The Marked Trajectory

Seven in the morning. Dagobah Beach. The sun had just crept over the horizon, painting the mountains of trash a dirty orange. I stood at the water’s edge, watching Izuku run his third lap. “Don’t slow down!” I shouted. “Half a kilometer to go!” He didn’t answer—he was saving his breath. Smart kid. A week ago he’d have been face-down in the sand after the first kilometer. Now he was running his third, and while the pace wasn’t Olympic, he was running. Without stopping. Without complaining. Teeth clenched, eyes fixed ahead. I crouched and ran my hand over the wet sand. Mark on the barrel—done. Stone in hand and throw. The projectile scraped the rusted side, struck a spark, and fell into the sand. A miss. I’d aimed to miss on purpose. Let Green run in peace, without distractions from flying objects. For him, this morning was about physical conditioning. For me—precision work. “Done!” Izuku gasped, reaching my makeshift mark. “Three laps!” “Time: fifteen minutes twenty seconds,” I checked my watch. “Yesterday was sixteen forty. The day before, eighteen ten.” “I’m… getting faster?” He bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. “By a minute and twenty seconds. In one day. That’s progress, Green.” He raised his head. Sweat streamed down his face, hair plastered to his forehead, but his eyes were burning. The same fire I’d noticed the very first time we met. Only now something new had been added to it. Confidence? No, just the seed of it for now. But it was there. “I thought I was going to die on the second lap,” Izuku admitted honestly. “But you didn’t.” “I wanted to.” “That’s normal,” I tossed him a water bottle. “The body always wants to die when you make it work. Our job is not to listen.” He caught the bottle. Didn’t drop it, didn’t miss. Progress there too. “Now push-ups,” I announced. “Three sets of ten.” “Yesterday it was eight!” “Yesterday was Wednesday. Today’s Thursday.” “So what?!” “On Thursdays we always add two.” He sighed, lay down on the sand, and started doing push-ups. I counted silently. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. On the thirteenth his arms shook, but he pushed through. Fourteen. Fifteen. “Enough,” I said. “That’s overdoing it.” “But I can do more…” “You can. But you shouldn’t. Tomorrow it’ll be seventeen. If you overstrain today, tomorrow will be zero. Rest.” He sat on the sand and leaned back, looking up at the sky. Seagulls screamed overhead. Waves hissed, rolling onto the shore. I walked over and stood so my shadow fell across his face. “You know what I’ve noticed?” I asked. “What?” “You’ve stopped apologizing.” Izuku blinked. “What do you mean?” “Exactly what I said. You used to apologize for every step. ‘Sorry I’m running slow,’ ‘sorry I can’t do a push-up,’ ‘sorry for existing.’ Now you just do it. No apologies.” He thought about it. He looked down at his hands—dirty, with scraped palms. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I didn’t even notice,” he said quietly. “That’s progress right there,” I held out a hand to him. “Get up. Half an hour till class. If we’re late, Yamada-sensei will grumble.” “Yamada-sensei always grumbles.” “Then let’s not give him extra reason to.”

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Aldera Junior High greeted us with its usual buzz. Hallways packed with students, slamming doors, shouts, laughter. Izuku and I were walking to our classroom when I noticed: he wasn’t hugging the wall anymore. He didn’t drop his head at the sight of upperclassmen groups. He didn’t hide his eyes. Small changes. But they were adding up. “Seiha-kun,” he called to me right outside the door. “Can I ask you something?” “Go for it.” “Why did you start helping me in the first place? That first day? You could have just walked past. Like everyone else.” I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe. “I already told you. You’re interesting.” “But that’s not all.” “Not all,” I agreed. “I was also bored. And you were the only person in this school who wasn’t trying to act like something they’re not.” “But I’m not acting like anything at all.” “Exactly.” He smiled—a short one, just the corner of his mouth. And walked into the classroom. I lingered for a second. Somewhere in this building, Bakugo was roaming. We ran into each other every day, and every time he’d drill me with his stare but say nothing. He kept quiet. Got angrier. Bided his time. I knew it wouldn’t last—Firecracker wasn’t the type to hold his emotions in for long. But as long as he wasn’t exploding, it suited me fine.

