Chapter 4: Roots and Trajectories
The dining chair groaned under Kuma's weight, a familiar protest that had become the soundtrack of their evening meals. The kitchen was small, or perhaps it was just that the occupants were large.
Across the table sat his father, Soran. He was a man carved from the same heavy timber as his son—broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with hands that looked like they could crush boulders but were currently delicate enough to peel a mandarin orange.
Dinner was a hearty beef stew, thick and steaming. For a long while, the only sounds were the clinking of spoons against ceramic and the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator.
"You are quiet tonight, Bartholomew," Soran said. His voice was a deep rumble, lower even than Kuma's, like the shifting of tectonic plates. "Did something happen at school?"
Kuma paused, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. "I made a new friend. His name is Vlad."
"A good name," Soran nodded approvingly. "And?"
"And... we spoke of the future." Kuma set his spoon down. He looked at his father, really looked at him—at the grey beginning to streak his temples, and the way his massive frame seemed to shrink slightly to fit into the domestic space of their home. "Father, do you think it is possible to be a hero and still see the world? To not be tethered to one city?"
Soran stopped peeling the orange. He looked at his son with an unreadable expression, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood up, the floorboards creaking, and walked over to the small bookshelf in the living room.
He didn't pull out a map or a dusty old tome. He reached behind a row of cookbooks and retrieved a small, rectangular object.
He returned to the table and slid it across the wood.
It was a photograph. The colors were faded, shifting toward sepia, the edges curled by time and humidity.
Kuma picked it up with his large, bare fingers. The image showed a young man—his father, but lighter, grinning with a reckless joy that Kuma had never seen. He was standing waist-deep in a river, surrounded by dense, verdant jungle foliage that looked nothing like the manicured trees of Japan. In the background, a massive waterfall crashed down, and exotic birds were blurred streaks of color in the sky.
"The Amazon," Soran said softly. "I was twenty-two."
Kuma's eyes widened behind his glasses. "You... you traveled?"
"I had a Quirk that made me durable. I thought the world was mine for the taking," Soran said, sitting back down. "I wanted to see everything. The rainforests, the deserts, the frozen tundras. I spent three years drifting, working odd jobs, helping people where I could."
"Why did you stop?" Kuma asked. "Why did you come back here?"
Soran looked around the small kitchen. He looked at the bubbling pot on the stove, the calendar on the wall marked with bill due dates, and finally, at his son.
"Because a ship needs an anchor, Bartholomew," Soran said gently. "Traveling is freedom, yes. But it is also lonely. When your mother fell ill... when I knew I was going to have a family... I realized that I couldn't be a leaf in the wind anymore. Someone had to stay. Someone had to build the walls that keep the storm out."
He reached across the table and placed his large hand over Kuma's hand, careful not to touch the pads.
"I gave up the horizon so I could give you a home. That is the responsibility of a father."
Kuma looked at the photo, then at his father's rough hand. He understood now. The stillness of his father wasn't a lack of ambition; it was a deliberate act of strength. It was the strength of a foundation holding up a house.
"But you," Soran continued, a gleam entering his eye. "You have the potential to be more than a foundation. If you wish to be the ship, if you wish to sail where I could not... then you must be strong enough to weather the waves."
"I want to go," Kuma said, his voice firm. "I want to see the Amazon. And London. And all of it."
"Then eat your stew," Soran smiled, pushing the bowl closer. "You will need the calories."
The weekend brought a different kind of lesson.
Under the bridge by the riverbank, the grass was long and green. It was a secluded spot, away from the prying eyes of the public. Kuma had already set his glasses aside in his backpack; he didn't need fine details for this, only motion and reaction.
"Okay, Big Guy! Incoming!"
Kenji, the monkey-boy, launched himself from a concrete pillar. He was fast, his tail acting as a counterbalance as he swung a wooden practice sword they had found.
Kuma stood in the center of the clearing. He didn't move his feet. He watched Kenji's trajectory.
"Too linear," Kuma murmured.
Just as the wooden sword came down, Kuma's hand flicked upward. He simply positioned his hand so the paw pad intercepted the weapon.
Pop.
The sword bounced off with immediate, jarring force. Kenji yelped as the vibration traveled up his arms, and he was sent tumbling backward into the grass.
"My turn!" Ren shrieked. The bat-boy swooped in from the side, throwing a handful of pebbles.
Kuma's hands moved in a blur—left, right, left.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The pebbles reversed course, scattering harmlessly into the river like skipping stones.
"He's impenetrable!" Vlad gasped from the sidelines, where he was holding the water bottles. "It's like trying to punch a mirror!"
Kuma lowered his hands.
"Again," Kuma said, his voice steady. "But this time, try to attack from two angles at once."
"You asked for it!" Kenji grinned, dusting off his shorts.
As his friends circled him, laughing and plotting their strategy, Kuma shook his head slightly.
"This level is insufficient," Kuma stated, his deep voice cutting through their playful planning. "If we intend to pass the U.A. entrance exam, we need more intensity. Again."
He raised his palms, the pink pads glowing softly in the sunlight.
"Come."
.
.