The Marked Trajectory

Two months had passed. The Sports Festival was behind them, but its echo still wandered the corridors of Aldera Junior High. Izuku was no longer invisible. His classmates now greeted him without prompting, sometimes even asked him something about schoolwork or called him over to play soccer during breaks. Bakugo, on the other hand, had retreated into a deep defensive shell — he no longer went after Izuku, didn't hurl insults, simply acted as if we didn't exist. For him, that was probably the worst punishment — admitting that ignoring us was safer for his psyche than trying to crush us. That more than suited me. A cold war is better than a hot one, and Firecracker in "I don't see you" mode was almost tame. Almost. By this point, the training journal had become two journals. The first — the original, which Izuku kept with manic precision, recording our results and charting progress graphs. The second — mine, which I'd started at his insistence but filled out however I pleased: short, chopped phrases like "Threw a rock today. Hit it. Was awesome." Izuku, when he saw it, nearly wept with indignation. But he didn't argue — apparently, he decided that a journal like that was better than none at all. My body had changed over these months. I was no longer the scrawny teenager who got knocked around by gusts of wind. My shoulders had broadened, my arms had filled with wiry strength, my legs had grown accustomed to daily exertion. I hadn't become a musclebound jock — that required specialized nutrition and a gym, not a trash beach with homemade equipment — but I had stopped being the sack of bones I was when I first landed here. I could now fight not only with my Quirk but with my fists. I lacked technique, though — only brute strength and instincts. Something had to be done about that, but I hadn't gotten around to it yet. Izuku had changed even more noticeably. If two months ago he'd been a walking skeleton, now he looked like an ordinary skinny teenager who played sports. Muscles had emerged on his arms and legs, his slouch had vanished, his gait had grown firmer. On runs, he no longer gasped for air — he kept my pace from start to finish. We increased the distance by two kilometers, then by one more. Then we added sprint bursts uphill. Then — exercises with tires and rusty scrap metal, which littered the beach in abundance. Izuku didn't complain. Not once. And that worried me. Not the complaints, but their absence. The boy who, not long ago, had apologized for every awkward movement now silently hauled tires and ran until he was drenched in sweat. I saw how hard it was for him. I saw how his hands trembled after another set. But he only clenched his teeth and did the next rep. This wasn't just progress — this was a fracture. And somewhere in the depths of that fracture lurked something he wasn't talking about. I didn't pry. I decided — when he was ready, he'd tell me himself. If he didn't — then I was wrong, and there was no secret. But I'm rarely wrong.

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The evening training session at Dagobah Beach that day turned out to be especially brutal — not because of the weather, but because of the workload. I drove Izuku like a man possessed: after the run, I made him shove a rusted refrigerator carcass uphill forty times, then we tossed truck tires back and forth, then I made him do squats with a chunk of rail on his shoulders. It was rusted and probably weighed thirty kilograms. Izuku squatted. Silently. Clenching his teeth. "Enough," I said on the fortieth squat. "Drop it." He carefully lowered the piece of iron onto the sand and straightened up. His face was red from exertion, his T-shirt clung to his body, but his breathing remained even. He no longer gulped air like a fish thrown ashore. He simply breathed heavily — like a normal, trained person. "Well done, Green," I tossed him a water bottle. "Sit down, rest. That's enough for today." He caught the bottle and sank onto an overturned crate. The sun was already halfway below the horizon, painting the ocean in orange and pink hues. Waves lazily lapped at the sand, which over these months had become noticeably cleaner — the two of us had cleared a decent stretch of the shoreline, and now you could even lie here without fear of stumbling onto a rusty nail or broken glass. I sat on a neighboring crate and stretched out my legs too. The workout had exhausted me as well — I didn't just give orders, I did everything alongside him. Otherwise, what kind of partner would I be? For several minutes we sat in silence. Izuku drank his water, watching the sunset. I rolled my shoulders and thought about the fact that I needed to find someone who could teach me how to fight. I'd sorted out my Quirk, my physique was a work in progress, but I had no hand-to-hand technique whatsoever. A street brawl with thugs didn't count — there I'd relied on surprise and projectiles. What if an opponent got in close? What if there was no time to place a Mark? But these thoughts flowed in the background. My primary attention was fixed on Izuku. And the longer I looked at him, the stronger the feeling grew that he wasn't just tired. Something else. Something deeper. He sat with slumped shoulders, staring at the ocean. The sun reflected in his eyes, but even in that light I noticed a shadow. Not fatigue — a shadow. As if behind all those muscles and stamina, that same downtrodden kid still lurked, the one who was used to glancing over his shoulder, expecting a blow. I could have kept quiet. Said "see you tomorrow" and headed back to the home. But then what was the point of all these training sessions, if I could see something was off with my partner and just walked on by? "Green," I said, without turning my head. "What's eating at you?" Izuku flinched — barely perceptibly, but I caught it. "What do you mean?" His voice came out a little higher than usual. "Exactly what I said. You're not that downtrodden kid you were a few months ago. You run faster, you lift heavier weights, you breathe more evenly. But you still look over your shoulder. Sometimes. Like you're waiting for someone to come up from behind and smack you on the head. I see it, Green. And I want to understand — why." He lowered the bottle. His fingers squeezed the plastic so hard it crunched. The