A week.
At first, it seems like a word that promises nothing. Then, slowly, it takes shape: seven days that stretch and contract depending on pain, sleep, and the noises coming from the base.
The first day is filled with syringes, cotton, and medicines. The smell of disinfectant stings my nose, the fluorescent lights overhead are too bright, and the constant hum of the air conditioners makes me nauseous. The nurse always pulls those damn blue curtains and leaves them half closed, so I wake up early every morning because of the beams of light streaming in through the window. My arm is in a sling; it feels bigger than it actually is. When I try to lift my head, it protests like a poorly oiled door and forces me to keep it pressed against the pillow.
I speak little, almost nothing. The world, however, is in no hurry to speak to me. I hear measured footsteps in the corridor (certainly my colleagues), whispered orders passing from one bed to another, the soft creak of metal carts as they bring our meals. Every now and then, I hold a cup of warm broth in my hands like a charm. It helps me relax and not think. I sleep fitfully, and when I dream, I return to the labyrinth where I was hurt: walls snapping, smoke, the recurring blow to my temple, and the sensation, lasting an interminable moment, of falling weightlessly into a black hole. I wake up sweaty, my heart racing, and I stare at the ceiling until my breathing returns to its normal rhythm.
On the second day, I get up. First, just enough to sit up (a record!). Then, after lunch, I take a few steps down the hallway. One, two, and the floor already feels longer than it is. I still can't stand for very long. I feel the bandage under my work overalls tighten when I bend my elbow (a short, bearable twinge). The nurse gives me a professional smile that promises nothing but doesn't deny hope.
"Good. Easy enough, but don't push yourself too hard."
On the third day, I step out into the corridor again. The walls are covered with faded posters showing procedures, evacuation maps, and phone numbers that no one really remembers. I look out a window. Outside, the square still shows the marks of the moving blocks: dusty square tracks, radial scratches on the asphalt where the drones touched down too low. The air smells of rain even without any rain, which always makes me very sad; but the coming rain, that might still fall, is possible. From the training ground comes the sharp sound of a few blank-firing weapons, and, further away, a roar I recognize without even needing to see it: short, rhythmic explosions. Bakugo is working. I imagine him: bandaged hands, a crooked, nervous smile, his body leaping faster than the shadow.
He doesn't come. I haven't seen him since. I don't ask. That's fine.
On the fourth day, they let me use the physio room. Rubber mats, mirrors, a wall with numbered resistance bands. I do breathing exercises, work on my shoulders, check my grip. The doctor watches me move and jots something down on a tablet.
"Don't overdo it," he writes. I smile.
"I promise," I reply. (You know that's a lie, right?) Meanwhile, my body remembers. It rediscovers the line of balance, the cadence of my steps, the right distance between one movement and the next. My head feels lighter, thankfully, and I dream less at night.
On the fifth day, I return to the courtyard, alone. It's almost empty. I hear the crackle of a generator and the steady tread of a patrol cutting across the central square. I put on my drill suit, leaving it zipped up to my neck because the air is freezing. I stop at the edge of the test path, the one with low posts and wire sensors. I don't activate it; I just walk along the outer line. I look at my hands, opening and closing them. The scar, under the thinner bandage, pulls slightly, but it's not the same pain like before. I inhale, closing my eyes. I imagine the drone's noise coming from the right, the trajectory I need to bend, the rush of air, the control. My body responds like an animal righting itself. I exhale and open them again.
In the late afternoon, on my way to my room, I bump into Aizawa. He makes no noise, walks lightly, and simply appears where I'm about to turn. Deep bags under his eyes, his shoulders hunched inside his coat. He looks me over with a gaze that's neither benevolent nor cruel, just... normal.
"How are you?" He asks me.
"Better," I reply. He nods.
"The day after tomorrow morning, at eight." He doesn't explain. I don't ask. I watch him walk down the corridor, his pace slow, and feel a sharp thump of foreboding in my ribcage.
On the sixth day, I return to the cafeteria. The sound of metal clattering on the tubs, trays sliding along, tired voices overlapping. I sit at the back, back against the wall. I eat slowly. I glance toward the entrance; I'm not sure why. Then I understand.
Bakugo enters at that moment, lighting up the room without meaning to. The buzz shifts to him for a moment, and then, as always, he acts as if it doesn't. He picks up his tray (a meal more protein than anything else) and moves on. He doesn't look at me. Or maybe he does: a sideways, half-instant raise of an eyebrow that could be anything. The time it takes him to get to his table is the time I work to swallow. There are words I don't want to say, and others I couldn't say anyway.
That's okay.
That evening, in my room, I remove the bandage to change the gauze. The skin around the cut isn't so red anymore. I place my fingers on the edge, without pressing. It doesn't hurt like before. Outside the window, the base spreads out in a network of low lights. I think about the week, about how many times I've held my breath, how many times I've thought about the accident. I think of the word "together" as something Bakugo Katsuki will never understand.
