The Marked Trajectory

The month flew by like one long day glued together from morning workouts, school routine, evening training on the beach, and filling out that damn journal. Izuku turned out to be a meticulous chronicler — he recorded every little detail with the tenacity of a pigeon determined to build a nest out of your nerves. By the end of the third week, I was barely holding myself back from hurling that notebook into the ocean with a brick tied to it, but I had to admit: the system worked. We identified optimal distances for different types of projectiles, mapped the relationship between impact force and throw angle, and even experimentally confirmed that material targets held the mark more stably than living ones — on living targets, the mark “floated” slightly during sharp accelerations, it required more concentration. Izuku logged it as “the mark destabilization effect on a moving biological object.” I called it “why the hell does my quirk tell the difference between living and dead.” We both stuck to our own opinions. Bakugo, over that month, turned into a walking generator of suspicion. He never made any more direct accusations, but the looks he gave me in the halls of Aldera could have melted asphalt. I learned to ignore them — or rather, to file them under “compliments.” If Firecracker is staring at you like that, you’re doing everything right. Bakugo’s paranoia worked better than any prank. He flinched at pigeons.Pigeons.If that’s not a win, I don’t know what a win is. Koji, over the month, fully settled into the role of my PR manager at the children’s home. He spread news about the training with relentless enthusiasm and regularly demanded I “show something cool” to the kids, who now looked at me like a local unlicensed pro hero. Hikari learned to transmit short messages in Morse code using her glowing mane — Izuku had given her the idea during that same visit, and now she practiced diligently, sitting on the windowsill and blinking at passersby. None of the passersby, fortunately, knew Morse code, so the police hadn’t been called yet. Yuki — the little one I often forgot to mention, though he was always hanging around — was practicing his Ball Quirk: he’d curl into a springy ball and roll down the corridor, knocking over everything in his path. A couple of times he knocked me over. It hurt, but I endured — the kid was trying. And what can you expect from a little one? Ryohei began his training with camouflage. Every evening he sat in front of the mirror in our room, trying to blend in with the interior. It wasn’t going very well yet: instead of the color of the walls, he turned a toxic purple, and once — into tiny polka dots. We tried not to laugh. We tried. It didn’t always work out. So, life rolled on. My physique gradually filled out with muscle — not like the guys on magazine covers, but real, functional muscle. Izuku was changing too: if a month ago he’d looked like a walking skeleton wrapped in skin, now he resembled an ordinary skinny teenager. Not an athlete, of course, but a stiff breeze wouldn’t knock him over anymore. On our morning runs he no longer gasped for air like a fish washed ashore; he calmly held my pace. Well, almost calmly. Okay, at least he wasn’t dying by the second kilometer. “You know, Green,” I told him once on the beach, when he was once again logging results in the journal. “Another couple of months, and you’ll stop looking like a famine victim.” “Is that a compliment?” he asked, not looking up from his notebook. “It’s a statement of fact.” “Then thank you.” That’s what he was like now — calm, focused. A month ago he would’ve blushed and started making excuses. Now he simply took the information on board. Progress, damn it.

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And then the day of the school sports festival arrived. I’d learned about it two weeks earlier, when our homeroom teacher started reading out the schedule of events. I felt… interest. A light anticipation. Finally, a chance to see what I was capable of in an open competition — not on a trash beach with a refrigerator as a target. Plus, this was Izuku’s first sports day after a month of our training, and I waited for the result like a coach waiting for his protégé to step into the ring. The morning of the festival turned out sunny and cool. Perfect weather for running, jumping, and throwing whatever came to hand. The grounds of Aldera Junior High were decorated with flags and banners. Students in gym clothes scurried everywhere — white T-shirts and blue shorts, all identical, like toy soldiers. Parents crowded behind the barrier with cameras and little flags, searching for their offspring. I wasn’t looking for parents — my cheering section was many kilometers away, at Tsuin, and I knew for a fact that Koji was beside himself with curiosity. I’d promised to tell him everything in vivid detail. “Nervous?” I asked Izuku as we lined up on the field for assembly. “A little,” he admitted, fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt. “Last year I came last in every event. Even the ball throw.” “Last year you weren’t running with me in the mornings.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Today will be different. You’re ready.” “How do you know?” “Because I’ve watched you push yourself, Green. Sure, you haven’t turned into an athlete, but you’ve stopped being a lump. And that’s twenty percent more than a month ago.” Izuku smiled weakly, but something new flickered in his eyes. Determination? Yeah, probably. Bakugo stood a few meters away, rolling his shoulders. He looked composed and tense, like a greyhound before the start. He tried not to look at me, but I felt his attention. He was charged up for victory. Absolutely, ruthlessly charged up. Last year, as I’d heard from Izuku, Bakugo took first place in every event. And he clearly intended to repeat that this year. Well, we’ll see, Firecracker. We’ll see.

