A/N: You guys actually did it, congrats! Here's your reward
"Takeda, you and Bakugo are team captains. Pick your teams for dogeball."
PE class had devolved into chaos the moment Yamada-sensei announced teams. Twenty-five first-graders are scrambling around the gymnasium, already arguing about who should be picked first.
Bakugo stood on the opposite side, arms crossed, smirking. "I get first pick."
"Fine by me."
"Tsubasa."
Of course. The winged kid jogged over, looking smug. I scanned the remaining kids, doing quick calculations about who'd actually be useful in dodgeball versus who'd just be target practice.
"Izuku."
The gym went silent.
"What?" A kid named Hayato, one of Bakugo's regular followers, laughed. "You're picking the quirkless kid first?"
"Yeah. Problem?"
Izuku looked shocked but jogged over to my side, clutching his gym uniform nervously.
"Your funeral," Bakugo muttered. "Tesaki."
The long-fingered kid joined him. I continued picking based on actual skill rather than quirk flashiness. Yuna for her quick reflexes. A quiet boy named Ren who I'd noticed had excellent spatial awareness. A girl named Sakura who could harden her skin, a defensive quirk, perfect for dodgeball.
Bakugo picked kids with strength quirks, speed quirks, and offensive abilities.
By the time teams were set, the divide was obvious. Bakugo team was aggressive and was already trash-talking even though we hadn't even started. My team, on the other hand, was a mix of underdogs and kids who'd been overlooked, looking uncertain.
"Alright," I said, gathering my team in a huddle. "Listen up. They're going to target Izuku first because they think he's the weak link, but he's not. Izuku, you've got the best reaction time here from all that hero analysis. You know how to read body language, predict attacks. Use it."
"But I can't throw hard—"
"You don't need to just throw accurately. Aim for feet, knees, and spots people forget to protect. Everyone else, spread formation and don't cluster. Make them work for every elimination."
Sakura raised her hand. "What about you?"
"I'll handle Bakugo."
The game started fast.
Bakugo immediately launched a ball at Izuku with explosive force. But Izuku, reading the wind-up, had already moved. The ball sailed past, and a kid behind him took the hit instead.
"Nice dodge!" Yuna called.
Bakugo's face reddened. "Lucky dodge!"
I caught a ball aimed at Ren and fired it back in one smooth motion. It nailed Hayato in the chest before he could react.
"Out!" Yamada-sensei called.
The game devolved into chaos. Tsubasa used his wings for extra throwing power, but his aim suffered. Tesaki's extended fingers helped him catch balls, but made him an easy target.
My team, meanwhile, was playing smart. Izuku called out incoming throws, directing traffic. Sakura took hits intentionally to catch balls. Yuna moved like water, never where the throws went.
And I... well, I wasn't using my quirk, because honestly, it would have been overkill for a bunch of first graders, but years of skateboarding had given me reflexes most kids didn't have. I could track multiple balls simultaneously, position myself optimally, and my height gave me a reach advantage.
"Stop dodging and fight, Ice Boy!" Bakugo roared, launching another explosive throw.
I quickly dodge the ball. "I am fighting. You're just losing."
His team was down to five, and mine still had eight.
That's when Bakugo changed tactics. He grabbed three balls, used small explosions to juggle them, and rapid-fired at my team in sequence.
Two kids went down, then three.
Now it was even, five versus five.
"Kori!" Izuku called. "Pattern! He's alternating high-low-middle!"
I looked, and he was right, Bakugo's throws followed a rhythm.
"Good eye! Everyone, on my mark, shift right!"
The next volley came. "Now!"
We shifted. The balls missed. And in the confusion, Yuna and Ren both landed clean hits.
Five versus three.
Bakugo was furious now, his hands sparking. "This is bullshit! You're supposed to—"
"Language, Bakugo!" Yamada-sensei warned.
Down to Bakugo, Tsubasa, and one other kid, a boy named renji with a strength quirk.
Against me, Izuku, Sakura, Yuna, and Ren.
