The Marked Trajectory

A week had passed. Seven full days since my return to duty, and I had settled back into the usual rhythm without a hitch: Aldera Junior High, training on the beach, dinner at the home, lights out. Life rolled along its well-worn track, punctual as a train, and I found that pleasant. No upheavals. No drama. Only steady, measured progress. Well, nearly steady. Izuku continued to change. With each session he grew more coordinated, more enduring, and—most striking of all—more confident. His movements no longer resembled the jerky lunges of a startled hare. He now moved like someone who knows exactly where he is running and why. Koji, observing this, would scratch the back of his head and mutter something about an "unreal boost." Ryohei, whose camouflage had finally settled into a calm sandy shade, once remarked that Izuku reminded him of a hero from the news—not in how he looked, but in how he carried himself. I listened and kept my mouth shut. I had a hunch what was going on. And my hunches were so outlandish that voicing them aloud would have served no purpose. That morning we met at Dagobah Beach at six, as always. The sun had just dragged itself over the horizon, painting the trash mountains in shades of gold and pink. It looked almost beautiful. Almost—because rusty refrigerators and old tires, even under the most romantic light, remained rusty refrigerators and old tires. Izuku was already there. He wasn't sitting around, wasn't waiting—he was doing push-ups on a slab of concrete, raising and lowering his body in a steady rhythm. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat, but he didn't slow. "Good morning, Green," I said, making my way down the stairs. "You're early today." "Seiha-kun!" He sprang to his feet and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Good morning! I thought I should start with a warm-up. There's something..." He trailed off, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I knew the signs. Izuku had a particular expression when he was about to deliver news he had rehearsed endlessly in his head and still feared he'd botch. His eyes flickered, his lips twitched, his fingers worried the hem of his shirt. "Green, you look like you're about to confess you accidentally burned my backpack." "What?! No! The backpack is fine!" He held his hands up. "It's just... remember I told you about Yagi-san? My trainer?" "I remember. Physical training specialist. A very good professional." "Yes, that's him. Well... I told him about you. About our training. And he... he'd like to meet you." I raised an eyebrow. "Right now?" "Well... he said he might stop by this morning. If you don't mind, of course. If you don't want to, I can tell him that—" "Green," I cut in. "You're offering to introduce me to the man who turned you into a mini-terminator in a week. Of course I want to." Izuku exhaled with visible relief and immediately launched into a ramble about how Yagi-san wasn't fond of noisy places, and was a bit shy, and had an unusual appearance, and I shouldn't be surprised. I listened with half an ear. A single thought was already spinning in my head: There it is. That very moment. I didn't know for certain who this Yagi-san was. But if my guesses were right—and they were almost always right when based on scraps of canon and fan theories—I was about to meet the Symbol of Peace. "By the way," Izuku added, "he asked not to call him... well, he prefers not to be recognized. You understand?" "Anonymity. Got it. I'll take it to the grave." Izuku nodded gratefully and dropped back into his push-ups, this time at double the pace. Nervous, apparently. I left him to it. I scooped up a few stones, tugged off my right glove, and began my own warm-up—marking an old road sign and hurling projectiles at the same spot. Over the week, my grouping had genuinely recovered. Eight out of ten stones now landed within a circle twenty centimeters across. Not perfect, but serviceable. Twenty minutes slipped by. The sun climbed higher, the trash began to bake, and the familiar smell drifted over the beach—rust, salt, and rotting plastic. I was experimenting with a new throwing angle when I heard footsteps. Someone was descending the stairs. The steps were cautious, almost hesitant. Not the confident stride of a hero, but the careful shuffle of a man accustomed to moving gently so as not to trip over his own feet. I turned. A man was coming down the steps. He was skinny. No—he was catastrophically, implausibly skinny. A baggy suit hung off him as though draped on a coat hanger. His face was long, cheeks hollowed, chin sharp. His eyes sat in deep, dark sockets. Two thin tufts of blond hair stuck up from his head like antennae or the ears of some wary creature. He looked like a man who had just crawled out of a hospital bed after a month on IV drips and gone straight to a business meeting. "Good morning!" he called as he approached. His voice was unexpectedly firm, carrying a note of command. "You must be Young Kaburaya Seiha-kun?" I recognized him in an instant. Of course. I had seen this form in my past life. All Might's skinny form. The true face of the Symbol of Peace—the result of a grievous wound sustained in a battle known only to a handful. In the anime, he appeared like this when alone with Izuku or when his hero time had run dry. Gaunt, wasted, yet with that same unbreakable will in his eyes. And here he stood. On a trash-strewn beach. In a baggy suit. Introducing himself as Toshinori Yagi. I kept my face perfectly neutral. "Good morning," I replied with a slight bow. "Yes, that's me. And you must be Yagi-san? Green has told me a lot about you." Toshinori waved a hand—a broad, almost comical gesture that sat oddly on