Corridor 2 — The Test
A blind spot to the right, a hostile trap that sprays crisscrossing foam. It's designed to throw off your balance and confuse your head.
Iida starts counting: "Three steps, cut, two steps…"
"Don't count the steps for me, damn it!" Bakugo snaps. "Give me space!"
I extend a tube in front of him, two narrow, parallel veils forming a funnel that channels its thrust. The ground vibrates as it explodes; the flame races through the invisible corridor, tightens, then bursts open a clean hole in the side panel.
Backblast? Almost zero, I kept the funnel high. Almost. My shoulder still stings. I don't change a thing, not even my breathing. "Fifteen up, five down," I murmur, then adjust.
"Did you see that?" Midoriya's voice crackles in my earpiece, thrilled like a kid in front of a data chart. "With the tube raised, the backblast is reduced..."
"Save the numbers for later, Deku, you idiot!" Bakugo snaps, cutting him off. Then, eyes locked on me: "Next room, corner thirty on the left, before the door answers. Got it? BEFORE, not after."
"Understood."
Not because he says so. Because he's right. (And yes, I'm recording that. I don't need to shake his hand for this).
We reach the final door; there's a moving target touring the room, emitting timed audible flashes. Uraraka lightens the door by half a kilo, just enough to keep it from exploding or falling on the hinge. I stand on the left, palm up. I inhale two, exhale six.
"Three, two..." I count.
"—ONE!" Bakugo's still ahead, but this time I'm already at thirty, and I beat him to it. The wave runs down my arm like summer rain; I can see it clearly through the transparent veil. Dust scatters into flakes and settles on the far side.
Inside, everything happens in three seconds. The target bursts from behind the screen, flash!
I muffle the sound with shifting micro-veils. The drone fires, grazes past me, fires again, rapid and precise. The second flash comes from above. "Up!" I shout inwardly, raising the veil like a roof. The flash strikes and slides away.
Bakugo's already down. He takes out the last target with a short blast that drums through my ribs, but doesn't move me an inch.
Silence. Only our breathing. The fixed stopwatch above us flashes green: 2:08. Then stops.
We stay where we are for a moment longer, hands on our knees, sweat dripping from our foreheads. He looks at me. The insult is gone from his eyes, replaced by a kind of fierce recognition. The look you give a tool that finally answers the way you want it to.
"You don't need bullshit orders," he says, but his tone is different. "You give yourself the numbers. And sometimes they're right."
I don't say thank you. I say, "As long as you shoot straight, everything's fine."
He lets out a half-smile that he quickly puts down. "I always shoot straight, idiot."
Aizawa enters the room with his usual lazy, half-tired posture, one that never fools anyone. He glances at the final panel, traces the path across the floor, gauges our distance.
"Two-oh-eight. Good. Minimal penalties. Bakugo, solid control. Ino, effective angles. With two degrees less on the second flash, you could've avoided the foam trail. Work on it, I already told you"
We nod. I feel sweat dripping from the back of my neck under my collar, warm but not uncomfortable. My breathing is heavier, my heart is high and steady.
Uraraka appears from behind me with a thumbs-up. "Beautiful, and well done! Everyone!"
Midoriya is already with his notebook in hand, jotting down notes: "So, on the left thirty, your inclination was perfect!"
"We'll talk about it later," Iida stops him. "Now let's focus on hydration, debriefing, and then charts."
Izuku nods, then smiles at me. I smile back, wiping the sweat from my face with a towel.
When we leave, walking down the corridor that leads out of the warehouse, Bakugo stays half a step behind me. Not behind, not ahead. His shoulder brushes mine for a second, then moves away. He looks up at me.
"We'll do it again tomorrow. Even better."
"We'll do it again tomorrow," I echo. "Okay."
You already know I don't like him, I've said it many times. There's something in the way he bites his words, twisting them until they sound like commands, even when they aren't. It's as if he wants everything to be his, as if feeling superior is second nature. It irritates me. It weighs on me.
Yet I saw it, and I can't deny it: in the midst of the argument, while he was yelling at me, there was a flicker of difference. Something in him caught my gesture, as if we had aligned without realizing it. It happened when I gave him my number before he finished his sentence, my voice and his growl interlocking, two opposing movements forming the same curve, if only for a moment.
But there, in that brief interplay, I realized we work. Not because we understand each other, but because we clash until the trajectory is right. And I'll never admit it out loud.
We drink. The water tastes like shit, but now it's gold: it freshens the mouth, washes away the dust and the burn in the throat.
Aizawa calmly closes the clipboard. "Ten-minute break. Then we start again."
Bakugo never misses a chance. "Don't slow down, rookie."
"Don't slow down," I echo.
"You're the one who's losing the rhythm!"
