The Marked Trajectory

The morning started strangely. No—the morning started with silence. And that silence was wrong. I woke up five minutes before the alarm, which had become a habit over the last two months. My body had grown used to the regimen Seiha-kun had hammered into me with the ruthlessness of a sadistic trainer. Rise at five-thirty, run to school, lessons, then train at Dagobah Beach. Every day. No weekends. No leniency. No “I’m a bit tired today.” But the alarm never sounded, because I hadn’t set it. Seiha-kun was sick. It was almost funny. In four months of training, I’d never even seen him sneeze. He was like a rusted tanker from the garbage beach—indestructible, forever plowing ahead, a sly grin on his face and always ready to comment on my every clumsy move. And now—a cold. The most ordinary, human cold, complete with fever, coughing, and everything that came with it. Koji-kun had messaged me the night before: Seiha’s dead. Won’t come tomorrow. Sleeping wrapped in a blanket and yelling at us not to come into his room because his head is splitting. And something about loudly ticking sundials. I pictured the scene and smiled. Even sick, Seiha-kun was still Seiha-kun. But it meant that today I’d be training alone. I got up, did a short warm-up, washed my face, ate the breakfast Mom had left out, and left the house half an hour earlier than usual. School hadn’t gone anywhere, and nobody had canceled classes, but if I didn’t burn off my morning energy on a run, I’d feel all day like I’d forgotten something important. It was a strange sensation—before, I could never have imagined missing physical exertion. But Seiha-kun and his methods had rewired something fundamental inside me. The morning air was damp—apparently it had rained overnight. The asphalt gleamed under the streetlamps, and somewhere in the distance a train rumbled. I started to run. Not toward school—school could wait. I ran my usual route, the one Seiha-kun and I had mapped out in the very first week of training. Five kilometers through the residential blocks, past the park, then through the underpass by the shopping center and back. He always ran ahead, setting the pace, and every so often he’d toss a short, snide remark over his shoulder:“Green, are you running or meditating? Move your legs!”or“Come on, imagine Firecracker’s chasing you with a clear conscience and no witnesses!” Today he wasn’t running. I was alone. But the pace held on its own—my body remembered. My breathing stayed even, my stride springy, my heart beating heavy and steady like a metronome. I ran the first kilometer without slowing. The second still felt easy. At the park I veered right, hurdled a puddle, and instinctively accelerated on the uphill, because Seiha-kun always said,“You take a hill in a burst. If you can run uphill and not die—you’re ready for anything.” I didn’t die. I didn’t even lose my breath. At the top of the hill I stopped and looked out over the city sprawling below. The morning sun was already climbing above the rooftops, painting the concrete boxes in shades of pink and gold. Somewhere out there, in the industrial district, was Dagobah Beach—our training base, our proving ground, our place of power. I would go there after school. Alone. Because Seiha-kun was sick, and skipping training wasn’t allowed—he’d drilled that into me himself:“If I can’t make it, you train without me. No leniency. A hero doesn’t wait for his partner to recover, Green.” I smirked, imagining how he’d say it—lying in bed, feverish, his voice still carrying that same unshakable certainty. And I ran on.

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The school day crawled like molasses. Without Seiha-kun, the classroom seemed strangely quiet. Not that he was the main source of noise—more that his presence created some invisible axis around which everything revolved. Bakugo, deprived of his usual target for contemptuous looks, seemed almost bewildered—he sat at his desk, staring out the window and irritably muttering under his breath. Probably annoyed that his primary irritant was absent. I caught myself automatically glancing at the empty seat by the window. A habit. Over these months I’d grown used to Seiha-kun always being there—during lessons, on breaks, at training. He’d become something of a lighthouse I oriented myself by. And when the lighthouse suddenly went dark, the world felt a little dimmer. During the long break I took out the training log. Over the past two months it had turned into a thick notebook with dog-eared corners and sweat stains on the cover. I leafed through the latest entries:“Run: distance increased to 9 km. Steady pace. Izuku no longer falls behind.”“Rail exercises: 50 squats. Izuku keeps up.”“Sparring: projectile evasion drills. Izuku dodges 8 out of 10 strikes.” Sparring. That was the hardest part. Seiha-kun called it psycho dodgeball—he’d put a mark on the old mannequin we’d dug up on the beach and launch one projectile after another at it, while I had to dodge, move, anticipate the trajectories. First it was tennis balls, then rocks. I’d long since lost count of the bruises. But now I could feel my body reacting to a flying object on its own—even before my brain had time to process the information. Seiha-kun said it was called muscle memory. I called it a miracle I was still alive. He’d laugh and launch the next one. “Midoriya-kun, may I take a look?” I flinched and looked up. Tsubasa-san, our homeroom teacher, was standing beside me, her gaze politely curious. “Y-yes, of course.” I handed her the notebook. She leafed through a few pages, her eyebrows climbing a little. “Very… systematic,” she said. “Your training?” “Ours,” I corrected. “With Kaburaya-kun.” “Ah, of course.” She nodded, returning the notebook. “He’s sick today, isn’t he? Pass along my wishes for his recovery. And tell him not to forget his homework, even while training.” I promised I would. Homework. As if Seiha-kun cared. His motto was:“Studying is fine, but if you can’t lift a truck tire, no amount of math will save you.” Then again, his grades were decent. He just didn’t stress over them.