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During the long break, it happened. We were out in the yard. I sat on a bench, squinting in the sun. Izuku settled beside me and was scribbling something in his notebook—a new one, he’d ruined the old one in a puddle and had to buy another. I was lazily wondering if we should do some accuracy training after school today. I wanted to test an idea with ricochets. “Look,” I said suddenly. Izuku raised his head. At the far end of the schoolyard, two upperclassmen were settling a dispute. Third-years by the look of them, both with mutation-type Quirks. One had arms covered in scales, the other had bony spikes jutting from his shoulders. They were shoving, snarling at each other, and a small crowd of onlookers was already gathering. “Training,” I said. “What training?” Izuku didn’t get it. “Confidence training. Go on, analyze.” “Right now?” “Right now. Out loud. What do you see?” He snapped his notebook shut, looked at the fighters. He bit his lip—an old habit we hadn’t kicked yet. “Two of them. Third-years, judging by the uniforms. The one on the left, scales on his arms—they look tough, probably enhances his punches. The second one, spikes on his shoulders—a threat in close combat.” “Go on.” “They’re both bulked up. Relying too much on brute strength. But the spiky one is heavier, he moves slower.” “And what does that mean?” “That the scaly one could win if he kept his distance and attacked fast. But he’s not doing that. He’s closing in for close combat. A mistake.” I followed his gaze. Sure enough: the scaly one charged in head-on, got a spike to the shoulder, and reeled back. The crowd gasped. “And if you were in his place?” I asked. “What would you do?” “I would…” he thought. “I’d try to circle around. Strike the torso, where the spikes can’t reach. Or use something as a shield. Over there by the wall, there’s a board.” “Logical,” I nodded. “Now say the same thing, but louder. So the people nearby can hear.” “Why?” “Training,” I repeated. “Go on.” Izuku swallowed. He glanced around—people were standing near us too. Some from our class, some from the class next door. They were watching the fight, but a few were already eyeing Izuku. “I…” he started quietly. “Louder.” “The scaly one needs to change tactics!” he blurted out. “If he goes head-on, the spikes will get him. He should flank and strike under the ribs!” Several people turned around. Someone snorted. Someone raised their eyebrows in surprise. Izuku turned red to the roots of his hair, but he didn’t look away. “Why under the ribs?” asked one of the onlookers. “Because…” Izuku swallowed. “Because there’s no bony protection there. And it’ll knock the wind out of him. The spiky one’s big, he needs a lot of oxygen. If you cut off…” He didn’t get to finish. The fight ended on its own—the PE teacher pushed through the crowd and hauled both brawlers away by the scruff. The onlookers started dispersing. Someone cast a thoughtful glance at Izuku, someone whispered something to their neighbor. I noticed one guy, tall, from the other class, lingering. “Hey,” he called out. “You’re our famous Quirkless, right? Midoriya?” Izuku tensed. So did I. But I didn’t interfere—I’d told him I wouldn’t coddle him. “Yes,” Izuku answered. His voice wavered, but he answered. He didn’t lower his head. “Then what are you doing handing out advice?” the guy smirked. “No Quirk, and you’re playing analyst. Funny.” “Analysis doesn’t require a Quirk,” Izuku said. “It requires observation and logic.” “Whoa, logic!” the guy guffawed. “You don’t even have the strength to do ten push-ups. What logic?” I tensed. If this clown said something about U.A. now… “Push-ups,” Izuku repeated. “If you think a hero is all about muscles, you’re wrong.” “What?!” “Heroes save people. That takes thinking. Even All Might doesn’t just hit harder than anyone—he always evaluates the situation before he acts.” The guy frowned. He’d probably expected the Quirkless kid to tremble and start apologizing. Instead he got a lecture on tactics. “Who do you think you’re lecturing, huh?!” He stepped closer and grabbed Izuku by the shirtfront. I started to rise from the bench. But Izuku threw up a hand—stopping me. “I’m not lecturing,” he said quietly. “I just answered your question. If you don’t like the answer, that’s your problem.” People around started turning. Someone whistled. The guy froze, not expecting such a calm retort. His fingers squeezed tighter, the fabric of Izuku’s uniform began to rip… “Hey!” a shout rang out. The teacher who’d led the fighters away was striding toward us. The guy immediately let go of Izuku and backed off. “If I see this again, both of you to the principal,” the teacher said and walked on. The guy spat on the ground, shot Izuku a venomous look, and stalked off. I walked closer, adjusting my backpack strap. “So how does it feel?” I asked. “Terrible,” Izuku breathed out. His hands were shaking. “I thought he was going to hit me.” “But he didn’t.” “Because the teacher came!” “Not because of that,” I shook my head. “You spoke calmly. Without aggression, but without fear either. Guys like him expect you to break. You didn’t. That throws them off.” “I just…” he looked at his trembling hands. “I said what I thought. That’s all.” “That’s exactly what it means to stand up for yourself,” I clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re growing, Green.” He blinked. Then slowly, hesitantly, smiled. “You really think so?” “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t think so,” I turned toward the school. “Come on. Bell’s in three minutes.” He caught up to me at the doors. He was still breathing fast, but his back was straighter than usual. “Seiha-kun,” he called. “M?” “That was the training? The confidence thing?” “Yep,” I pushed the door. “And you passed.”

