Time did a funny thing when you sat on a stranger's lap.
It stopped.
Just flat-out refused to keep moving forward like a responsible measurement of reality should.
Kyoka Jiro's brain had officially blue-screened. No thoughts. No words. Just the overwhelming sensory data flooding her system like a DDoS attack on her consciousness.
Warm. He's so warm. Why is he warm? His chest is a literal wall. Did someone carve this guy out of stone? And his voice, oh god, his voice just vibrated through my entire back and I swear I felt it in places I should NOT be feeling vibrations and WHAT THE HELL DID HE JUST SAY ABOUT MY LEGS?!
She sat there, frozen, her jacks twitching uselessly at her sides like they'd forgotten their purpose in life. Her face cycled through the visible spectrum. White. Pink. Red. A shade of crimson so deep it could probably register on seismographs.
Izuku watched this transformation with the clinical interest of a scientist observing a particularly fascinating chemical reaction.
She blushes really easily. That's adorable. Also, she's still sitting on me. Not that I'm complaining. This is objectively the best part of my day.
"Y-Y-YOU!"
Oh. She'd found her voice. Sort of.
Kyoka scrambled off him like his lap had spontaneously combusted, which, given how hot her face felt, was not an unreasonable comparison. She landed on her feet with surprising grace for someone whose brain had just performed an emergency shutdown and reboot sequence.
One of her jacks whipped up, trembling as it pointed at him like a very confused accusatory finger.
"W-What the hell was that for, you... you green-haired... lap-having... PERVERT!"
Lap-having. That's a new one.
Izuku stood up. Slow. Easy. Like he had all the time in the world and wasn't currently being threatened by an angry girl whose Quirk could probably rupture his eardrums. He brushed some dust off his pants, completely unbothered by the murderous glare being directed at his face.
"That was me saving you from becoming a permanent addition to the pavement."
His smile was the kind of weapon that should've required a license.
"You're welcome, by the way."
A choked, sputtering sound escaped Kyoka's lips, a noise caught somewhere between a gasp and a curse.
"And for the record," he continued, tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather, "it was a sincere compliment."
Because it was. Those thighs could probably crack walnuts. Maybe skulls. I should ask her workout routine. For research purposes.
A nice pair of breasts? Sure. Always appreciated.
But thighs? A nice ass? That was art. That was dedication. That was architecture and hard work and genetics coming together in a perfect storm of aesthetic achievement. That was a woman who squatted. Who trained. Who put in the hours.
Izuku was, is, and forever would be an ass man.
And this girl with anger management issues was a goddamn masterpiece.
He kept these thoughts to himself, of course. He wasn't suicidal.
"You... you absolute... I can't even..."
She couldn't finish a sentence. Her brain kept tripping over itself, torn between fury, embarrassment, and the horrifying realization that part of her was maybe, possibly, slightly flattered.
No. Nope. Not going there. He's a pervert. A shameless, smug, stupidly attractive pervert who saved my life and now I owe him and I HATE owing people and why does he smell good?! Who smells good in a combat zone?!
Kyoka opened her mouth to deliver what would surely be the most scathing comeback in the history of verbal warfare.
And then the ground started shaking.
Both of them froze.
The rumbling grew louder. Closer. Metallic. Accompanied by the whir of servos and the clank of treads on asphalt.
They turned in unison.
Two three-pointers rounded the corner at the far end of the alley, their optical sensors glowing red in the artificial sunlight. Behind them, a small army of two-pointers rolled into formation like the world's least threatening battalion.
Eight robots. Narrow alley. No easy escape routes.
Kyoka and Izuku looked at each other.
The anger was still there. The embarrassment too. But underneath it all was something more important.
Points.
"Truce?" she asked, voice clipped.
"Truce," he agreed.
The argument could wait. The exam could not.
Izuku's demeanor shifted. The playful smirk faded. His eyes sharpened.
"You're the artillery. I'm the infantry."
Kyoka bristled. "Excuse me? I don't take orders from—"
"That Quirk of yours is loud. Disruptive. Perfect for throwing off their targeting systems."
He wasn't asking. He was stating facts.
"Hit them with everything you've got. I'll handle the cleanup."
She wanted to argue. She really did. But the tactical side of her brain, the part that had studied hero strategies and combat theory, recognized the logic immediately.
Damn it.
"Fine," she snapped, slamming her jacks into the ground. "But don't get in my way, Broccoli."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The jacks connected. Her heartbeat pulsed through the pavement like a second earthquake. The ground vibrated. The air itself seemed to warp.
And then she pushed.
The sonic wave exploded outward, a wall of sound so powerful it bent the light around it. The robots staggered. Their optical sensors flickered. Warning lights blinked across their chassis. One of the two-pointers actually toppled over, its gyroscope completely fried.
Izuku moved.
He didn't charge. Charging was for amateurs who wanted to get shot. He slipped into the chaos like a ghost, using the disoriented robots as cover. His footsteps made no sound. His breathing stayed controlled. Hano's training had beaten the concept of wasted movement out of him with a bamboo stick and ten years of suffering.