his skeletal frame. "Ha-ha! Only good things, I hope! That boy is far too modest to speak ill of me, even if I were the worst trainer in the world!" "No, not at all," I smiled. "He said you're an excellent specialist. And I can see the results. Izuku has improved a lot in a week." "Oh!" Toshinori beamed. "That's not my doing. It's all his perseverance. Young Midoriya is a unique young man. I merely point him in a direction; he does all the work himself." Beside us, Izuku went red and began mumbling something about not doing anything special and how he'd never have managed without Yagi-san. "Alright, Green, no more self-deprecation," I cut in. "Yagi-san, may I ask a question?" "Of course!" "What exactly do you do with him? I mean, what's your methodology? He runs faster, moves more efficiently, his reaction time has become... well, heroic. If it's not a secret, that is." Toshinori considered this, rubbing his chin. Then he clapped his hands together—a dry crack, like a starting pistol. "The method is simple," he said. "I make him haul trash." I blinked. "Excuse me?" "Trash!" He swept an arm across the beach. "You see these mountains? Young Midoriya must clear this entire beach as part of his preparation. It works every muscle group, teaches proper load distribution, and—most importantly—cultivates a spirit of public service. A hero should make the world cleaner, in both the literal and figurative sense!" I turned my gaze to Izuku. He stood with his head down, scuffing the sand with the toe of his sneaker. "Seriously? You're hauling trash?" "Well... yes. Every morning. Before our training. And in the evenings, after you leave." "Since when?" "Since the week you were sick." I let out a low whistle. So that was why our cleared patch had grown roomier. I had assumed Izuku had tidied up a bit for convenience. Instead, he had been methodically hauling tons of junk at the behest of his "trainer." "And is it helping?" I asked. "Very much!" Izuku's eyes lit up. "At first it was hard, but now I can feel my muscles working completely differently. My coordination's improved, too. Yagi-san says it's the best way to prepare the body for..." He caught himself. Shot a quick glance at Toshinori. "For the loads," Toshinori finished smoothly. "To prepare the body for serious loads." "I see," I nodded. You can't fool me, gentlemen. "Prepare the body to receive a Quirk"—that's what you wanted to say. But I kept that knowledge off my face. I simply stood and looked at them: the skeletal man in the oversized suit and the boy destined to become the greatest hero. Assuming canon held true. Assuming my fragmented spoilers were correct. "Yagi-san," I said, making up my mind. "Could I get a program too?" Toshinori blinked in surprise. "A program?" "A training program. For agility. I've seen how you've drilled Green, and I've realized I move like a cement mixer. I have a good Quirk, but if I don't learn to dodge and maneuver, I'll go down in the first real fight. Could you design a plan for me?" I spoke evenly—no fawning, no arrogance. Just a person who knows what he wants and isn't too proud to ask for help. Toshinori studied me for a long moment. A spark of interest flickered in his deep-set eyes. Then he glanced at Izuku, who nodded with desperate enthusiasm—yes, he's serious, he's a great guy, please. "Hmm." Toshinori folded his arms. "Young Midoriya mentioned you also want to enter U.A. High School." "That's right." "And you train every day? Here, on this beach?" "Every day. Rain, wind, after being sick—makes no difference." "And you didn't give up when your Quirk was called useless?" I smirked. Izuku had told him that, too. "Yagi-san, plenty of people still consider my Quirk useless. That's their problem. I know what it can do. And I know I'll become a hero. The only question is how fast and how well I prepare." Toshinori went quiet for perhaps ten seconds. Then his gaunt face split into a grin—wide, almost as radiant as his hero form. Almost. "Ha-ha!" He slapped his thigh. "I like you, young Kaburaya! It's rare to meet a young man with such confidence! And such a practical approach!" "Thank you. I try." "So, an agility program?" "Yes. Dodging, footwork, reaction time. Whatever will keep me from being a target and let me touch an opponent as fast as possible, then break the distance." "Good." Toshinori nodded. "I'll put one together. But I warn you—it will be difficult. Very difficult. I don't make allowances." "That's the whole point." He grunted, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and produced a small notepad and a stub of a pencil. He began scribbling rapidly, glancing now at me, now at the beach. "Weighted running," he muttered. "Multiple-target evasion, obstacle work. You have projectiles, yes? Stones?" "Yes. My Quirk lets me throw anything." "Then we'll combine. You'll dodge your own projectiles. I'll devise a ricochet system so they come back at you." I whistled. "That... sounds awesome." "It'll be awesome once you stop taking them to the head." Toshinori winked. "Until then, it'll hurt. But that's what you want, isn't it?" "Exactly." He finished writing, tore out the sheet, and passed it to me. His handwriting was atrocious—angular chicken scratch that only he and, probably, Izuku, who was used to deciphering his own scrawls in his notebooks, could read. "Here. Start with this. We'll check your progress in a week. Deal?" "Deal." I folded the sheet carefully and tucked it into the pocket of my sweatpants. Then I bowed—formally, this time. "Thank you, Yagi-san. I won't let you down." "I don't doubt it." He smiled, and once again something heroic flickered through—something even this gaunt, wasted frame couldn't conceal. "You know, young Kaburaya, I've