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After school we went back to the beach. The day had been long—after the morning exercise and the nervous release at lunch, Izuku looked wrung out. But, to my surprise, he didn’t whine. He just changed, stretched, and started doing push-ups. “I was thinking today,” he said between sets. “About that guy who came at me.” “And what did you figure out?” “That if he had hit me, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing. It would have been worse to stay silent. Again.” I nodded. I didn’t add ‘I told you so’—that would have been unnecessary. Izuku understood it himself. “By the way,” he suddenly stopped and looked at me. “You said I ‘passed’ the training. But is it really over?” “No. Confidence training never ends. But you’ve cleared the first stage.” “What’s the second stage?” I picked up a rusty bolt from the ground, weighed it in my hand. “The second stage—saying the same thing to Bakugo.” Izuku went pale. “I… that’s different.” “I know. That’s why the second stage isn’t this week. Or next,” I threw the bolt toward the rusty barrel I’d marked earlier. The projectile arced and struck the target with a metallic clang. “But someday you’ll be ready. The main thing is not to rush.” “What if I’m never ready?” “You will be,” I walked to the barrel, picked up the bolt. “You’ve changed in a week. Imagine what a year will do.” Izuku thought about that. Then he smiled, and this time there was something new in the smile. “Then I could probably run five kilometers.” “Definitely.” “And do ten pull-ups.” “Twenty.” “Twenty?!” he laughed. “You’re kidding!” “Not at all,” I smirked. “That’ll be the third stage. Twenty pull-ups in one go.” “Then what’s the fourth stage?” “You’ll find out when you clear the third.” He shook his head, but didn’t argue. He lay down on the sand and started doing crunches. I walked to the water’s edge, took off a glove, and thought. My own progress was less noticeable, but it was there. The Mark set faster. Projectiles flew more accurately. Awakening was clearly a long way off, but I could feel it: if I kept up this pace, in two years I’d walk into the entrance exam a completely different person. Someone who can do more than just throw stones. “Seiha-kun!” Izuku called out. “Can I ask you something?” “Again?” “Well… yeah.” “Go ahead.” “Why are you so sure your Quirk can get stronger? You mentioned something about unlocking new facets of power…” I turned to face him. The sun was setting, flooding the beach orange. “Because I believe in one simple thing,” I said. “There are no useless Quirks. Only a lack of imagination.” Izuku stared at me wide-eyed. Then he snatched up his notebook and started scribbling rapidly. “Back at it again?” I chuckled. “I have to write this down!” he said without looking up. “This… this could be important!” I didn’t interfere. Let him write. If Green found something useful in my words, all the better for both of us.

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In the evening, the children’s home was quiet. Takumi was reading a book, Ryohei was staring at the ceiling, his skin a calm shade of blue today, Koji was crafting something out of paper. I lay on my bed, replaying the day’s events in my head. “How’s your Green?” Koji asked, not looking up from his task. He seemed to be folding a paper airplane. “Growing,” I answered curtly. “Literally?” “In every sense.” “That’s good,” Koji launched the airplane at the ceiling. It looped and dive-bombed Takumi’s head. “Oops, sorry.” “Tomorrow you’re getting up at six,” Takumi said without lifting his eyes from the book, and brushed the airplane to the floor. “Both of you.” “Why?!” Koji protested. “Because I’m tired of listening to you argue about wake-up time.” I smirked and closed my eyes. Tomorrow, the beach again, school again, training again. Day after day, week after week. Monotonous, hard, sometimes boring. But that’s how strength is forged. And if in two years that scrawny kid with the burning eyes walks through the gates of U.A. High School—then it was all worth it.