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The first event on the program was the hundred-meter dash. The participants were divided into heats of six. I landed in the third heat along with some unfamiliar guys from a parallel class. Izuku landed in the fifth. By chance, Bakugo ended up in the same heat as him. When the lineup was announced, a whisper ran through the stands: everyone knew that Deku and Katsuki were childhood friends, and everyone knew how their joint public appearances usually ended. “Don’t pay attention,” I said quietly to Izuku before his heat. “Just run the way you do on our morning runs. Look ahead and forget he’s next to you.” “He’ll be furious,” Izuku whispered. “He’s always furious, Green. Don’t give him a handicap.” My heat went… fine. I didn’t set records, didn’t fly like a rocket — I just ran, working my arms and legs rhythmically. I didn’t use my quirk in the race, so the result was purely physical. I came in second. First place went to some lanky kid from a parallel class who clearly did track professionally. I shrugged. Fine. My strength isn’t in running speed, after all. And then it was time for the fifth heat. I stood at the edge of the track and crossed my arms. Izuku stepped up to the start pale but focused. He didn’t look at Bakugo, even though Bakugo stood one lane over and radiated aggression. Bakugo glanced back at me — just for a second — but I caught the question in his eyes. “What are you waiting for, orphanage boy?” I smiled and waved hello. He turned away, but his shoulders tensed even more. The whistle. Six teenagers launched off the line. Bakugo pulled ahead immediately — he ran like a beast, powerfully and sharply. So Bakugo flew toward the finish. But I wasn’t looking at him. I was looking at Izuku. He was running third. Not last. Not fifth. Third. His form was far from perfect: he still hunched slightly on the run and didn’t fully use his stride length, but he ran steadily, powerfully, without slowing. The two guys behind him tried to catch up and couldn’t. Izuku breathed evenly, his face focused, and in his eyes burned that same fire I’d grown used to seeing on our morning runs. He wasn’t just participating — he was competing. At the finish line, Bakugo — already catching his breath after his win — turned around. He was waiting for Izuku to come in last. Waiting for the familiar sight: Deku trailing at the back, gasping, pathetic. I saw his eyes scanning the track, searching for the familiar figure among the stragglers… And not finding it. Izuku crossed the finish line third. The fourth-place finisher was half a body behind him. Fifth and sixth finished a second later. Scattered applause came from the stands. Some classmate whistled in surprise. I didn’t applaud — I just nodded at Izuku when he came up to me, breathing hard. “Third,” I said. “Not bad, Green.” “I… I didn’t expect it myself.” He panted, clutching his side. “I thought I’d be fifth. Or sixth. But when I started running… my legs just carried me. Everything we’ve been working on, Seiha-kun — it worked!” “Of course it worked.” I shrugged. “I told you you’d stopped being a lump.” “But third…” “Next time you’ll be second. And then, who knows, first. You don’t think we’re stopping, do you?” Izuku looked at me with such gratitude that I felt a little awkward. I didn’t like these sentimental moments and usually hid behind sarcasm. But now I just clapped him on the back and nodded toward the bench — go rest up. And then I noticed Bakugo. He stood ten meters away, staring at Izuku. His face showed nothing — that very mask of calm behind which a volcano hides. But I knew: inside, he was boiling. Deku not last. Deku third. Deku, whom he was used to despising, suddenly found himself in the middle of the pack. This didn’t just undermine his worldview — it struck at the very core of his superiority. Our eyes met. Bakugo stared at me, and in his eyes I read a verdict. Not for Izuku — for me. “It’s you. You did this.” I shrugged and turned away. There were still several events left until the end of the festival.

