Chapter Text
The teenage boy ran screaming from the villain, stumbling over blocks and running through the burning city. There were tears streaming down his face as he stumbled forward and fell flat on his face, and he scrambled back as the villain cackled loudly, his chainsaw arms revving loudly as he flailed them everywhere.
“FUCK!” the boy screamed, and the chain on the right saw broke. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”
The next chain broke, and smacked the man in the face. His teeth shattered, and then he screamed as he went down on one knee and faceplanted in the ground.
“FUCK!” the boy screamed one last time as he scrambled back, and the world stopped.
“Yeah, this is going to be cliche,” he said to the camera shining down through a hole on him. “But you’re probably wondering how I got into this situation. Honestly, so am I.”
“Kuba, you’re going to be late for your test!” Dad called from the other room, and Kuba bit his lip as his fingers furiously flew over the keypad.
You wouldn’t know good writing if it plastered itself in honey and laid over your bed and told you to ravish it, he typed furiously in response to a string of emojis not meant for tender eyes. In fact, it could put its tits in your face and---
“Kuba,” Dad said, and the laptop shut on his hands.
“Dad, I was writing something!” Kuba protested as his Dad stood there with his hand on his hip.
“How are you going to go to UA if you can’t even take the entrance exam seriously?” he asked, and Kuba swallowed. “Honestly, Kuba, when you said you wanted to be a hero out of the blue four months ago, I was all for it, but you can’t be serious about a damn thing.”
“I am serious about it!” Kuba protested as he rescued his hands from his folded laptop and it shut with a definite click. Gods, he hoped that didn’t post. He wasn’t finished. He had a lot to say.
“You’d better actually want to be a hero,” Dad said as he turned for the door. “I swear, Kuba, do you have any idea how expensive this tuition is? For a public school? Especially last minute like this? I took out a credit card for this.”
“I’ll pass,” Kuba promised, grabbing his bag and making his way out the door.
“You’d better, ” Dad said as Kuba shuffled out into the hall and took a look around.
“Where’s Utsu?” he asked, and Dad waved a hand at him.
“He’s already at school. And you are late. Get out of here. You don’t even have time to eat. Have a protein bar.”
The blueberry bar was shoved into Kuba hands just as he was pushed into the genkan, and he grabbed his shoes and pulled them on, half in and half out of the door. Before he knew it, he was shoved outside, his shoes only half on, and the door clicked shut behind him.
So, that was it then, he thought with a huff. No ‘good luck, Kuba’. No ‘do a good job’. Rude.
Kuba swung his backpack onto his back and made his way down the stairs. This was probably a bad idea, if he was being honest. It was probably a very bad idea, but he needed to research. The comment was still fresh in his mind, even four months old, and he needed to do better for his fans.
Hey, breakitbuyit, I don’t mean to be rude, but you really have no idea how heroics works, and it shows in your writing. No offense, but your writing comes off as really immature and not well thought out. You didn’t even do the bare minimum of research. It’s really good otherwise, but it’s a pain to struggle through all of the misinformation. I think I’m going to be dropping this. Do better.
Research? He’d show them research. He’d write the best damn y/n fanfic to ever grace the heroic literature fandom, and he’d blow it out of the park. Honestly, that comment was so fucking rude. If they didn’t like it, they didn’t have to force themself through it. So what if he ended every fight scene in a kabedon? So what if he had heroes play the pocky game? He was sure heroes played the pocky game before.
He would show them what research meant. He was going to write the best fucking---
The world fractured before him, and he flinched at the camera on him.
“Not now, I’m monologuing,” he said as the world closed back up, and he hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder.
He would show them what it meant to tell him he was a bad writer. Research? Okay, he could research. Pestering Utsu with questions was not enough anymore. He needed to experience heroics for himself. Then, no one would be able to say anything about his bad writing at all.
.
.
.
.
.
Kuba stood before the tall walls of the tiny city within UA, and realized he was maybe in over his head. Robots? Were they going to be big? He wasn’t sure if he could break something big. Maybe something little, but if he could figure out how they worked---
“Move,” a boy said, shoving past him, and Kuba startled slightly. Who the hell was that? The boy had spiky ash blonde hair and blood red eyes, and Kuba studied him with interest, wondering how he would describe him in writing.
The boy had ash blonde hair and bloody red eyes that shone like rubies. He might have been attractive, were it not for the nasty expression on his face as he stretched out his bulging muscles and cracked each finger with ringing snaps. He was fit, and tall, as if he had only ever experienced the gym and not basic human interaction. It wasn’t a good look on him. Even now, he was licking his lips as he stared at the tall gates of UA, as if he was salivating for the chance at a fight.
“What are you staring at?” the boy demanded, and Kuba blinked several times as heat rose in his cheeks. Shit.
“Nothing,” he said, and turned aside to look at the imposing gates. They were huge. How much money did UA even make from the Sports Festival? He heard the seats were expensive. Utsu had told him that.
Oh, he should do vocal warm ups. Quickly, he started humming, working out his vocal cords as he made a variety of noises. Humming, beeping, flexing his tongue in his mouth, and the other boy was staring at him in pure rage.
“Can you knock that off?” he asked, and Kuba flushed again.
“I… I kind of have to,” he stammered. “My quirk is vocal, and I…”
“Just shut up,” the boy snapped, and Kuba fell silent. He wasn’t sure he would like this other boy, not at all.
“ALRRRIIIGGGHHHHTTT LITTLE LISTENERS!” Present Mic howled from the top of the wall. “LET’S GET READY TO RUMMMBBBLLLEEE!”
The doors creaked open, and Kuba took a deep breath. Right. He had to prove that stupid commenter, MiniMight37, wrong. He had to prove he knew what he was talking about. It would be so satisfying to shut him down. One year of heroics, and then he would drop and go back to his original dream of best selling shounen manga artist, right up there with Togashi and Tabata. Or, if he couldn’t get his art up to snuff by then, he could just be a light novelist, and---
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THERE’S NO COUNTDOWNS IN REAL LIFE! RUN! RUN!” Present Mic screamed, and---
“Fuck,” Kuba said, and the world froze. Slowly, he turned to the camera shining down on him and tilted his head at you.
“A countdown would have increased dramatic tension and helped the writer hit the word count better, for the record.”
The fracture sealed back up, and he broke out into a run. Hopefully, he could pass. He didn’t have a backup to UA. This hadn’t exactly been well thought out.