"At least I'm breathing, you're grunting."
"Grunting keeps you alive, you moron!"
"No. The numbers keep me alive, but you're making me miss."
We face each other for half a second, fists clenched, breathing heavily. Then he walks away, his pace devouring the floor.
I follow him with my gaze for just an instant, then turn away. I inhale four times, exhale four times. My heart finds its rhythm, my legs steady beneath me.
It's not just a pause, it's breath returning, strength realigning. Ready for the next act. Ready for everything else.
***
Common Room...
Evenings are too beautiful to spend in the common room: the neon lights fizzing overhead, the vending machine swallowing coins with a click and spitting out cans with a thud, the voices and shouts of the other soldiers bouncing off the bare walls.
The tables have worn edges, scratched with initials and knife marks. A strip of tape divides the card playing fields, and the plastic chairs creak back and forth. A cool breeze comes in through the open windows, carrying the smell of grass and rain-soaked gravel.
In the background, an old, forgotten radio crackles a song, almost drowned out by the sound of dice rolling on another table.
Uraraka pulls me in with a smile: "Come on, we're about to start losing to Iida at cards."
Midoriya already has his notebook on the table... but he closes it immediately. "Promise: no charts tonight." (Write it on your calendar: rare event.)
I sit down and Iida arranges the deck with the precision of a surveyor. "Team relaxation: it's essential."
And then there's him. Bakugo. Leaning against the machine with one shoulder, arms crossed, a sharp gaze. His jaw moves slowly, as if he's chewing on an insult before spitting it out. He doesn't play. He doesn't speak. He observes.
And he ignores me. Or at least pretends. (With him, you can never tell if it's strategy or simple arrogance. I'm betting everything on the latter.)
We take our seats. The cards slide across the table with a sharp thud. Points pile up, voices rise. We laugh over a betrayed two of clubs in the final round: Uraraka slams her hand on the table, Iida shakes his head sternly, Midoriya makes a mental note even as he laughs.
And then I'm surprised, too. The laughter escapes my throat without asking permission, light, sudden, a little off-key, but real. I don't even try to shake it off. It just hangs there, suspended, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Suddenly, the door clicks shut. Two Delta Section members step in, older than us, uniforms slightly undone, as if they're settling in for a long stay. One wears a pointed, challenging half-smile.
"Oh, Bravo making common cause. How was your tour with babysitter Aizawa today?"
He looks at me. "Uh, look who we have, the new one! Hmm... Band-Aid, right? The one who only serves as a barrier? Useless."
I feel the room shrink, my breathing quickening. A couple of heads lift. Uraraka is about to reply, but I stop her, squeezing her wrist under the table. I pause for a moment, then say:
"If that's the best you can say, you're worse than your Quirk."
A few laughs ripple around, not mean-spirited. The Delta guy steps closer, chin jutting toward my wrist, still wrapped in Bakugo's gauze. "Bravo Team, though… I must say, you guys are well protected, huh?"
He can't reach me. He's about to, but a hand snaps across his arm before he can, sharp, decisive. Bakugo. His eyes glint wickedly.
"Lost something? What do you need her hand for?"
"Oh, relax," the other snorts. "We're just talking."
"Are you just talking? No, you're just being a pain in the ass. If you want to chat, go to the market, not here, asshole. I swear, if you open your mouth again, I'll pull out your teeth one by one."
The air grows heavy, as if everyone is holding their breath for the next word. My heart races, but my breathing stays steady. Iida clears his throat with his institutional ahem. "I remember that the rules on respect between sections..."
"Regulations on hold," one of the Delta men interrupts with a cocky shrug. He plants himself in front of the table, half-smile in place. "Let's keep it simple: a challenge. Bravo versus Delta. Whoever loses… takes the cafeteria tray shift for a week."
I understand immediately: it means clearing, cleaning, and returning everyone's trays, every day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It's an endless hassle, the kind of unofficial punishment everyone hates.
Uraraka looks at him askance. "And what would the challenge consist of?"
"The bottle cap game." He bends over, picks up a bottle cap, and flicks it toward the back of the table with his finger. The cap bounces twice and narrowly misses a glass. "Three shots each. No Quirks, no tricks. Just fingers and aim. Whoever puts the most bottle caps in the glass wins."
A couple of guys in the room laugh, curious to see the result. It's not just a game: it's the classic barracks challenge, the one used to determine who's in charge.
"No tricks," I repeat. I breathe in my pocket: four in, four out.
We move the glasses to the long side of the table. Midoriya arranges two books like a "field," as if we were conducting a laboratory experiment; Iida, naturally, takes the ruler from the deck of cards and measures the distance to the nearest millimeter.
