The observation deck crackled with Class 1-A's anticipation, the morning chill fading under our collective heat.
"Toru and Shoji, Deku—they're sneaky and strong! Snipe's guns are scary, though." I nodded, water ki sensing the arena's dust for leverage.
"Hagakure's invisibility, Shoji's multi-arms—they'll outmaneuver him." Bakugo leaned on the railing, smirking. "Invisible chick and tentacle freak? They'll get plugged before they blink."
Momo's notebook flipped, analyzing. "Snipe's Homing quirk locks targets—cover and coordination are key." Todoroki's gaze was ice.
Below, Toru Hagakure bounced, her invisible form betrayed only by her pink gloves and boots floating mid-air, voice chirpy. "We've got this, Shoji! Sneak and smack!"
Mezo Shoji stood tall, his six arms unfolding like a spider's embrace, Dupli-Arms quirk ready, mask hiding his calm resolve. "Stay close, Hagakure. We'll shield and strike."
Aizawa's voice cut through, scarf limp from exhaustion. "Hagakure Toru and Shoji Mezo versus Snipe. Objective: defeat or escape in 30 minutes. His bullets track you—don't get pinned."
The arena's heart held Snipe, cowboy hat tilted, twin revolvers gleaming, his Homing quirk making every shot a heat-seeker.
"Howdy, young'uns," he drawled, voice warm but lethal. "Let's see if ya can dodge my justice!" The buzzer roared, and the dusty streets ignited.
__________________
The Fight: Toru & Shoji vs. Snipe
Toru moved first, invisibility her ultimate cloak—gloves and boots vanishing as she sprinted, Light Refraction bending photons to erase her form entirely, dust kicking up in her wake like a ghost's trail.
She darted left, weaving through crates, voice a taunting whisper: "Catch me if you can, cowboy!"
Snipe's revolvers snapped up, Homing quirk locking—bullets fired in a staccato burst, rubber rounds curving mid-air, tracking her heat signature.
They slammed into crates, wood exploding, but Toru rolled beneath a saloon porch, unseen, her giggles echoing to disorient.
Shoji charged right, Dupli-Arms sprouting eyes and ears across his webbed limbs—six arms becoming twelve, sensory organs multiplying to track Snipe's aim.
"Hagakure, flank left—I'll draw fire!" His massive frame bulldozed a barrel stack, splintering it to create cover, arms shielding his core as bullets homed in, pinging off hardened skin.
Snipe spun, hat steady, revolvers unloading—twelve shots in a second, each bullet arcing like a hawk, Homing quirk painting Toru's invisible heat and Shoji's bulk.
"Nice try, kids!" Three rounds grazed Shoji's arm-shield, bruising despite his quirk's toughness, one splintering a crate inches from Toru's unseen head.
She countered, slipping through a saloon's swinging doors, grabbing a loose plank—invisible hands hurling it at Snipe's flank.
It spun, forcing him to duck, but his Homing locked the plank mid-air, a bullet shattering it.
Shoji capitalized, arms extending into a fan of fists—punching through a wall to collapse it toward Snipe, dust clouding the street.
The cowboy rolled, firing through the haze, bullets curving to nick Shoji's shoulder, blood welling but not slowing him.
Five minutes in, the dance intensified. Toru was a phantom, Light Refraction flawless—darting between buildings, kicking dust to mask her path, tossing pebbles to fake positions.
"Over here, sharpshooter!" she taunted, voice bouncing off walls via thrown objects, a ventriloquist's trick.
Snipe's Homing struggled, bullets slamming decoys—crates, barrels, a swinging sign—wood and metal erupting in showers.
Shoji was the anvil, Dupli-Arms a sensory web: eyes spotting Snipe's micro-twitches, ears catching revolver clicks.
He charged, arms morphing into a battering ram, smashing a wagon to hurl wheels at Snipe—projectiles forcing a sidestep, but Homing bullets curved back, two embedding in Shoji's thigh, pain flaring as he roared, "Hagakure—now!"
Toru struck, invisible hands snatching a rope from a hitching post, looping it around a saloon beam to swing overhead—boots grazing Snipe's hat, knocking it askew.
"Gotcha!" She landed behind, kicking his calf, but Snipe spun, revolvers blazing—Homing locking her mid-d quieter, bullets grazing her glove, tearing it to reveal a fleeting hand before she vanished again.
Shoji closed in, arms sprouting mouths to amplify a shout—sonic distraction—forcing Snipe to cover his ears, revolvers misfiring into the sky.
The duo synced: Toru's invisibility for chaos, Shoji's multi-arms for pressure, aiming to corner Snipe for a cuff.
Ten minutes, Snipe dug in. He vaulted to a rooftop, Homing quirk evolving—bullets splitting mid-flight, micro-shots tracking both heat signatures simultaneously.
