RIKO POV
Seven years. Seven long years since I told a crying Izuku Midoriya that he too can be a hero.
Now, here we were: middle school. Aldera Junior High, to be precise. It had only been a week, and I already missed the days when my biggest worry was if Raka jr. had gotten into the rice cooker.
Things had changed. A lot.
For starters, puberty hit me like a truck. Right now I was tall. Taller than Bakugo, even. Which I didn't waste any chance to goat on his face, but that lil shit still have time to hit his puberty so I'm maximising all the time I have to goat about our height difference. also. My body was... different, too. I had grown, like grown-grown heh… and safe to say all that "one punch man" training with Izuku had paid off. I was toned, lean. My arms had defined muscles, my legs were strong enough to kick a stubborn vending machine (or a certain Pomeranian) into orbit.
Izuku was still a nervous wreck, but he was also surprisingly healthy now. He looked more or less like Izuku from the entrance exam, and he, too, still had to hit puberty, talk about unfairness. His "training log" had turned into an encyclopedia of hero analysis, and he could actually do more than 50 push-ups without collapsing. Bakugo, of course, was still Bakugo. His explosions were bigger, louder, and his ego had expanded to roughly the size of Texas.
Our "friendship" was... complicated. It was less "friendship" and more "mutually aggressive co-existence." Bakugo still called me "extra" or "Roach-Girl" but he stopped trying to blow me up on sight. Sometimes, he even listened when I told him his tactics were dumb. We were less "friends" and more "battle partners who occasionally tolerate each other." Izuku, bless his heart, was the glue that kept us from detonating each other on a daily basis.
There was also this weird thing with the girls in class. They were always looking at me. Whispering. Sometimes, they'd giggle; sometimes, they'd just glare. I figured it was just middle school bullshit. Kid drama. Whatever. I had bigger fish to catch.
My manga. Ah, my glorious, secret manga empire. Seven years, and I hadn't published a single panel. It turns out, being a ten-year-old girl (even an adult-brained one) trying to pitch a gritty shonen epic about giant titans and morally ambiguous heroes is a hard sell. Editors just thought I was "precocious" or "simply ignored me once they hear my age" So, I was stuck hoarding my masterpieces.
Right now, I was deep into the Attack on Titan arc, specifically, the final stretch. I had just finished the storyboard for Hange's death scene. It was brutal. Gut-wrenching. I swear I almost cried sketching it out. And once it gets published. It was going to be my magnum opus.
The bell blared, ripping me out of my creative angst. Lunchtime. Everyone immediately swarmed out of the classroom like startled pigeons. I carefully closed my notebook, sliding the precious storyboards under my desk. Can't have anyone spoiling the future.
As I gathered my stuff, I saw Bakugo storming out.
"Oi, Bakugo!" I called, jogging to catch up.
He stopped, turning his head just enough to glare at me. "What do you want, Roach-Girl? Did you forget how to walk to the cafeteria?"
I fell into step beside him, bumping his shoulder. "Nah. Just wondering if the King of Aldera was going to bless me with a loan for some extra snacks."
"A loan?! You got your own damn money! Stop trying to freeload, you hag!"
"Hag? I'm literally the same age as you! Besides, I'm doing you a favour. I'm letting you pay for the privilege of my company. Consider it... an investment in future emotional support."
"I DON'T NEED YOUR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT, YOU WALKING BOMB!" His palms sparked. Huh… talk about hypocrisy.
"Sure you don't," I said, rolling my eyes. "Now, are you getting the spicy yakisoba or the chicken katsu today? I heard the katsu is pretty good."
We bickered our way through the crowded hallway, our voices probably irritating everyone around us. It was our routine. His two goons, who were always trailing him, looked like they were used to it.
In the cafeteria, Bakugo slammed his tray down. I sat across from him, swiping a piece of his fried chicken.
"HEY! THOSE ARE MINE!"
"Sharing is caring, Sparky. Besides, you eat like a garbage disposal. You won't even notice it's gone."
He growled, but didn't actually try to blast me. Progress. We ate, occasionally throwing insults and food at each other (mostly him). His goons just sat there, occasionally nodding.
After lunch, with my stomach pleasantly full of pilfered chicken, I headed back to class. I was thinking about the next page of tragic demise, already sketching out the panel in my head.
I pushed open the classroom door and walked to my desk.
My eyes widened.
Ink. Black, viscous ink. It wasn't just smeared across the top of my desk. It had soaked through my bag, which was sitting beside it. And the worst part... the ink had seeped into the stack of rough sketches underneath. My Attack on Titan storyboards. Hange's final moments. All of it.
Destroyed.
Something in me snapped. It wasn't just anger. It was a cold, pure, unadulterated rage that felt like it came from the very core of my soul. I could feel the tingling in my palms, but it wasn't the pleasant hum of kinetic energy. It was a vibrating, burning fury.