The odds were bad, and Bakugo knew it.
"Tsubasa, Koji, hit them all at once!"
They coordinated their throw, three balls, three targets.
"Sakura, tank it," I said calmly.
She hardened her skin and took all three hits, catching two in the process.
"Out!" Yamada-sensei called. "But two catches, so... Hayato and Mika, you're back in for Takeda's team!"
"What?!" Bakugo exploded (literally, his palms sparked). "That's not fair!"
"That's the rules. Catch a ball, bring a teammate back."
Now it was six versus three.
I walked forward, holding a ball. "Give up?"
"Never!"
"Didn't think so." I threw, not at him, but at Renji, which was a clean hit. "Out."
Tsubasa flew up slightly, trying to use the height advantage. But Hayato, who'd just gotten back in, had a quirk that made things sticky. He'd coated a ball in adhesive and launched it at Tsubasa's wings.
It stuck, making Tsubasa go down flapping uselessly. It was hilarious to watch. "Out!"
Bakugo stood alone against six of us.
"One last chance," I offered. "Surrender, and we'll call it a draw."
"I don't surrender!"
He grabbed the remaining balls and went full berserker mode. Explosions, rapid throws, aggressive positioning.
He got Hayato and Mika. Then Ren went down to a trick shot.
Me, Izuku, and Yuna remained.
Bakugo was breathing hard and out of breath, and his balls.
I handed my ball to Izuku. "Your shot."
"What? Kori, I can't—"
"You can. You've been tracking his movements all game. You know where he'll dodge. Throw where he's going to be, not where he is."
Izuku swallowed hard, wound up, and threw.
Bakugo dodged left, exactly where Izuku had aimed.
The ball caught him in the shoulder.
"Out! Takeda's team wins!"
The gym exploded with noise. My team was cheering, high-fiving, and celebrating. Bakugo stood frozen, staring at Izuku in disbelief.
"You..." His voice was quiet and sounded menacing. "You got me out."
"I-I just threw where Kori said—"
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Bakugo stormed off toward the locker room, Tsubasa and Tesaki scrambling after him.
Yamada-sensei blew his whistle. "Alright, everyone, good game! Hit the showers!"
Izuku was still staring at where Bakugo had been. "I actually hit him."
"You did more than that," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You beat him. With strategy and skill, no quirk required."
"He's going to be so mad."
"Let him be mad; he needs to learn that raw power isn't everything."
Yuna bounced over, grinning. "That was amazing! Did you see his face?!"
"Priceless," I agreed. "Nice moves, by the way. You were great out there."
She blushed slightly. "Thanks! You too! You're like, really good at sports."
"Skateboarding carried."
Ren approached quietly. "Um, Takeda? Thanks for picking me. Usually, I get picked last."
"You've got good instincts. Don't sell yourself short."
He smiled and headed for the locker room.
Sakura was last. "That was fun. We should do teams like this more often."
"Agreed. Quirk power doesn't mean much if you can't use it smart."
As we filtered toward the locker rooms, I caught Izuku still grinning to himself. This was good for him. Proof that he could win against kids with quirks.
Now I just had to make sure Bakugo didn't retaliate too hard.
Lunch that day was tense.
Bakugo's table was clustered in the corner, talking in low, angry voices. I caught fragments.
"—lucky shot—"
"—Deku doesn't deserve—"
"—Ice Boy cheated somehow—"
At our table, the mood was completely different.
"You should've seen Bakugo's face!" Yuna was retelling the game to anyone who'd listen. "Izuku threw the ball and just, BAM! Right in the shoulder!"
"It wasn't that impressive," Izuku mumbled, but he was smiling.
"It was extremely impressive," said a new voice.
I looked up to find a girl I vaguely recognized from class, Nakamura Emi. She had a notebook quirk, could create temporary paper constructs. She was a smart kid but usually quiet.
"Mind if I sit?" she asked.
"Go ahead," I said, gesturing to the empty seat.