The seventh day is clear and cold. I step outside, the air biting at my ears, the sky a chalkboard. (It'll snow soon, I'm sure of it.) They call me at eight, as Aizawa had said. I go down to his office, and as usual, the place smells of paper and stale coffee. On the table, there is a thin folder and a digital map open to a mountainous area to the north. The reliefs are blue and gray veins climbing over themselves. Then there are red markings: potential sightings, moving supplies, intermittent radio signals.
Aizawa wastes no time in preamble.
"We have a lead."
His voice has the consistency of wet cement: it slides without splashing. He points to the map with a finger.
"Here. Activity in the last three days: we know of drones without transponders, two short encrypted transmissions, and a shipment arriving and departing during the night. No confirmation of the main lair, but the clues are piling up."
He pauses, and the room goes silent.
"We need a field check. A simple reconnaissance. Identify entrances, patrols, any sentries. No heroics. You'll return if the situation changes."
I nod. I feel my body immediately shift into listening/command/response mode. It's a reassuring mechanism.
Aizawa looks up from his notes and stares at me.
"How are you?"
This time his sentence stumbles slightly over a question mark he can't pronounce.
"Operational," I reply. It's as close to the truth as I can get. Aizawa evaluates, as if weighing the words between my fingers, then sets the folder aside. (Why do I feel so anxious?)
Suddenly, the door opens without knocking. I hear a deep, almost growling breath. I recognize it even without turning around.
Bakugo enters.
Half his suit buttoned up, the other half left loose, his gloves tucked into his belt, the smell of gunpowder that lingers even when he is not using it. He stops a meter from the map, his eyes capturing everything in three seconds. He doesn't look at me immediately, but I feel it: his presence is a precise vibration, a sound my body recognizes.
"Go together," Aizawa says, as if he's saying "it's raining" or "today is Wednesday."
No emphasis on "together." Just the bare information.
"Leaving tomorrow morning at dawn. Light gear. Pulse communication lines, no voice except in emergencies. Two check-in time slots: 0635 and 0855; if you miss both, recovery is triggered. I'd rather not have to order it."
Bakugo tilts his chin. "Hn." A sound in his language meaning "received" and "I'm not going to get picked up." I simply say, "Understood." I feel the word settle in my stomach, weighing just right.
Aizawa looks at us as if he's already well into the next day, as if he can see us among the dark pines and wet stones.
"You had coordination issues," he notes, as dryly as a medical report. "I won't forget. Neither will you. But you're the best together."
He shifts his gaze to Bakugo.
"This isn't a test of individual endurance. It's a paired reconnaissance. If one falls, the other doesn't advance. Am I repeating this for sport?"
Bakugo tightens his mouth, and for a moment, his silence feels an inch less sharp.
"No one will fall."
The sentence comes out short and tense, like a bullet fired and pocketed.
Aizawa nods:
"Then make sure it is."
He takes two badges from the desk and hands them to us. His gaze slides to me and fixes me firmly. Then he continues.
"Junko Ino, watch your head. If you feel the world spinning, you stop. I don't care about the detailed explanation of why: you stop."
I inhale. "Of course."
"Bakugo," he adds without changing tone, "if she stops, you stop."
The silence lasts a second. Then Bakugo nods, breathing slowly. "Tsk. Okay."
The office seems to shrink for a moment. I hear my own thoughts organizing themselves: I need to make a mental list of what will be needed, discarding what's superfluous (ah, the sharp edges of caution!). I feel my arm throbbing with excitement under my suit. It's not annoying; it's just making itself felt.
When Bakugo and I leave Aizawa's study, a cold draft from the courtyard blows through the corridor, the main doors left open. We walk side by side for five or six steps, then our paces differ as always: he takes a half-step ahead without looking at me, I follow a half-step behind, an invisible elastic band linking us. We don't speak; there's nothing to say. Until something, in the corner of his mouth, changes. It sounds like a warning.
"Don't faint tomorrow," he mutters without looking at me. The words scratch the back of his throat, as if they bother him even as he says them.
I smile sideways, without being seen. "I'm not planning on doing that."
A flick of his tongue. "Good."
At the fork in the road, he turns toward the armory. I, toward the living quarters. We pause for a moment, as if the wind were holding us by the collar. We don't say "see you tomorrow." It's pointless. Tomorrow is written in letters so large we couldn't ignore them even if we tried.
In my locker tonight, the spare suit smells of detergent and nitroglycerin. (Bakugo, unfortunately, has infected me.) I go over my equipment, one thing at a time: pulse radio, OK; short knife, OK; basic kit, OK; laminated map, OK; two energy bars, OK; gloves, OK. I count my breaths to ten, three times. Then, I look out the window: outside, the base is gradually shutting down. First the courtyard, then a few lights from the dormitory. I think of everything I've learned in a week without actually moving: the patience of the body, the echo of Aizawa's words, the way Bakugo's silence is never empty.