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The next two hours passed in the usual sports rhythm: long jump, relay, ball throw. Quirks were forbidden at the festival — everyone competed on pure physical ability, without explosions or telekinesis. For me, that meant my power stayed in my pocket. I wasn’t complaining. The point of a school festival isn’t to show who’s the best at using their quirk — it’s to test what you’re worth on your own. Without crutches. In the long jump I posted a middling result — three meters and change. Not a fountain, but not a puddle. Izuku jumped a little worse but still beat a couple of people. In the relay, our team took second place — thanks to that lanky kid from the parallel class, who ran the anchor leg and pulled everyone through on his leg. I ran the third leg and handed off the baton without incident, though one of the rivals almost crashed into me on the curve. In the ball throw, Izuku was fifth — not brilliant, but again, not last. Bakugo threw like a piece of artillery, sending the ball far beyond the marked zone. Even without his quirk, his physical conditioning was impressive — the ball flew maybe sixty meters, if not more. I threw a bit over fifty and took second place. Also fine. But every such little thing — every “not last” from Izuku — accumulated in Bakugo like pressure in an overheating boiler. I saw him twitch when Deku’s results were announced. I saw his jaw clench tighter with each event. It was almost funny. Almost. And then came the final event: the four-hundred-meter race — a long distance demanding both speed and endurance. Bakugo was once again in the same heat as Izuku. This time I didn’t stand off to the side. I walked right up to the edge of the track, crossed my arms, and got ready to watch. Izuku noticed me and gave a nervous nod. Bakugo noticed too. He didn’t nod. The whistle. The race began. Four hundred meters isn’t a hundred — you can’t just bolt from the start. Bakugo knew that: he started strong but not at his limit, saving strength for the finishing kick. Even without his quirk, his technique was polished — he ran like a machine, every step calibrated, every movement efficient. Izuku held on in the middle of the pack, fourth or fifth. His running style had changed over this month: he no longer hunched; he ran upright, the way I’d taught him. Breathing in rhythm with his steps. Arms loose along his body. Gaze straight ahead, not at his feet. On the final hundred meters, Bakugo kicked into overdrive. Even without explosions, he accelerated as if a pack of hungry dogs was chasing him, and he pulled away easily, taking first place with a comfortable lead. The crowd roared. Parents clapped. Some younger student shouted his name. And Izuku… Izuku finished fourth. Out of six. Right in the middle. He wasn’t last. Not second to last. He was in the middle. And that turned out to be enough. I walked up to him as he stood bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. His T-shirt was stuck to his back, his hair disheveled, but his face shone with that very smile I’d seen only a couple of times since we’d met. “Fourth,” I said, handing him a water bottle. “Not third anymore. You’re regressing.” “But in the long distance.” He breathed out, taking a sip. “Seiha-kun, this… this is incredible. I’ve never… never been in the middle.” “Get used to it.” He smiled even wider. I suddenly thought that this — this was the moment worth waking up at six in the morning every day and dragging him out for a run. Not for the Awakening, not for the future U.A. enrollment. For this stupid, happy smile on the face of a guy who a month ago considered himself worthless. Damn. I think I’m getting sentimental. Need to say something snide immediately to balance it out. “Just don’t get comfortable, Green. Fourth is still not a podium.” “I know.” He nodded, and his smile became more focused than joyful. “I’ll keep working. I want to be second. Or at least third. I want to prove that I can.” “Prove it to who?” “Myself.” I grunted in approval. Now he really was changing.