Delta opens the challenge. The first cap flies crooked, bounces off the rim, and slides away. The second misses the glass by two centimeters. The third almost makes it, it wobbles for a moment on the rim, then falls in with a hollow plunk. Tepid applause from them.
It's our turn. Uraraka is already laughing as she loads her finger. The first cap flies too high and crashes into the back of a chair. "Oops!" We all laugh. The second one hits home. The third just misses, wobbles on the edge, and falls.
The other Delta guy steps up. He looks confident, but his first two bottle caps fly wide, bouncing off the rim. The third barely makes it, one hit out of three. He shrugs, half embarrassed, half impressed by how precise we all are.
Midoriya takes aim like he's analyzing an equation. He tilts his thumb, calculating the arc with his lips barely moving. Two out of three, spot on. "See?" he smiles. "It's all about the trajectory."
Then comes another Delta member. Swagger intact, he smirks at us. The first cap hits. The second misses by a hair. The third wobbles on the rim… and falls in. Two out of three. He exhales, frustrated but slightly satisfied, enough to keep the scores balanced.
Then, Iida steps up. He straightens his glasses with a ceremonial gesture, places the cap on his index finger, and inhales like an Olympic athlete. The first one goes in sharply. The other two… too much force, too much symmetry. They hit the rim and bounce away. "Unacceptable," he grumbles, almost angrier with the math than with himself.
Finally, the last Delta member steps up. He leans forward, smirk in place, radiating confidence. The first cap flies, bouncing off the rim and sliding away. The second spins wide, missing the glass by a hair. The third wobbles in the air, teeters for a moment on the edge, and finally drops in.
One out of three. He exhales, half-grinning, half-grimacing, clearly frustrated at his own inconsistency. We exchange subtle smiles, acknowledging the contrast, skilled, precise, but still human.
It's my turn. The glass seems half a meter away, moved by the murmur of the room that grows louder every time I breathe. I place the cap on my fingertip: it's rough around the edges, a little damp with condensation. I inhale, exhale. The rhythm rearranges my hand.
"If the new girl makes a mistake, the Bravo section clears the table until Monday," someone from Delta blurts out, sure he'll see me stumble.
I don't answer. First throw: in, clean. The cap falls into the glass with a sharp thud that raises a few eyebrows.
Second throw: it hits the rim and slides away. It's not a mistake, it's margin. Now I know where the limit is.
The third... my wrist vibrates for a moment, the sound of a can falling at the back of the room breaks my concentration. Nothing. I resume my rhythm.
And that's when it happens. Bakugo speaks. He doesn't yell, he doesn't growl: a low voice, from just behind my shoulder. A voice that cuts.
"Two degrees to the right."
I don't turn around. I don't ask for explanations. I tilt my finger slightly, just enough to change the trajectory. I throw.
The cap flies, making a short arc, then falls into the glass with a full sound. Inside.
The silence lasts a moment and then erupts into laughter, whistles, comments. I let my hand rest for a second longer than necessary, my breathing steady.
Silence. Then a murmur. Uraraka slaps the table: "Yes!" Midoriya smiles, lowering his gaze; Iida nods with satisfaction, raising his arms toward the sky.
Delta huffs and picks up his imaginary tray. "Okay, okay. One week. See you in the cafeteria."
They leave. The air loosens. I turn around. Bakugo is still there, half a step away, his gaze lowered to the tabletop, as if checking my posthumous inclination.
"Numbers here too, huh?" I tell him. No venom. It's almost... complicity? I don't know if I like it.
He makes that weird thing with his mouth, a half-smile that quickly fades. "If you don't know the right angle to throw away a cap, you're already dead."
"I'll take notes."
"Do it." It doesn't sound like an injunction this time. More like: I've seen how you work, and it makes sense.
He steps away, then steps back. He opens his mouth as if to insult me, but nothing. And I swear I see it: a flash of red, quickly buried.
"Tsk... see you tomorrow, moron."
His voice comes out hard, but "moron" sounds strange, like a shell placed there to cover something else. Then he turns sharply, fists clenched, and disappears into the corridor before anyone notices.
"See you tomorrow," I murmur.
Uraraka gives me an affectionate shove. "Not bad, Band-Aid," she laughs softly, just for me.
"Don't call me that."
"Okay, okay." She smiles. "But did you see? You're not alone."
Yes. But that "See you tomorrow" of his caught me off guard. I don't like it. I didn't want to hear it, yet the voice lingers, stuck, like smoke following you outside, into the open air.
The rest of the room comes back to life: neon lights overhead winking occasionally, cards slamming on the table, voices and laughter spilling everywhere, Uraraka laughing out loud. I let the noise drown me, and my breathing returns to normal.
I don't forget anything. Not even what I don't want to remember.