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After school I changed into my gym clothes and headed out. Dagobah Beach was about forty minutes away at a brisk walk, but I planned to run it. Since Seiha-kun wasn’t here, I’d have to run a full session by myself. Roadwork, strength training, striking drills on the “mannequin” (Seiha-kun had scavenged an old punching bag somewhere, and we’d hung it from a rusted beam), then experiments with projectiles. I didn’t have a Quirk to launch them, but I could practice my throws and study how projectiles behaved in flight. It was all part of our system. I was running through the residential blocks when I heard the first explosion. No. Not an explosion. A dull thud, like something heavy had crashed onto the asphalt. I slowed down and listened. To my left was a narrow alley cluttered with trash bins. The sound was coming from there—along with muffled cries. My heart lurched. I stopped. The instincts drilled into me by months of training screamed in unison:Don’t get involved! Call the heroes! You’re Quirkless, you can’t do anything!— but there was another thought. Quiet, stubborn.You didn’t train all this time just to run away. I took a step toward the alley. Then another. And another. “Help!” someone shouted. A woman’s voice, strangled, frightened. I peered around the corner. And went numb.

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In the middle of the alley, something was undulating. A massive, gelatinous mass the color of swamp water, pulsing and shifting shape like a living mudslide. Inside it I could barely make out a human figure—a woman, judging by the clothes. The sludge was flowing around her body, dragging her deeper into its core, and the woman was desperately trying to break free, but her hands only sank into the substance, finding nothing to hold onto. The sludge creature had a face. That was the most horrifying part. Eyes with red pupils and yellow sclera spun in their sockets, and a wide jaw studded with sharp teeth stretched into a grin. The creature wore jeans and boots—the most mundane, absurd detail, making everything that much more surreal. “Don’t struggle,” the villain rumbled. His voice was low and gurgling, as though he were speaking through a layer of water. “I just need a body for a couple of minutes. The heroes will back off soon, and I’ll let you go. Maybe.” The woman screamed again—the sound muffled, because the sludge was already climbing toward her face. A cascade of thoughts shot through my head all at once. First—a villain. A real one. Second—he’s liquid, so physical strikes are useless. Third—he has a hostage. Fourth—I’m Quirkless and can’t do anything. Fifth—I can’t just stand and watch anyway. “Let her go!” I shouted, stepping out from around the corner. My voice sounded firmer than I’d expected. The villain turned his head—or rather, his eyes shifted in my direction without his body moving. The grin widened. “Oh, another one,” he burbled. “Teenager. Athletic. Wiry. You’ll be even better than this lady. Her lungs are weak—she won’t last long.” He suddenly shot a sludge tentacle forward. I barely caught the movement. My body reacted faster than my mind—I dropped to the asphalt, rolled over my shoulder, and came up two meters to the left. Psycho dodgeball. Thank you, Seiha-kun. The villain snorted in surprise. “Nimble.” He launched two more tentacles, this time from opposite sides. I dodged the first by ducking. The second grazed my shoulder—the sludge was sticky and cold, searing my skin even through my T-shirt. I jerked, pulled free, and leaped back. My heart was pounding like crazy. Thoughts were galloping. I couldn’t fight him. I couldn’t. He was liquid, he enveloped his target, there was no solid body to strike. Even Seiha-kun with his Quirk wouldn’t be able to stop him—projectiles would just pass straight through! Or would they? — a thought flickered. — If the mark is on the target, the projectile would fly at it regardless of its physical state… But Seiha-kun wasn’t here. There was only me. The villain, meanwhile, released the woman—just spat her aside like a boring toy—and moved toward me. His mass swayed, flowed over the trash bins, crushing them like paper cups. “You’re more interesting,” he burbled. “Good reflexes. Sturdy body. I’ll take you.” I backed away. Think. Think. What would Seiha-kun do? He wouldn’t panic. He’d find a way. He always did. But I wasn’t Seiha-kun. I was Quirkless, and all I had was a body I’d trained for four months and a head full of analytical notes on other people’s abilities. The villain lunged forward. I ran. It wasn’t retreat. It was a tactic. I couldn’t fight him head-on, but I could try to buy time. The heroes had to be somewhere nearby—he’d said himself they were chasing him. If I could just hold out a little