I turn off the light. The darkness is no longer cotton wool and disinfectant; it's finally a room I know. I place my hand on my arm, over the scar.
We leave tomorrow morning at dawn.
***
I'll tell you right away, so you don't get anxious: I'm fine.
My arm still pulls a little, but it's the kind of pull that reminds me who I am and why I'm looking straight ahead. (No drama. It's just a reminder).
The alarm goes off while the sky is still a gloomy shadow: 4:40 AM. The dormitory is quiet; only the footsteps of the night guards in the corridor and the rustle of their uniforms can be heard. I get up quietly. The sink water is cold enough to wake up even my thoughts. (And you'll say: thank goodness!) I look at myself in the mirror: the dark circles under my eyes have diminished (perfect!), the scar now looks like a pencil line on my temple, and my expression is… I'd say, rested.
Hey, you reading this, I know what you're about to ask: am I scared?
No. I have that feeling that's like the first step on untouched snow, caution and desire, combined.
In the locker, I take the essentials I prepared yesterday: pulse radio (two clicks = OK, three = emergency), small, short knife, minimal kit, neatly folded laminated map, light gloves, an energy bar tucked into the inside pocket of my uniform. The training suit rubs against my skin and makes that distinctive sound of freshly bought paper. (Free ASMR). I zip it up to my chin; it's cold outside. I tighten the laces. I take a deep breath.
Let's go.
The corridor is the blue of a surrendering night, and the smell of coffee drifting from the cafeteria overwhelms me as if to shout, "I promise you a beautiful day." (Could that beautiful day actually be true?)
I grab a black mug, fill it to the brim with coffee (no sugar) and drink it standing by the window. Outside, the square has been ready for hours, as always: dim lights, the sentry circling, a light truck parked at the edge, already loaded with what's needed "just in case." In our case, we'll walk from the halfway point: the off-road vehicle will drop us off 3 km from the entry point, and then...silence. (We'll be alone in the middle of the woods. I don't know whether to cry or back away.)
Bakugo arrives at 5:10. You hear him before you see him, not from explosions (don't worry), but from the contained energy pushing the air ahead of him. His suit is half open, his gloves tucked into his belt, and he's carrying a large backpack on his shoulders. His eyes are alert, sharp.
He stops one step away from me. He doesn't say "good morning." He never does.
"Your arm?" He nods at my light bandage with his chin.
"It works."
"Perfect." A word that, coming from him, is worth a speech.
We descend into the parking lot. The eastern sky is a pale streak (it's almost dawn). The driver flashes the headlights twice, as per the agreed-upon signal. Aizawa isn't there, or rather, he is, in the way everything has already been arranged. We climb into the back, bracing against the wind. The seat vibrates with the engine's good intentions.
"Check," I say softly, and tap the earpiece. Two clicks.
Bakugo answers without looking at me: two sharp clicks. He adjusts his shoulder strap with a brusque gesture, then grabs my jacket strap and tightens it two notches. If you're wondering, yes, it's rough; no, it doesn't hurt; yes, it helps.
"It was slow," he mutters.
"Thanks."
"I didn't do it for you."
I smile. He doesn't see it. It's better this way.
The off-road vehicle drops us off at the start of a forest road that climbs through thick pine trees. The air, so cold, bites at our ears. The smell of resin and wet earth is so clean it almost clashes with the rest of the day. The driver waves and turns around. The engine noise quickly fades, like an animal unwilling to be found.
The two of us remain there, our breaths forming clouds of steam.
"I'll go in front," says Bakugo.
"Go."
No arguments, no discussions… sometimes it's simpler than that. He has the right pace to open the door, I have the right pace to read his back and watch his sides. We learned this the hard way; we might as well use it the best way. (I don't know whether to cry or back away, part 2.)
The path is a brown thread among dark needles. We walk without speaking, but the silence isn't empty, it's purpose-built. Every now and then he raises his hand, pauses for a moment, and listens. I do the same. You quickly get used to this kind of exchange: a language of gestures and a rhythm that adjusts to the terrain.
After twenty minutes, a stream cuts across the road. Bakugo leaps over it, and I step onto a flat, slippery stone. My arm tugs, yes, that reminder again, but everything's under control. And hey, I know what you're thinking: you're worrying about my head. I'm fine, I promise. If the world starts spinning, I'll stop. I swear.
"Zero-six thirty-five in five," I say softly, pointing to the watch on my wrist.
"I know."
Okay, but reminding him helps me breathe easier. Two clicks on the net. Two clear clicks from the base. All good.
As we climb, the trees grow closer. The forest changes its sound: fewer birds, more cold wind. At one point, Bakugo stops and crouches behind a tree trunk struck by lightning who knows when. He motions for me to duck. I approach him slowly. He silently points to the ground on the left side of the trail: fresh tracks from a light tracked vehicle, heading northwest, which passed no more than twelve hours ago. Beside them, poorly extinguished cigarette butts, two different kinds. One smells of sweet tobacco. Not ours.
He looks at me. I nod.