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After all the events ended, a break was announced before the awards ceremony. Students scattered in all directions: some ran to their parents, others to the cafeteria for juice and buns. I headed to the locker room to wash the sweat off my face and change my T-shirt. Phys-ed is phys-ed, but wet fabric clinging to your back never made anyone more comfortable. The locker room was almost empty — only a couple of people rummaged at the far lockers. I opened my locker and reached for a towel. The door behind me burst open and slammed against the wall. “Orphanage boy.” I didn’t turn around. The voice made everything clear. I picked up the towel, unhurriedly dried my face, and only then turned. He stood in the doorway, filling the frame. A couple of guys from a parallel class were lingering behind him, but seeing the expression on his face, they quickly retreated. We were left alone. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Firecracker?” I leaned casually against the locker. “Here to congratulate me? I got second in the dash, by the way. And second in the ball throw. I’ll have two little medals.” “Shove your medals up your ass,” he hissed, taking a step forward. “You did this, didn’t you?” I blinked slowly. There was so much venom in his voice you could poison an entire city district with it. “Be more specific, Firecracker. I’ve done a lot of things. This morning, for instance, I ate toast with jam. Is that a crime?” “Don’t play dumb.” He stepped even closer. “Deku. He’s never been in the middle of a race. Never. He’s always been last. Pathetic, useless, worthless. And today, all of a sudden — fourth. Third in the first heat. That’s not him. That’s you.” I tossed the towel into the locker and crossed my arms. “And what, in your opinion, did I do? Give him a magic pill? A secret Kaburaya clan technique? Maybe sold his soul to Turbo-Granny?” “You trained him.” Bakugo spat the words. “I saw you two. Every morning. Running together like idiots. Every evening on the beach. You’re messing around with him.” “Well, yeah.” I shrugged. “I just ran with him in the mornings, Firecracker. Can you imagine how that works? You run and you get faster. You train and you get stronger. Wild, unfathomable magic, I know. I still can’t believe it myself.” Bakugo clenched his fists. His knuckles went white from the tension. “You… you did it on purpose.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “You took him under your wing and turned him into someone. You turned nothing into a person. Why? To piss me off? To prove you’re better?” “Now you’re wrong there.” My voice grew quieter, but harder. “I didn’t turn him into someone. He made himself into someone. I just showed him that he could. Understand the difference?” He didn’t understand. I could see it in his eyes. For Bakugo, there was only a vertical axis: the strong at the top, the weak at the bottom. The idea that a weak person could rise if helped was not just alien to him — it was offensive. It broke his model of the world. “He’s a talentless nobody,” Bakugo said quietly. “He has no quirk. He can’t become a hero.” “And you can, right?” “I’ll become the greatest hero. And no one will stop me. Not you, not him, not anyone else.” “Great.” I smiled. “Then don’t worry. If you’re so awesome, you’ve got nothing to fear from some Deku who finished fourth in a school race. Or are you scared?” A pause hung there. Long, heavy, like a concrete slab. Bakugo stared at me, and for the first time I saw something other than rage in his eyes. Confusion? Incomprehension? He couldn’t understand why I was doing this. He couldn’t grasp my motives. For him everything was a competition, and here I was — a rival who, instead of destroying enemies, lifted them up off their knees. It was breaking his brain. “You took first place everywhere,” I said, turning back to my locker. “Congratulations. Seriously, no mockery. You’re fast, strong, you can make explosions — you’ve got it all. But while you’re here hissing at me because Deku stopped being last, he’s quietly closing the gap. Not because I’m a wizard. Because he gets up at six in the morning and runs. Every day. Without a quirk. Without complaints. Just works. And what did you achieve this month, besides first places that you always had anyway? What new thing did you learn?” Bakugo froze. His fists were still clenched, but there were no sparks. He just stood there, processing. “I’m not your enemy, Firecracker.” I slammed the locker shut. “And Green isn’t your enemy either. But if you keep measuring everyone on the ‘strong-weak’ scale, one day you’ll find that the ones you thought were weak are breathing down your neck. And that’s when — only then — you’ll be truly scared.” I turned and walked toward the exit. At the very door I stopped and threw over my shoulder: “Try helping someone sometime, instead of bullying everyone. Might get a clue why heroes are needed in the first place.” The locker room door slammed behind me so hard that someone’s backpack fell off the wall. I didn’t look back — the two at the far lockers did. I stepped into the hallway, exhaled, and only then noticed my fingers were trembling slightly. I’d given Bakugo a lecture. In the locker room. One on one. And survived. “Good Lord, Seiha.” I muttered to myself, smirking. “You’re going to talk yourself into trouble one day.”