She sat, pulling out her lunch. "I wanted to say that was a really good strategy in PE. Using team composition instead of just raw quirk power."
"Thanks. Just seemed logical."
"Most people don't think that way. They just assume stronger quirks equal better team." She glanced at her notebook. "I've been tracking class dynamics. Your group has a higher win rate in team activities than Bakugo's, despite having 'weaker' quirks on average."
Izuku perked up. "You track that stuff?"
"Yeah. It's interesting from a statistical perspective. Cooperation beats individual strength in most scenarios, but society doesn't really emphasize that."
"That's really cool!" Izuku pulled out his hero notebook. "I do similar analysis but for pro heroes! Do you want to compare notes?"
Emi's eyes lit up. "Absolutely!"
They immediately dove into an intense discussion about data tracking and pattern analysis. I turned to Yuna and Kenji, who'd joined us mid-conversation.
"So," Kenji said, munching on his rice ball. "Think Bakugo's going to try something?"
"Probably. He doesn't take losing well."
"Understatement of the century," Yuna muttered. "He literally exploded a desk once because he got a 98 on a test instead of 100."
"Wait, seriously?"
"Yeah! Tsubasa had to talk him down. Said something about how his grandfather would be disappointed if Bakugo got in trouble."
I filed that away. Tsubasa's grandfather again, the kid always brought him up constantly, like having an important relative gave him status by proxy.
"Speaking of weird," Kenji said, "did anyone see the news about that new quirk sport? Aerial volleyball?"
"The one where people with flight quirks play volleyball mid-air?" Yuna asked.
"Yeah! They're talking about making it to the Quirk Olympic."
I leaned in, interested. "Really? That's new?"
"Like, five years old? But it's getting really popular. There's a youth league starting up in Tokyo."
This was fascinating. Sports adapted for quirks. I'd been so focused on hero stuff that I hadn't really considered how quirks affected recreation.
"What other quirk sports are there?" I asked.
"Oh, tons!" Kenji pulled out his phone (kids had phones here, apparently, even at six, another weird quirk-society thing). "There's Extreme Tag, which uses speed and mobility quirks. Elemental Tennis, only for people with elemental quirks. Quirk Wrestling has different weight classes based on quirk type."
"That's actually pretty cool," I admitted.
"There's also boring stuff," Yuna said. "Like, normal sports but with quirks banned to keep it fair. Quirkless Leagues, they call them."
Izuku looked up from his discussion with Emi. "Those aren't boring! They're important! They let people without quirks compete fairly!"
"I mean, sure, but nobody really watches them. Not like the quirk sports."
Izuku deflated slightly.
"I'd watch them," I said firmly. "Skill-based competition is more interesting than power-based anyway. Anyone can throw a ball hard with a strength quirk. Not everyone can place it perfectly."
"Exactly!" Izuku said. "That's what I've been saying!"
Emi nodded. "Statistically, quirkless athletes have better technical form because they can't rely on powers to compensate for poor technique."
The conversation sprawled from there, quirk sports, hero rankings, upcoming festivals, and random gossip about classmates. It felt... normal. Like regular kids having regular lunch conversations.
Except every third sentence referenced quirks or heroes or superhuman abilities.
This is just their normal, I realized. To them, this world isn't special or strange. It's just life.
But to me, with memories of a world without quirks, it was still surreal and fascinating and sometimes disappointing.
Because for all the superpowers, people were still... people. Society had the same problems. Bullying still happened. Inequality existed. People with advantages lorded them over people without.
Quirks hadn't fundamentally changed human nature.
They'd just given it new expressions.
The week before winter break, Yamada-sensei announced a baseball tournament.
"Each grade is forming teams! We'll play against each other, and the winning class gets a pizza party!"
The class erupted in excitement.
"Teams will be chosen by lottery," Yamada-sensei continued. "To keep things fair."
Groans from Bakugo's corner. He'd probably wanted to pick his own team.