silence stretched for half a minute. I didn't rush him. I just sat and watched the ocean, giving him time to collect his thoughts. "You're right," he said at last. "I... sometimes I wake up at night. And I think." "About what?" "About U.A. About how there's less than a year until the entrance exam. And about the fact that I'm Quirkless." He exhaled the word like something forbidden. As if merely uttering it could destroy everything he'd achieved. "Do you know the statistics, Seiha-kun?" he continued quietly. "In the entire history of U.A., not a single Quirkless person has entered the hero course. Not one. Not only did no one enter — no one even tried, probably. Because what's the point? A hero without a Quirk is like a firefighter without water. You can be strong, fast, durable, but when you're facing a villain with a Quirk that can demolish buildings... what are you going to do to him? With your fists? He'll just crush you." I didn't interrupt. He spoke calmly, without hysterics, and that was more frightening than any show of emotion. Because this wasn't fear. This was the sober, rational analysis of someone who had thought it all through long ago. "I've gotten stronger," he said, looking at his hands. "I can feel it. I don't gasp for air at the second kilometer anymore, I can lift things that I couldn't even budge before. I know I'm making progress. But sometimes I wake up and think — what if it's not enough? What if I show up at the exam, and there are kids with Quirks that are ten times stronger than me, just because they were lucky enough to be born with them? What if everyone says, 'You're Quirkless, you don't belong at U.A.,' and it turns out to be true? What if..." He faltered. Swallowed. "What if I'm wasting your time?" Now I turned my head and looked at him. Directly. No smirk, no sarcasm — completely serious for the first time in a long while. "You know, Green," I said. "I've got two pieces of news for you. Good and bad. Which one first?" He blinked, thrown off rhythm. "The... the bad one." "The bad: you're right. There's never been a Quirkless student in U.A.'s hero course. And everyone around you will say you don't belong there. Teachers, classmates, random passersby — everyone who's used to measuring people by whether they have a Quirk. That's shit, but it's a fact. You'll have to prove your worth every single day. Not once, not twice — every damn day. At the exam, in class, at competitions, during internships. Always." Izuku stared at me without blinking. His face paled, but he didn't look away. "And the good?" "The good: I don't give a damn." He blinked. "What do you mean?" "Exactly that. You think I'm messing around with you out of charity? Because I'm bored and I'm a good Samaritan? No, Green. I train with you because you're the only person who understands what it means to truly want to become a hero. Not for fame, not for money, not to show off in the rankings. But because you can't do otherwise. I see that. And I don't care whether you have a Quirk or not." I rose from the crate and stood in front of him. The sun had almost set, and Izuku's face was lit by the last reflections of the sunset — pale, tense, but with that very fire in his eyes that I'd grown used to seeing during training. "Fear is normal, Green," I said, quieter. "I'm afraid too. You think I don't wake up at night and think, 'What if I'm not good enough? What if my Quirk is just a cheap trick that falls apart against the first serious opponent?' I damn well do. I don't have answers to those questions. I don't know if I'll pass the exam. I don't know if I'll break down in the first year. I don't know if some villain will kill me on the very first day of field practice. But I'd rather go to U.A. with fear and fail there than sit on this beach my whole life thinking, 'What if I had tried?'" I extended my hand to him. Not for a handshake — I just opened my palm. "You with me or what?" Izuku looked at my palm. Then at me. Something wavered in his eyes — not a tear, no. More like some inner wall behind which he'd been hiding his fear had cracked. He exhaled. Long, heavy, as if throwing an invisible weight off his shoulders. He didn't say "yes." He didn't start gushing with gratitude. He didn't launch into some grand speech. He simply nodded. But there was more meaning in that nod than in any oath. I saw how his shoulders straightened — not from pride, but from resolve. How that very shadow in his eyes disappeared. How he suddenly seemed older, firmer, more whole. As if the last piece of the puzzle had clicked into place. "Then listen up," I withdrew my hand and shoved it into my pocket. "Tomorrow we increase the distance by another kilometer. We add weighted work — I've got an idea involving a rusted boat engine I spotted in the scrap heap. And we start learning to fight. Not just running and pushing — fighting. Because at the U.A. entrance exam, as far as I know, you'll need to do more than just show off your Quirk. You'll need to actually fight. Against robots or other applicants. And if you want to pass — you need to know how to hit and take a hit." "You know how to fight?" he asked doubtfully. "No," I answered honestly. "So we'll learn together. We'll give each other bruises, we'll make a ton of mistakes, but by the exam, we'll be ready. Or we'll die trying. No other options." Izuku suddenly smiled. Not nervously, not timidly — genuinely. Like a person who had just made the most important decision of his life and now felt a strange relief. "Do you always motivate like that?" he asked. "Why, any complaints?" "None." "Perfect." I clapped him on the shoulder and turned toward the path leading up from the beach. It was time to head back — it would be dark soon, and Honda-san didn't like it when her charges came in after sunset without warning. She knew where I spent my time, of course, but I didn't want to rattle the old lady's nerves for no reason. "Seiha-kun," Izuku called out. I turned around. He stood against the darkening sky — no longer a shadow, no longer a downtrodden kid. Just a guy who had decided to go all the way. "Thank you," he said. "Not for the training. For asking." I smirked. "Anytime, Green. Now get home. Tomorrow, six in the morning at the beach entrance. If you're late — I'll work you twice as hard." "I'm never late." "I know."