A three-pointer swung its arm in a wide arc, sensors still scrambled. Izuku ducked under it, planted his foot on its knee joint, and vaulted up onto its shoulder. His fist came down on the external power coupling. Once. Twice. The casing cracked. Wiring spilled out like mechanical entrails.
He ripped the bundle free.
The robot died mid-swing, crashing to the ground in a shower of sparks.
+3 Points.
A two-pointer tried to flank him. Keyword: tried. Izuku grabbed a chunk of broken concrete from the ground and hurled it with the accuracy of a professional pitcher. The rock sailed through the air and smashed directly into the robot's primary optical sensor.
Blinded, the bot jerked to the side, crashing into one of its allies.
Izuku was already moving again. He slid under a staggering three-pointer, drove his heel into the servo that controlled its leg joint, and felt the satisfying crunch of metal giving way. The robot buckled. He rolled to his feet, grabbed its arm as it fell, and used the momentum to swing himself up onto its back.
Another power coupling. Another quick death.
+3 Points.
This is almost therapeutic. Like stress relief with a point counter.
Kyoka watched him work, jacks still planted in the ground, and her brain tried very hard to process what she was seeing.
He moved like water. Like he'd done this a thousand times. Every strike was economical. Every step was intentional. He didn't waste a single motion.
A two-pointer broke formation, rolling toward her while her jacks were occupied. She saw it coming but couldn't disengage fast enough.
Something metallic whistled through the air.
A piece of scrap metal, about the size of a dinner plate, ricocheted off the alley wall at an angle that should've been geometrically impossible. It sailed through the air, spinning like a frisbee thrown by a math professor, and wedged itself perfectly into the robot's wheel housing.
The bot jerked. Sparked. Crashed face-first into the pavement.
Kyoka's head snapped toward Izuku.
He was already dismantling another robot. He didn't even look at her. Just raised one hand in a lazy thumbs-up.
See? Teamwork.
Her face went red again. This time from pure, distilled frustration.
I hate him. I hate him so much. Why is he good at everything?!
The last robot fell thirty seconds later. The alley looked like a scrapyard had mated with a demolition derby. Smoke rose from broken chassis. Sparking wires twitched on the ground like dying snakes.
Kyoka yanked her jacks free from the pavement and leaned against the nearest wall, breathing hard. Her ears rang. Her arms ached. Channeling that much sonic energy always left her drained.
Izuku, on the other hand, looked like he'd just finished a light jog. He wasn't even winded. He found cover behind the carcass of a three-pointer and crouched down.
She stumbled over, legs shaky, and dropped down next to him. Her pride screamed at her to keep standing, to not show weakness. Her legs told her pride to shut up and sit down before gravity made the decision for her.
Silence stretched between them. The kind of silence that followed violence and adrenaline. The kind that made people say stupid things.
Kyoka broke first. She always did.
"Okay, fine."
He glanced at her, water bottle still pressed to his lips.
"You're ridiculously fast. You hit like a truck. What's your Quirk?"
She tried to keep her voice level. Curious but not impressed.
She failed on all counts.
"Some kind of minor reinforcement type? You don't glow or shoot anything, so..."
"Don't have one. I'm Quirkless."
Time stopped again.
Kyoka's brain tried to process this information. It failed. Rebooted. Tried again. Failed harder.
He's Quirkless. This guy who moves like a pro. Who reads combat situations like a book. Who just saved my life and then complimented my legs while I sat on him.
Quirkless.
"Yeah, right. Whatever, you liar."
Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she was surprised he couldn't hear it.
Izuku just smiled. That same infuriating, knowing smile. Like he could hear her thoughts and found them hilarious.
"I'm at 38 points I think. What about you?"
"27."
He whistled low. "Not bad, Purple Hair. You're holding your own."
Kyoka scrambled to her feet, jacks twitching with indignation. "Purple Hair? Are you serious right now? I have a name!"
"So do I. But you haven't used it once."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
He had a point. Damn him.
"It's Jiro. Kyoka Jiro."
"Izuku Midoriya."
He offered his hand like they were at a business meeting instead of standing in a war zone surrounded by smoking robot corpses.
She stared at it. At him. At that stupid, confident smirk.
And then, against every instinct screaming at her to just walk away, she shook it.
His grip was firm. Warm. Calloused in a way that spoke to years of hard training.
"Nice to officially meet you, Jiro."
"Yeah. Sure. Whatever."
Somewhere in the distance, an explosion rocked the fake city. Screams followed. The exam was still going. Time was still ticking.
Izuku glanced in the direction of the noise, then back at her.
"Want to team up for real? We're good together."
We're good together. Did he just... is he flirting? Is this flirting? In the middle of an exam?!
Kyoka's face went red again. "I... you... we... Fine! But only because you're useful!"
"I'll take it."
He started walking toward the chaos. She followed, cursing herself the entire way.
This is going to be a long exam.
Somewhere behind them, hidden in the wreckage, a surveillance camera captured the entire exchange. In a monitoring room miles away, a panel of teachers watched with varying degrees of interest.
Nemuri Kayama, also known as Midnight, grinned so wide it threatened to split her face in half.
"Oh, THIS is gonna be fun to watch."