The lottery happened quickly. I ended up on a team with Izuku (thank god), Emi, Ren, and a handful of other kids including, unfortunately, a kid named Daichi who had an ego problem despite his only quirk being able to wiggle his ears.
"Great," Daichi muttered when he saw the roster. "We got the quirkless kid and the nerds."
"We also got the tallest kid in the grade and the person who just beat Bakugo in dodgeball," Emi pointed out calmly. "Our odds are statistically better than you think."
Daichi quickly shut up.
Our first practice was... rough.
Half the team had never played baseball. Izuku could barely hit the ball. Ren was good at catching but couldn't throw far. And Daichi spent more time complaining than practicing.
"Okay," I said during a water break. "We need a strategy. Izuku, what positions exist in baseball?"
He pulled out a notebook; of course, he had a notebook for this. "Pitcher, catcher, first base, second base, third base, shortstop, and three outfielders."
"And what makes a good pitcher?"
"Control and speed. Being able to place the ball exactly where you want it."
"Emi, your quirk makes paper constructs, right? How precise can you get?"
She considered. "Very precise. Why?"
"Could you create small paper guides? Like targets in the strike zone during practice?"
"Oh! Yes, actually. That's a great idea!"
"Ren, you've got good hands. You're our catcher. Izuku—"
"I know, I know. I'm bad at hitting."
"You're bad at hitting now. But you're good at analysis. You'll be our coach from the bench. Call plays, track patterns, tell us what the other team's doing."
"You think that'll work?"
"Better than putting you in the outfield where you might get hit by a fly ball. Use your strengths."
Daichi scoffed. "This is stupid. We should just put our strongest hitters up front and power through."
"That's what every other team is doing. We're going to be smart instead."
The next week of practice was intense. Emi created precise targets for pitching practice. I worked with kids on their batting stance, using what I remembered from playing in my previous life. Izuku developed a whole playbook of strategies based on analyzing the other teams' practice sessions.
By tournament day, we weren't great, but we were coordinated.
Our first game was against Class 1-B.
Their team was exactly what I expected: heavy hitters, kids with strength quirks, zero strategy.
They scored two runs in the first inning just through raw power.
Then we adapted.
Emi pitched with precision, aiming for spots she knew they'd swing at but miss. Ren called the game beautifully, knowing exactly which pitch to signal.
Our batting wasn't stellar, but we got on base through patience, like waiting for walks, bunting when needed, and taking advantage of their sloppy fielding.
By the fourth inning, we were tied 3-3.
Izuku was keeping detailed notes on the bench. "Their pitcher's getting tired. His fastball is dropping. Tell everyone to wait for high pitches."
I relayed the information. Next batter up, a girl named Hoshi with a light-manipulation quirk, waited patiently and got walked.
Bases loaded. Two outs. I was up to bat.
The pitcher wound up, threw high just like Izuku predicted.
I made contact, but it wasn't a home run, I wasn't strong enough for that yet, but a solid line drive into the gap.
Two runners scored, and we took the lead 5-3.
Class 1-B couldn't catch up, and we won our first game.
The team went wild. Izuku was grinning so hard I thought his face might break.
"Your strategy worked!" Daichi said, and he actually sounded impressed.
"Our strategy," I corrected. "Everyone contributed."
The second game was harder. Class 1-C had clearly learned from watching our first game. They adapted, changed their approach, and made it competitive.
But we had Izuku analyzing their patterns and Emi placing pitches like a surgeon. We scraped by with a 4-3 win.
Finals were against, naturally, Bakugo's class. Class 1-D.
The tension was immediate.
Bakugo was pitching, using small explosions to add velocity to his fastball. It was technically against the rules to use quirks, but Yamada-sensei allowed it because "the explosions don't affect the ball trajectory, just the speed."
Bullshit ruling, but whatever.
Tsubasa was in the outfield, using his wings for extra jumping height. Also technically legal.
This was going to be rough.
First inning, Bakugo struck out our first three batters. His pitches were just too fast.