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In the evening, Izuku and I sat on Dagobah Beach. I had canceled training — after a day like this, we both needed rest. We just sat on overturned crates and watched the sunset. The ocean was calm, lazy waves rolling onto the sand. There was noticeably less trash now — over the month, the two of us had cleared a decent chunk of the coastline. I deliberately refused to use my quirk for that; every microwave, tire, and rusted bicycle frame was hauled away by hand. It was part of the physical conditioning I’d assigned myself, and Izuku happily followed along. “He was really angry, wasn’t he?” Izuku asked quietly, breaking the silence. “Firecracker? That’s an understatement.” I tossed a pebble into the ocean. It traced an arc and plopped into the water. “But that’s his problem, Green. You don’t have to justify yourself to him.” “I’m not justifying myself. It’s just… weird. We were friends. And now he looks at me like an enemy.” “People change. Some become heroes, some become assholes with a god complex. Guess which of you is which.” Izuku let out a small laugh but didn’t answer. We sat in silence a little longer. The sun had nearly vanished beyond the horizon, dyeing the sky violet and deep blue. The first stars were lighting up overhead. “Seiha-kun,” Izuku said suddenly. “Thank you.” “For what?” “For believing in me. For these runs. For the training. For the way you…” “Stop right there.” I raised a hand. “None of that. I don’t believe in you. I see results. That’s different.” “But…” “No ‘buts.’ You ran that distance yourself, Green. You trained yourself. I just kept you company. Everything else is your achievement.” Izuku was silent for a moment. Then he nodded — not offended, but understanding. He knew I wasn’t a fan of sappy scenes, and he appreciated my bluntness. That made him the best partner I could have wished for. “Tomorrow morning, run as scheduled?” he asked. “Six a.m., as usual. And don’t be late.” “I’m never late.” “I know.” I stretched out on the crate, folding my arms behind my head, and stared into the darkening sky. There were no thoughts of Bakugo — I’d ejected him from my mind back in the locker room. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that Izuku had taken a step forward. Not a giant leap, not a miraculous transformation into an athlete, but a step. Fourth place instead of sixth. The middle instead of the end. A month ago, that had seemed impossible. Now it had become reality. “You know, Green,” I said, gazing at the sky. “When we get into U.A., this day will seem like a warm-up to us.” “We’ll get in?” he asked hopefully. “Of course. You — because otherwise I’ll make you. Me — because I have a plan. And together we’ll break through. And someday I’ll show you something that’ll make your hair stand on end.” “What are you talking about?” “You’ll see.” I smirked. “But that won’t be soon. For now — training, the journal, and our beloved Firecracker as a motivator.” Izuku smiled and lay down on his crate, looking at the sky. I didn’t know what he was thinking. But I knew he no longer doubted. And that was the main thing.

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I got back to the children’s home late, when most of the kids were already asleep. But in our room, as usual, the three idiots were wide awake — they never could sleep without a frontline report. “Well?!” Koji bounced up to me with burning eyes. “How did it go?!” “Two second places,” I said casually, tugging off my T-shirt. “The dash and the ball throw.” “Only second?!” “What did you expect? In the dash there was a guy with legs like an ostrich, and in the throw Firecracker, without his quirk, hurled the ball practically into the next district. By the way, Izuku was fourth. In the long distance.” “Fourth?!” Koji nearly jumped to the ceiling. “Out of six?!” “Out of six. Not last. And not second to last. Right in the middle.” “Ooooh!” Takumi set aside the book he’d been reading before I arrived. His eyes gleamed with a catlike sheen in the dark. “That’s progress.” “No kidding.” I collapsed onto my bed. “Firecracker is furious. After the final race he came up to me in the locker room and hissed, ‘You did this.’” “And you?” asked Ryohei. His skin was shifting smoothly from dark gray to an interested orange. “I told him I just ran with Izuku in the mornings. And suggested he reconsider his value system.” A second of silence hung in the room. Then Koji burst out laughing — loud, rolling, with snorts. Takumi shook silently, burying his face in his pillow. Even Ryohei allowed himself a spare smirk, and his skin momentarily turned bright yellow — the color of amusement. “You… you told Bakugo to reconsider his value system?” Koji squeezed out through laughter. “Him?! You’re insane!” “I’m honest. Honesty is my main problem.” We made noise a while longer, until Honda-san’s stern knock came from the corridor, reminding us that lights-out had been an hour ago. I turned off the light and rolled onto my side, staring at the dark ceiling. Tomorrow a new day. Tomorrow again a run, school, beach, training. But today — today I was satisfied. Izuku is no longer last. Bakugo got food for thought. The system works. I closed my eyes and dropped into a dreamless sleep. My last thought was:And this is only the beginning.