, closed, open again. Aizawa gave him a second to orient himself, then spoke.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Sensei?” Ojiro blinked at him, still bleary. “Okay. Kinda sore, but that’s it. Tired.” His hand went to his face, touching the tube that ran to his nose. Confused, he went to lift it, only to stop when Aizawa swatted his hand.
“Leave it alone, it’s oxygen. You’re going to be tired most of the time for a while. Your body needs sleep in order to heal, and Recovery Girl’s quirk will wear you out on top of that.”
Ojiro nodded, then tried to pull himself into a sitting position, only to wince.
“Your bed is made for people with mutation quirks, there’s a space for your tail. It’ll prevent you from shifting up and down, but there’s a button on the side if you want to sit up more.”
He nodded and pressed it, then paused. The change in angle gave him a better view of the table next to his bed, or more accurately, the gifts that sat on it. “Did people leave those for me?”
“The frosted animal crackers are from Shouji, and Tokoyami brought the flowers. Kouda tried to bring his rabbit for you to pet, but Recovery Girl put her foot down.”
Ojiro lifted the flowers, both of them a deep plum color and tied together with a black ribbon. One was an anemone, and the other a peony, or Tokoyami claimed as much. It wasn’t as if Aizawa knew enough to argue. As Ojiro looked closer at whatever stamp that’d been set into the ribbon’s wax seal, he noticed the last gift: a bracelet of woven thread tied around his wrist, the soft yellows, pinks, and white of it catching in the late afternoon sun that shone into the room.
“Hagakure put that on you when she came with the others. Most of your classmates have been in and out in the past couple hours.” Aizawa, having finally reclaimed his capture weapon, hid a smile at the blush emphasizing how taken aback Ojiro looked.
“Really?”
“Of course. Having someone to visit in the hospital who isn’t Midoriya is something of a novelty.” Ojiro snorted at that, looking over the gifts again.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Aizawa brought up something that’d stuck in his mind. “A singer, huh?”
“...I was hoping I dreamed that.”
“How much do you remember?”
His brows drew together, calling attention to the dark bruise that had developed on one side. “Not much. I remember getting hit, and I remember you helping, but other than that it’s spotty.”
“That’s not surprising. It’s nothing to worry about, though.”
Ojiro nodded, then bit his lip with a thoughtful expression. “I’ve actually started writing a song for someone.”
“Who would that be?”
“Just, y'know.” He paused, cheeks coloring slightly. “A friend.”
There wasn’t any reason to pry, but that didn’t make subtext any less obvious. Aizawa had been in high school before. “A ‘friend’ of mine does music on top of hero work, you know.” He couldn’t help the slight emphasis, but it was almost certain that only the ‘friend’ himself would be able to tell. “It isn’t easy, but you can have both. In fact, it’s best to have a hobby like that, even if you don’t make it a career. You need to have a part of yourself outside heroics.”
Ojiro glanced at him. He wanted to say something, that much was clear, but he hesitated. That coupled with the gratitude plain on his face made it no secret what he was going to say next. Shit.
“Sensei—”
Aizawa wasn’t one for prayer, but part of him wanted to send out a word of thanks to the universe when the door flew open, cutting off what was an inevitably uncomfortable conversation. Standing there was Kirishima, Hagakure, Iida, and Midoriya, waves of concern rolling off them. Ojiro smiled and lifted a hand in greeting, and that was the only encouragement the bunch needed. They raced over as one, eager and bright, giving Aizawa mere seconds to stand and duck out of the way.
“Dude!” Kirishima said with a wide grin. “Hagakure told us what happened, that was manly as hell!”
“I don’t know about that,” Ojiro replied, embarrassed. “I kinda got my ass handed to me five minutes into the fight.”
“Okay, but in fight time, that’s basically a million years.”
Midoriya cut in. “Are you feeling okay, Ojiro?”
“Sore, mostly, and tired.”
“I deeply apologize! We had wished to see if you were alright, but impeding your sleep will only be harmful. We’ll leave posthaste!”