We took the field. Emi pitched carefully, but their first batter, a kid with enhanced vision, made contact and got a double.
They scored two runs before we got out of the inning.
Second inning, same story. Bakugo was unhittable, and we were down 4-0.
"We need a new approach," Izuku muttered, scribbling frantically. "His pitches are too fast to react to normally."
"What if we don't react?" I said. "What if we predict?"
"How?"
"You've been watching him all game. Does he have a pattern? A tell?"
Izuku's eyes widened. "His left shoulder! It dips slightly before curve balls!"
"Perfect. Pass it on."
Third inning, armed with this knowledge, our batters started making contact. Not great contact, but enough.
One run scored, then another.
By the fifth inning, it was 4-3, them.
I came up to bat with two outs and Ren on second base.
Bakugo glared at me from the mound. "You're going down, Ice Boy."
"We'll see."
He wound up, and I watched his shoulder dip.
Curve ball. I adjusted my swing.
Crack.
The ball sailed into right field. Ren scored easily. I made it to second before the throw came in.
Tied game, 4-4.
The next batter struck out, ending the inning. But we had momentum.
Sixth inning, the last inning in elementary school baseball, was a defensive battle. Neither team scored.
We went to extra innings.
Seventh inning, top half. We were up to bat.
Bakugo was visibly tired now. His pitches had lost speed.
Emi got on base with a single. Ren bunted her to second. One out.
Hoshi struck out. Two outs.
I stepped up to the plate.
Bakugo looked furious. "I'm not losing to you again."
"Then pitch better."
He threw everything he had. Fastball, high and inside.
I ducked, let it go. Ball one.
Another fastball. I fouled it off.
Curveball, I let it go. Ball two.
The count went full. 3-2.
Bakugo wound up for what was clearly going to be his hardest pitch yet.
I watched his shoulder, and it didn't dip fastball, so I swung.
The contact wasn't perfect, but it was enough. The ball dropped into the shallow outfield, right between two fielders.
Emi scored. 5-4, us.
Bottom of the seventh. We needed three outs.
Emi was exhausted but determined. First batter up, she struck him out.
The second batter got a single.
The third batter hit a grounder. Ren threw to first. Two outs, runner on second.
Last batter: Bakugo himself.
He stepped up to the plate, looking like he wanted to murder someone.
Emi threw carefully. Ball one.
Ball two.
Bakugo made contact on the third pitch, a solid hit into left field.
The runner on second took off. If he scored, the game was tied.
I was playing shortstop. I ran back, tracking the ball's arc.
It was going to drop just behind me unless—
I jumped, reaching with everything I had.
The ball smacked into my glove.
I hit the ground hard, rolling, but held on.
"Out!" Yamada-sensei called. "Game over! Class 1-A wins!"
The field exploded.
Our team rushed me, everyone shouting and celebrating. Izuku was jumping up and down. Emi looked ready to cry from relief.
Bakugo stood at home plate, bat in hand, looking like I'd just killed his dog.
"Good game," I said, walking past him.
He didn't respond and just stared. I chuckled, fine by me
Tsubasa and Tesaki rushed to his side immediately, already making excuses.
"The sun was in your eyes—"
"Takeda got lucky—"
"You were tired from pitching—"
But Bakugo just walked away silently.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Winter break started with snow.
It was absolutely beautiful snow that transformed Musutafu into a winter wonderland.
"Kori!" My mother called from downstairs. "Get dressed! We're going skating!"
I pulled on warm clothes and headed down to find my parents bundling up.
"Skating?" I asked.
"Ice skating," my father clarified, adjusting his scarf. "There's a new rink that opened downtown. We thought it would be fun. You know, since you have an ice quirk and all."
"Have you ever been ice skating?" I asked.
"Once, years ago. I was terrible."
"Same," my mother laughed. "But we thought you might enjoy it."
The rink was packed when we arrived, with families everywhere, kids wobbling on skates, teenagers showing off, and a few people who clearly knew what they were doing gliding effortlessly.