"Y'all are slippery, but justice don't miss!" A volley rained: six bullets for Toru, curving through dust clouds, splintering her cover; eight for Shoji, pinging off his arm-shields but one piercing his side, blood soaking his costume.
Toru dodged, rolling under a wagon, but a bullet clipped her boot, pain shooting as she bit back a yelp.
Shoji tanked, arms forming a dome to shield her, but the barrage cracked his defenses, one arm going limp. "We're losing ground!" he grunted, eyes scanning for an edge.
The arena became a maelstrom—dust choking the air, crates reduced to kindling, streets a maze of bullet holes.
Snipe's precision was godlike, Homing quirk predicting Toru's invisible sprints via disturbed dust, forcing her to crawl, gloves scraping dirt.
Shoji's Dupli-Arms multiplied to twenty—eyes, ears, mouths across a web of limbs, tracking Snipe's reloads (six shots per revolver, 0.8-second cycle).
"Hagakure—his left flank, blind spot!" Toru complied, invisible form slinking through a saloon's backdoor, emerging behind Snipe's perch.
She hurled a chair—wood spinning, drawing his fire, bullets shredding it mid-air.
Fifteen minutes, the tipping point. Snipe leaped to street level, revolvers reloaded, Homing locking both—bullets splitting into a storm, thirty rounds curving in a lethal net.
Shoji's arms wove a shield-wall, taking hits—bruises blooming, one bullet embedding in a duplicated eye, blinding it.
Toru dove, invisible under the barrage, but a bullet grazed her shoulder, blood trickling, her invisibility flickering under pain.
"Shoji—we need him close!" The escape gate mocked them, 100 meters away, blocked by Snipe's kill-zone. They needed the cuff—U.A. restraints in Shoji's belt, EMP-laced to nullify quirks.
Toru's voice rang out, defiant: "Hey, cowboy—miss me?" She sprinted, fully invisible, kicking up a dust storm to blind Snipe's aim, boots pounding to draw Homing.
Bullets chased, curving through dust, but she rolled, slid, and vaulted—using crates as springboards, a phantom acrobat.
Shoji roared, Dupli-Arms erupting into a forest—thirty arms, eyes and mouths amplifying a deafening chorus: "Over here!"
The sensory overload split Snipe's focus—Homing quirk straining to track two chaos sources.
Shoji charged, arms forming a battering ram, smashing a saloon wall to collapse it toward Snipe—wood and plaster burying his perch, forcing a leap.
Toru seized the moment, invisible hands snatching a lasso from a crate—swinging it overhead, looping Snipe's ankle mid-jump.
"Gotcha!" She yanked, unseen strength toppling him to the street, dust billowing. Snipe fired blind, bullets homing on her heat—but Shoji's arms surged, twenty limbs weaving a cage around the cowboy, pinning revolvers to the ground.
"Now, Hagakure!" Toru materialized partially—gloves and boots visible as she darted in, bloodied but fierce, cuffs in hand.
Snipe thrashed, one revolver freeing, a bullet grazing Shoji's mask—cracking it, blood seeping—but Toru slid under, invisible hands snapping a cuff on Snipe's wrist. "No you don't!"
Shoji's arms pinned the other, Toru's unseen grip twisting the second cuff—click, EMP flaring, Homing quirk nullified, revolvers falling silent.
Snipe slumped, hat dust-caked, a wry grin breaking through. "Well, shoot—y'all outdrew me. Pass." Timer at 27 minutes—victory by restraint, the gate untouched.
The deck exploded—Kirishima's "That was insane!", Ochaco's cheer, Bakugo's grudging "Not bad, tentacle freak."
Toru's gloves fist-pumped, Shoji's mask splitting in a rare smile. "Teamwork," he said simply. Toru giggled, "Invisible high-five!"
__________________
Fading Dust
Aizawa's voice crackled: "One match left—Jiro and Koda versus Present Mic. Rest."
The arena reset, Snipe tipping his hat as medics checked Toru and Shoji's wounds. Class 1-A swarmed them, pride swelling despite bruises.
I clapped Shoji's shoulder, Ochaco hugging Toru's invisible form.
__________________
Some time later
The common room erupted as Class 1-A gathered, the air thick with worry. Aoyama and Denki hadn't shown for dinner, their dorms empty—beds untouched, phones dead.
Ochaco's round eyes widened, hands clasped. "Deku, where are they? Aoyama's always sparkling at meals, and Denki's... loud!"
Bakugo slammed a fist on the table, explosions popping. "Dunce Face and Sparkles ditched? Cowards!"
Momo's notebook trembled, voice steady but strained. "Their hero costumes are gone—personal items too. This isn't like them."
Kirishima scratched his head, hardened skin glinting. "Not manly to ghost us, bros." Mineta leered from the couch, grape-head bobbing, but his eyes flicked to Mina—her fanged grin tight, acid quirk dormant.