longer… A crash erupted behind me. The villain overturned the trash container I’d vaulted a second before. He was faster than he looked—his sludge body could compress and expand like a spring, hurling him forward several meters at a time. A sludge tentacle coiled around my ankle. I fell. The asphalt scraped my palms raw. The villain let out a triumphant laugh and dragged me toward him. “Gotcha,” he gurgled. “Don’t struggle. It won’t hurt. Almost.” The sludge crawled up my leg. It was icy and suffocatingly dense. I tried to break free—useless. The muscles I’d trained so long could do nothing against an amorphous mass that simply flowed around any resistance. The sludge reached my chest. Breathing got harder and harder. A nauseating stench clawed at my throat—a mix of sewage, rot, and something chemical that burned my mucous membranes. So this is it, I thought.This is how it ends. I won’t even make it to the entrance exams. I’ll die in an alley, choked by a sludge villain, before I ever get to try. Somewhere deep in my mind, a thought of Seiha-kun flickered. What would he say when he found out? Would he laugh? Get angry? Or just set his jaw and say:“Idiot, Green. You should’ve run.” But I couldn’t run. And I didn’t want to. I tried to pull free once more. The sludge held fast. “Don’t struggle,” the villain repeated. “It’ll all be over soon.” And then I heard a voice.

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“That’s right. It’ll all be over now. Why? Because I am here!” The voice was thunderous. It rolled through the alley, bounced off the walls, made the windows in the nearby buildings tremble. And right behind the voice came a blast of wind—a powerful, staggering gust that slammed straight into the sludge creature. The villain howled. His grip loosened, and I crashed onto the asphalt, gasping for air. The sludge around me began to disintegrate, losing its shape, scattering in all directions. “WHAT?!” the villain roared, his eyes spinning wildly. “ALL MIGHT?!” I lifted my head. He stood at the other end of the alley. Immense, blotting out half the sky. Golden hair streamed on an unfelt wind, muscles bulged beneath a tight T-shirt, and on his face shone that famous smile—broad, confident, promising that everything would be all right now. The Symbol of Peace. All Might. “Sludge villain,”he thundered, taking a step forward.“Your little jog is over. Let the boy go, and I promise you’ll reach the station in one piece.” “Damn it!” The villain tried to pull himself back together, but All Might was already there. One impossibly fast motion, and an enormous fist split the air, generating another gust of wind. The sludge exploded into droplets against the walls, and in the center of the alley all that remained was a shrunken, quivering lump—everything the villain had managed to retain of his body. All Might pulled an empty plastic bottle from his pocket and, with the practiced ease of a seasoned garbage man, sucked the remnants of the villain inside. Then he screwed on the cap and pocketed the bottle. “Done,”he announced, and turned to me. His eyes—bright, deep blue, glowing from within—met mine. “Are you all right, young man?” My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Y-yes,” I forced out. “I’m all right. Th-thank you.” He looked me over from head to toe. His gaze lingered on my gym clothes, my scraped palms, the sludge still smeared across my shirt and pants. “You moved very well,”he said, and something like approval sounded in his voice.“I saw you dodge. Not many adults could have held out against this villain that long. And you even tried to counterattack.” I blinked. All Might… was praising me? “Uh, th-thank you,” I repeated. “I just… train.” “You train,”he nodded, as if that explained everything.“Well, your training is paying off.” He started to turn away—he probably needed to deliver the villain to the station—but his gaze caught on something on the asphalt. My notebook. It had fallen out of my backpack when I fell and was lying open to the page with the latest entries. All Might bent down. Picked up the notebook. I felt blood rush to my cheeks. There were notes in there. Quirk analyses. Observations about heroes. Including about him. “Hm,”he skimmed the page. His eyebrows lifted slightly.“This is… very detailed. You analyze Quirks?” “Y-yes,” I frantically tried to figure out how to explain my notebook. “I… I want to become a hero. I study to understand how abilities work. How they can be applied. How to counter them.” He turned the page. Saw diagrams. Sketches. Charts. “Impressive,”he said, quieter now.“You know, young man, it’s rare to see such a systematic approach even among professionals. And you’re still a schoolboy.” He closed the notebook and looked at me. This time—not a passing glance, not as a random rescued bystander. Closely. Appraisingly. “What’s your name?” “M-Midoriya Izuku, sir.” “Young Midoriya,”he extended the notebook to me.