We rented skates and hit the ice.
My parents were, as promised, terrible. My mother clung to the wall like her life depended on it. My father kept trying to use his arms for balance and just made it worse.
I stepped onto the ice and... it felt right.
Not because of muscle memory, I'd never ice-skated in my previous life. But because of my quirk. The ice responded to me, subtly. I could feel its texture, and its temperature.
It was like the ice wanted to help me stay upright.
Within five minutes, I was skating circles around my parents.
"How are you doing that?!" my mother called.
"Quirk thing, I think!"
"That's not fair!"
I laughed and kept skating. The motion was similar to skateboarding, weight distribution, edge control, and momentum management. But smoother, more fluid.
I tried a simple spin, and it worked perfectly.
I jumped and landed cleanly.
People were starting to notice. A few stopped to watch.
"Honey, you're showing off," my father said, but he was grinning.
"Sorry! This is just really fun!"
I spent the next hour practicing, pushing my limits, and figuring out what was possible. Backward skating, crossovers, basic figure skating moves I'd seen on TV.
My mother eventually gave up and went to get hot chocolate. My father kept trying, determined to at least make it one lap without falling.
During a break, I noticed something interesting.
There was a section of the rink cordoned off with a sign: "QUIRK SKATING - ADVANCED ONLY."
Inside that section, people were doing incredible things. Someone with a wind quirk was creating updrafts to jump higher. A person with enhanced flexibility was pulling off moves that should've been impossible. Someone else had a friction-reduction quirk and was sliding around like they were on a frictionless surface.
Quirk skating, I realized.
But in the main rink, quirks were banned. Everyone skated normally, competing on pure skill.
Same pattern as everything else, I thought. Quirks create a parallel track. The "normal" version for fairness, and the "quirk" version for spectacle.
It was... disappointing, honestly.
I'd hoped quirks would make things more interesting, more integrated. Instead, they just created new hierarchies, new divisions.
People with impressive quirks did impressive quirk things.
People without quirks did normal things.
And never the twain shall meet.
"Kori!" My father had finally made a full lap. "Did you see?!"
"That was great, Dad!"
He beamed with pride.
We skated for another hour, my parents gradually improving, me experimenting with different techniques and occasionally using my quirk to smooth rough patches of ice or freeze water that splashed onto the surface.
Afterward, we went to a nearby café, one of those quirk-themed places where the servers all had food-related quirks and the menu changed based on what abilities were working that day.
Our server had a temperature quirk and could heat or cool food perfectly just by touching it. Convenient, but also kind of sad. Her entire career was being a living microwave.
"This hot chocolate is perfect," my mother said, sipping carefully.
"The temperature quirk helps," I noted.
"True. Must be nice having a quirk so directly applicable to a job."
"Must be limiting," I countered. "What if she wants to do something else? Everyone will just see her as 'temperature quirk girl.'"
My parents exchanged a look.
"That's a very mature observation," my father said carefully.
"Just seems like quirks pigeonhole people. If you have a strong combat quirk, you're expected to be a hero. Food quirk? Restaurant work. Healing quirk? Medical field. What if people want to do something different?"
"They can," my mother said. "It's just harder. Society has expectations."
"Stupid expectations."
"Maybe. But changing them will take time. And people willing to break the mold."
The conversation shifted to lighter topics, school, upcoming holidays, and family plans. But I kept thinking about what I'd observed.
Quirk skating. Quirk restaurants. Quirk Sports. Quirk everything.
This world had superpowers, but it hadn't used them to build something fundamentally different. It had just slapped "quirk" onto existing frameworks and called it innovation.
What a waste, I thought. You have the ability to reshape society from the ground up, and you just... didn't.
But maybe that was human nature. People didn't want radical change. They wanted familiar comfort with slight improvements.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The rest of winter break passed in a blur of family time and personal training.
I practiced skating, both ice and skate, until I could do tricks that made other kids stop and stare.