worked with young people for many years. I've learned to tell the difference between those who merely want to be heroes and those who will become heroes, no matter what. You are in the second category." I couldn't find a reply. I just nodded. "Right, then." Toshinori turned to Izuku. "Young Midoriya, training on schedule. One hundred squats, then tire run, then debris clearing. I'll be off—I have... matters to attend to." "Yes, Yagi-san!" Izuku snapped to attention. "Thank you for coming!" "Think nothing of it. See you tomorrow." Toshinori gave us a wave and started for the stairs. His thin figure in its baggy suit vanished over the crest of the hill. The sound of his footsteps faded to nothing. Izuku and I stood alone on the beach. He let out a breath heavy with relief, as though he'd just passed an exam. "Well," I said, studying the scribbled sheet. "Yagi-san. An interesting man." "Yes, very," Izuku rubbed the back of his head, nervous. "Did you... did you notice anything strange?" "Strange?" "Well... his appearance. Or how he talks." "Green." I pocketed the sheet. "Your trainer is a skinny guy with antennae on his head who looks like a stiff breeze would carry him off. Of course I noticed. But if he's turning you into an evasion machine, I don't care what he looks like. Results are what matter." Izuku smiled. He had been bracing for uncomfortable questions, I realized, and was relieved I hadn't asked them. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For what?" "For not... well, you know." "I know. And I'll say it again: everyone has secrets. Your Yagi-san is yours. It's enough for me that he agreed to train me. That's already more than I could have expected." I clapped him on the shoulder and headed toward a pile of stones. "Alright, Green. Your trainer gave you your orders: one hundred squats, tire run, trash. I've got my own program. Let's move." "Let's move!" Izuku dropped his backpack and started squatting. I unfolded the sheet and set about deciphering Toshinori's scribbles. The program was brutal. Weighted running over broken ground—the trash heaps. Dodging multiple projectiles launched from multiple angles. A ricochet setup that would send my own stones hurtling back at me. Reaction drills and peripheral-vision work. And at the bottom, a final note:When you master the basics—we'll add an opponent. I grunted. An opponent. I wondered who he had in mind. Izuku? Koji? Or perhaps himself. We trained until noon. The sun climbed to its zenith and beat down without mercy, turning the beach into a searing-hot frying pan. I was drenched. Izuku was drenched. Even the stones seemed to sweat. But Toshinori's program was already proving itself. After a single hour of weighted running—I'd stuffed an old car battery into my backpack—I could feel my muscles working differently. My body was adapting faster than I had expected. "Seiha-kun," Izuku called during a water break. "Do you really think Yagi-san is a good trainer?" "Green, are you serious? He's the best trainer I've ever met. Not that I've met any besides school gym teachers, but that's beside the point. He understands how the body works. And how to make it work better." "Yes, he's... very smart." Izuku smiled, gazing off into the distance. "When I first started with him, I thought I wouldn't survive. That first day was so hard I barely crawled home. But he told me, 'If you give up now, you'll never become a hero.' And I... I didn't give up." "You did the right thing." I took a swig from my bottle and handed it to him. "Listen to Yagi-san. He won't steer you wrong." Izuku took the bottle and paused, studying me with a strange expression—like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite bring himself to. "What's up?" "Nothing. I'm just... glad you two met." "Me too." We finished the water and got back on our feet. Three more hours of training lay ahead.

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That evening, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, I turned the day's events over in my mind. Yagi-san. Toshinori Yagi. A skinny man with antennae on his head, who writes in scribbles and smiles like he just saved the world. I knew who he was. I had known from the second he set foot on the beach stairs. I didn't let on, and that was the right call. If he chose to keep his incognito, that was his right. If Izuku asked me not to pry, I wouldn't. But the fact remained. Izuku was being trained by All Might. The Symbol of Peace. The Number One Hero. A man who could change the weather with one punch. And that same man shuffled around in a baggy suit, self-conscious about his skeletal frame. And he had agreed to train me—simply because I was Izuku's friend and wanted to enter U.A. High School. I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket to my chin. The room lay quiet. Koji snored softly. Ryohei gave off a faint blue glow—dreaming of the sea, most likely. Takumi lay with his eyes open, silent as ever. Well, well, Green. I smirked into the darkness. No, honestly. The kid who'd been tormented for being Quirkless not so long ago. The kid who couldn't meet Bakugo's eyes. The kid who believed he was nothing. And now All Might himself was training him. If that wasn't a kick in the pants for me, I didn't know what was. I had a Quirk. I had a plan. And now I had a program from the greatest hero on the planet. It would be a sin to waste it. I closed my eyes and let sleep take me. I dreamed of Dagobah Beach—not the trash-choked version, but a clean shore with white sand and clear water. Izuku and I stood at the water's edge, and behind us, on the hill, rose U.A. High School, its windows ablaze in the light of the setting sun. Ten months until the exams. I'll make it.