“Tell me honestly. Do you have a Quirk?” The question hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d known that sooner or later this question would come. It always did. But when it was asked by the Symbol of Peace, the Number One Hero, the man I’d looked up to my entire life—it was a completely different feeling. “No,” I said. “I’m Quirkless.” All Might was silent for a moment. His smile didn’t disappear, but it became a little less wide. “I thought so,”he said.“If you had a Quirk that enhanced your physical abilities, you would have used it in the fight. You relied only on your body. On your reflexes. On your training.” I took the notebook with trembling hands. “Young Midoriya,”he said.“You train more seriously than many adult heroes I know. I can see it. Your body is the result of hard work. Your analytical mind is a powerful tool. Your reflexes in combat are excellent. But…” He paused. Sighed. “Without a Quirk, becoming a hero is impossible.” I’d heard those words before. Many times. From Mom, when she cried and apologized. From Kacchan, when he laughed at me. From classmates, from teachers, from random passersby. But hearing them from All Might was like being stabbed in the chest. “I’m not saying you aren’t strong enough,”he continued.“You are strong. For an ordinary person—even very strong. But hero work isn’t just running and dodging. It’s battles against opponents who can level buildings. It’s hostages that need protecting. It’s situations where physical conditioning alone isn’t enough.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. Heavy, warm. “I’ve seen too many good people try to become heroes without a Quirk and… not come back from their very first assignment. I don’t want you to become one of them. You have a bright mind. Use it. Become an analyst. Become a tactician. Become someone who supports heroes without risking your life. That’s important work too. Maybe even more important than you think.” He withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry, young Midoriya. But that’s the reality.” I stood there, silent. A lump lodged in my throat. My eyes stung. I couldn’t cry in front of All Might. Not now. Not after he’d praised me. Not after he’d said I was strong. “I-I understand,” I managed. “Thank you for being honest.” He looked at me for a long moment. His smile returned—this time soft, almost sad. “Hang in there, young man. And keep training. Even if not as a hero—as a person. It’ll never be wasted.” He turned and jumped. His enormous body soared into the sky, leaving a rush of wind behind him. I stayed in the alley, alone.

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The day was still in full swing. I was sitting on the roof of some office building, not even remembering how I’d gotten up there. My legs had carried me on their own. The notebook lay open in my lap to the page headed “All Might: Quirk Analysis (Hypothesis).” Without a Quirk, becoming a hero is impossible. The words echoed in my head over and over. Like a stuck record. Like a verdict. I knew. I’d always known. I’d always doubted myself, always been afraid my efforts wouldn’t be enough. But there’d been one thing that kept me afloat. One person who said the exact opposite. “I don’t give a damn whether you have a Quirk or not.” “You’re the only person who understands what it really means to want to be a hero.” “I’d rather go to U.A. scared and crash and burn there than spend my whole life sitting on this beach thinking, ‘What if I’d tried?’” Seiha-kun believed in me. He, with his “useless” Quirk that he’d turned into a powerful tool himself, believed that even a talentless nobody could become a hero. He proved it every day—with his training, his stubbornness, his unshakable confidence. But today he wasn’t here. And All Might—the Number One Hero, the man who’d saved thousands of lives—had told me the truth. A bitter, cruel truth that I’d already known for a long time. Or had I? I looked at the city below. Somewhere out there, in the industrial district, was Dagobah Beach. Today I’d planned to go there and train. Alone. Because Seiha-kun was sick, and skipping training wasn’t allowed. I closed the notebook and held it in my hands. My fingers were trembling—not from weakness. From anger. At myself. At the world. At All Might’s words. “So it’s impossible?” I whispered into the emptiness. “We’ll see.” I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Stuffed the notebook into my bag and headed for the fire escape. Dagobah Beach was waiting for me. And I wasn’t going to be late. I didn’t know if I was a hero. But I knew I wasn’t going to give up. Even if the Symbol of Peace said it was impossible.