I worked on my physical conditioning, carefully building strength and flexibility without overdoing it. My body was still growing; I had to be smart about not damaging it.
I studied quirk theory, reading everything I could find about how quirks developed, what limited them, and what enhanced them.
And I spent time with Izuku, teaching him more skateboarding tricks and working on his hero costume designs.
"What if the boots had better ankle support?" I suggested, pointing at his sketch. "You'll be doing a lot of running and jumping. Weak ankles are a liability."
"Good point!" He erased and redrew. "What about the gloves?"
"Reinforced knuckles, but keep the fingers flexible. You need to be able to grab and manipulate things."
"Right, right..."
We worked for hours, refining his design until it was actually practical rather than just cool-looking.
Inko brought us snacks at one point. "You boys are so focused! What are you working on?"
"Hero costume design," Izuku said without looking up.
She smiled sadly but didn't comment. Just left the snacks and went back to the kitchen.
"Your mom doesn't think you can do it," I said quietly.
"I know. She tries to be supportive, but I can tell she thinks I'm chasing an impossible dream."
"Are you?"
He finally looked up. "I don't know, maybe. But I have to try anyway, otherwise, what's the point?"
"Fair enough." I pointed at the newest iteration of his design. "Make the utility belt modular, swappable pouches for different situations."
"Ooh, that's smart!"
Even if the world hadn't been changed by quirks the way it should have been, even if society was still fundamentally the same...
We could make small changes, one kid at a time.
Starting with a quirkless boy who refused to give up.
The day before school started back up, I went to the skate park alone.
It was mostly empty, still the holiday break, everyone sleeping in or spending time with family. Just me, my board, and the cold winter air.
I practiced my tricks, pushing harder than usual. Kickflips, heelflips, 360 flips. I tried a few things I'd never managed in my previous life, more complex combinations, riskier landings.
I fell a lot, but I quickly got back up and kept trying.
I landed a clean tre flip for the first time. The board spun perfectly, and I caught it mid-air, landing smoothly.
"Nice!"
I turned to find an older kid watching from the fence.
"Thanks!"
"You're that ice kid, right? The six-year-old who skates like a pro?"
"I guess?"
He hopped the fence and approached. "Akira. I'm here visiting family for a break. Heard about you from some local skaters."
"Kori."
"Yeah, I know. You're kind of a legend around here." He gestured at my board. "Mind if I see some more?"
I shrugged and did a few more tricks. Akira watched carefully, occasionally nodding or making impressed noises.
"You've got good form," he said finally. "Really good. Like, competition-level good."
"Competition?"
"Yeah! There's a youth skateboarding circuit, it's for all ages, no quirk use allowed. You'd probably place high in the under-ten category."
"There's competitive skateboarding without quirks?"
"Oh yeah. It's actually pretty popular. People like watching skill-based stuff when it involves skateboarding. It feels more... authentic, you know?"
Finally, I thought. Something in this world that values ability over powers.
"How do I sign up?"
"There's a regional qualifier in spring. I can send you the info if you want."
"That'd be great."
We exchanged contact info, he seemed surprised a six-year-old had a phone, but this world was weird about that stuff, and then we skated together for a while.
Akira was good, like really good. He taught me a few tricks I'd never seen, and I showed him some stuff I'd figured out on my own.
It was... nice. Just skating with someone who appreciated it for the art and skill, not as a quirk-adjacent activity.
When he left, he gave me a fist bump. "See you at qualifiers, ice kid. You're gonna do great."
"Thanks!"
I skated alone for a while longer, thinking.
This world had disappointed me in a lot of ways. Quirks hadn't revolutionized things like I'd expected. Society was still plagued by the same problems as my old world, just with superpowers added.
But there were bright spots. Moments where people chose skill over power. Where determination mattered more than genetics.
Maybe I couldn't change the whole world, but I could change my corner of it. One kickflip at a time.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
A/N: Thank you, guys for all the support again. I really appreciate it
78 Powerstones: Complete
178 Powerstones: Not complete