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I got back to the Children's Home after dark. Koji was sketching something in a notebook — plans for some new mischief, it looked like. Takumi was reading. Ryohei sat in front of the mirror, slowly changing his skin color, trying to replicate the pattern of the wallpaper. It was getting better — no longer a garish purple, but more of a muted gray. "Oh, Seiha!" Koji raised his head. "How was training?" "Fine," I collapsed onto my bed without undressing. "Green gave it everything today. Tomorrow we increase the load." "Why are you so..." he twirled a finger in the air. "I dunno. Pensive?" I was silent for a moment, staring at the ceiling. "Koji," I said finally. "Have you ever been afraid that you wouldn't make it?" He blinked in surprise. "What d'you mean?" "You know, becoming a hero or achieving anything at all." Koji put down his notebook and thought. Takumi lowered his book. Even Ryohei got distracted from his reflection and turned toward us. "Well..." Koji scratched the back of his head. "Afraid? Nah, not really. But sometimes I think, what if my fingers aren't enough, y'know? To go up against guys who can blow stuff up or fly. But then I look at you — you've gotten somewhere with your 'useless' Quirk. And I figure, if he can do it, then I can too. Probably." "I'm... I'm afraid too," Takumi said quietly. "That my Night Vision isn't a heroic Quirk. That I'll just be a boy who can see well in the dark but can't do anything. But... I train. And when I watch how you train and how you train Izuku-kun, I think — maybe I have a chance too." Ryohei said nothing — just grunted and turned back to his reflection. But his skin flickered bright yellow for a second. The color of determination. I'd learned his palette by now. I closed my eyes. "So we're all afraid," I said. "That's normal." "And you?" Koji asked. "Are you afraid?" "Scared shitless," I answered honestly. "But that's no reason to stop." Silence settled over the room. Then Koji snorted and went back to his notebook. "Then tomorrow I'm coming too!" he declared. "To train with you and Izuku-kun. I'm done just watching. I wanna try extending my fingers while running — maybe I can use 'em in an attack or something." "Come along," I said. "Just don't whine." "I never whine!" "Koji, you were whining yesterday when I made you haul that garbage bag to the dumpster." "That wasn't whining, that was constructive criticism!" Takumi laughed quietly. Ryohei snorted. And I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling a strange warmth somewhere under my ribs. Not sentimentality — I still despised sentiment. More like satisfaction that everything was going as it should. Izuku had stopped hiding. Koji was itching for a fight. Takumi believed in himself. Ryohei trained even without prodding. In ten months, the U.A. entrance exam. I didn't know exactly what awaited us. My knowledge of the canon was fragmentary, and I vaguely remembered that there were supposed to be giant robots you had to fight. But I knew something else: when that day came, we would be ready. Me, Izuku, Koji — each in our own way. "Hey, guys," I said, not opening my eyes. "Sleep. Tomorrow's a heavy day." "Every day is a heavy day with you," Koji grumbled, but obediently turned off the lamp. In the darkness, I stared at the ceiling for a long time, going over tomorrow's plans in my head. The run. School. The beach. New exercises with the rusted engine. The first attempt to teach Izuku how to hit, and to learn myself in the process. But that would come later. For now — training, studying, fatigue down to trembling muscles, and the slow, inexorable transformation from ordinary teenagers into future heroes. I closed my eyes. "Hey, Seiha," Koji called softly from the darkness. "What?" "When we get into U.A.... will we be in the same class?" "I have no idea," I answered honestly. "But if we're not — that won't stop us from training." "Then I'll get in," he said firmly. "And you'll get in. And Izuku-kun will get in. And we'll all become heroes!" "Yeah. Go to sleep." He fell silent. I listened to his steady breathing and thought that today had been a good day. Izuku had stopped looking over his shoulder. I had told him exactly what I needed to tell him. And tomorrow we would begin a new stage — a stage where fear would remain, but would stop being a brake. It would become fuel. I smirked in the darkness and slipped into sleep.