Aizawa burst in, scarf frayed, eyes bloodshot from coordinating with Nezu. "Aoyama and Kaminari—missing since last night. No signs of struggle, no League traces. Campus-wide search—now."
All Might followed, skeletal but resolute, voice low. "Young Midoriya, any leads?"
Teachers fanned out—Midnight's Somnambulist mist sweeping halls, Present Mic's voice amplifying calls, Power Loader's mech scanning sublevels.
Class 1-A mobilized: Iida chopping air, "Organize search parties!", Tsuyu ribbiting to check vents, Todoroki icing paths for clarity.
My heart pounded—Saiyan senses sharp, Oceanus rumbling: The sea buries its truths. Speak, or drown them in doubt.
They'd find nothing. The Ghost Dungeon's portal had sealed clean, no trace, no quirk residue.
But questions would spiral—League abduction? Defection? I couldn't let suspicion fracture us before the Training Camp, All For One's claws already poised.
A lie, clean and final, to sever the hunt. I stepped to the room's center, green aura internalized to mask my guilt, voice steady as All Might's old boom.
"Everyone—stop. I... I know where Aoyama and Denki are." Heads snapped to me, Ochaco's hand on my arm, "Deku?!" Aizawa's eyes narrowed, "Midoriya, speak."
I exhaled, crafting the story mid-breath—half-truths woven with canon's echo, their traitor hearts twisted into something pitiable.
"Last night, after Iida and Ojiro's match, I ran into them in the maintenance tunnels. They were... shaken. Aoyama said his family—some old debt, something from France—caught up with him. He couldn't stay, couldn't risk U.A. getting dragged in. Denki... his parents too, money troubles, maybe worse. They told me they were leaving U.A. forever, for personal reasons. Packed light, said they'd handle it alone."
I met Aizawa's gaze, ki cloaking my pulse. "They made me promise not to tell—not to follow. Said if we looked, it'd make things worse. They're gone, Sensei. For good."
Silence crashed, then erupted. Ochaco's eyes shimmered, "Deku, why didn't you say sooner?!" I softened, hand on her shoulder.
"They begged me, Uraraka. Aoyama was crying—real tears, no sparkle. Denki... he was scared, not his usual dumb self. I thought... giving them space was right."
Bakugo snarled, "Bullshit! They bailed without a word? Weak!" But doubt crept in his voice, explosions fizzling. Momo frowned, "Their costumes gone fits—planned exit. But no note?" I nodded, selling it.
"Aoyama left one—in my shoe locker, found it this morning. 'Forgive our cowardice, mon ami. Do not search.' Denki's was scribbled on a napkin: 'Whey, sorry guys. Gotta zap out.' I... I burned them. Their choice."
Kirishima's fists clenched, "Not manly, but... family stuff's heavy." Tsuyu ribbited softly, "Kero... sounds like they didn't want us involved."
Mineta piped up, grape eyes glinting, "Sparkles always was dramatic—probably off to some fancy cheese cave!" Mina laughed, fanged but forced, "Yeah, and Denki's probably short-circuiting in a arcade. Let 'em go."
Her words eased the room, but I caught Mineta's glance—his leverage over her unspoken, my secrets safe from that front.
Aizawa's stare bored into me, Capture Weapon twitching, but All Might placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Young Midoriya's honesty... it carries weight. If they chose this path, forcing them back risks more."
Aizawa sighed, "Fine. Search suspended—officially, they withdrew for personal reasons. No further investigation. But Midoriya," his eyes pierced, "next time, report immediately."
I nodded, guilt a stone in my gut. "Yes, sir." Midnight pouted, "Such a shame—my little sparkler gone!"
Present Mic wailed, "YO, my hype man's out?!" But the teachers relented, Nezu's voice crackling over comms: "Accepted. Focus on the final match."
Class 1-A fractured into murmurs—sadness, anger, acceptance. Ochaco hugged me, tears soaking my sleeve.
"You did what they asked, Deku... but it hurts." I held her, whispering, "They're safe—that's enough." A lie, but her warmth believed it. Iida adjusted glasses, "Their legacy remains in our resolve!"
Todoroki nodded silently, ice misting. Bakugo stormed off, muttering, "Tch, losers." The room emptied, search parties disbanded, Aoyama and Denki's absence cemented as a closed book—personal reasons, never to be reopened.
I slipped to the rooftop, Musutafu's skyline twinkling below, Dimensional Blade humming in Storage. The Ghost Dungeon's wails echoed in my mind—spectral claws tearing souls, quirks useless against the void. No bodies, no return.
The lie held: classmates mourned, teachers moved on, the camp's League plans gutted without their insiders.
Oceanus purred: The tide washes clean. None will seek the drowned. One match left—Jiro and Koda.