“No, it’s fine, Iida! It’s nice to see you guys. Is anyone else hurt?”
It was difficult to tell, but based on the angle of her short sleeve and the way his hospital gown shifted, it looked like Hagakure put a hand on his shoulder. “Our group was the only one who got attacked by a villain, the rest were pretty normal. Asawe from 1-B twisted his ankle, and one of Bakugo’s explosions nicked Jirou, but nothing too bad!”
The excited chatter continued as the visitors described their own training, each story as long and rambling as the next. Ojiro listened with a smile, nodding along and asking questions. He’d need to be alone soon so he could rest, but the happiness and interest that lit up his face made Aizawa hold off on kicking the others out. They could have a few more minutes together.
The fight seemed like it’d happened eons ago, rather than mere hours. There was no injuries, no tears, no one staring death in the eye. Rather than metallic blood, the only smell here was disinfectant with a hint of lemon. He wasn’t aware of Ojiro’s pulse as got weaker under his hands, but in the soft beeping of a heart monitor.
The last of the tension that had wound into Aizawa’s muscles drained away. His student was safe. His friends were with him, and later, his parents and sisters would be as well.
Aizawa had promised that Ojiro would be fine, and he didn’t break his promises.
On another afternoon, similar despite being weeks later, Aizawa met his students in one of the basic sparring rooms, mats evenly spaced on the floor and a closet stuffed with a variety of supplies. Today, however, was exceedingly simple — they’d be using one mat, and nothing else.
As the class gathered, they glanced at each other, sending shrugs and whispers back and forth. They’d been asked to stay in their gym uniforms for training today, rather than costumes. That wasn’t unusual when they practiced hand-to-hand combat, but considering how explosive some of their quirks were, they did so outside for when one of them inevitably lost control. Today, Aizawa had a different plan in mind.
“As I would hope you’re all aware of at this point, there’s much to being a hero beyond merely having a quirk. You need to understand their full scope, what exactly you can do with it and when, and you need to be intelligent enough to know how to apply those techniques.
“Beyond that, your basic combat skill is crucial — should you meet someone as powerful as you, that could mean the difference between winning or losing. You can use your quirk alongside it, but that isn’t always an option. My quirk is erasure, but assuming that I am the only one with it, or that no one else will come forward who has it while you’re a hero, is nothing short of naivety. More commonly, your environment or possible hostages may prevent you from using it. To that end, today we’ll be sparring without any use of quirks.”
“That’s fucking stupid!” Unsurprisingly, Bakugo was the first to protest. “We chose to be heroes because of our quirks, and now you want us to fight without them?”
“If you came to Yuuei solely because of your quirk, then you’re wasting both of our time. Should that be the case, I would be happy to expell you, so you can find work elsewhere, perhaps in the mining industry. Is that the case?” Bakugo scowled, but didn’t argue further.
Hagakure spoke up from the other end of the group. “Um, sensei, what about me? I can’t turn mine off.”
“Here.” Aizawa tossed her a pair of gloves he’d gotten for the exercise, thin enough to keep from impeding her, and long enough to reveal her arms up to the elbow. “The others of you with physical quirks, do your best to keep your quirk from being your main point of attack, but to a degree, use of it can’t be avoided. Considering an erasure quirk wouldn’t be able to affect it anyway, it’s not much of a concern. The rest of you, keep from using your own. If you start to on instinct, I’ll erase it, but I’m not very interested in keeping my quirk on for the entirety of your fights.”
After looking over the class to be sure there were no more questions, he nodded. “Bakugo, Ojiro, you’re up.”
Neither of them hesitated to get to the mat, dropping into fighting stances and waiting for his signal. Bakugo’s face was in its usual narrow-eyed irritation as he scanned his opponent, getting a read on possible weak points and openings. Aizawa had no doubt he’d throw himself into the exercise with as much ferocity as he did anything, but he was clearly fuming about quirks being banned.
Ojiro, on the other side of the mat, was grinning, and that was the best part of all.