Chapter Text
U.A. carried an almost mythic weight in the public imagination—towering glass facades, sunlight flashing off hero costumes, and students pushing their limits on training fields until sweat dripped onto the turf.
People imagined strength drills so intense they left bruises, and ethics lectures where future pros learned how to speak to the public with perfect composure.
They never pictured the support labs.
No one thought about the sweat that came from standing too close to a furnace for six hours because the steel wouldn't temper right. No one imagined students slumped over drafting tablets at 3 a.m., arguing over torque values while their coffee went cold.
No one knew there were classes that taught how not to flinch when a client rejected a month of work, how to smile and say Of course, we'll rework it, even when your soul fell straight through the floor.
The hero course trained for the spotlight.
Support trained for everything that happened when it went out.
From this angle, being a U.A. student lacked the gilded sheen the world imagined.
When people asked, with that expectant spark in their eyes:
"Hero course?"
You would answer, simply:
"Support."
And in that heartbeat of silence afterward, you could see it—the subtle shift, the downward reevaluation, as though an invisible rank had been adjusted.
Not because they meant to belittle you.
Just because they didn't know better.
They didn't understand that someone had to brew the alloys, calculate the stress tolerances, and build the armor that allowed heroes to charge into danger and come back standing.
They didn't see the burns on your gloves, the graphite smudges on your sleeves, the blueprints stacked like battle plans.
But you understood.
Your classmates understood—every last one of them, running on caffeine and passion and that same stubborn, spark-spitting drive.
And Power Loader, your homeroom teacher, understood most of all, watching from behind his mask like a blacksmith god who had seen a thousand heroes rise and fall... knowing none of them would have survived without someone like you at their back.
By the mid of the first sem, the support lab had stopped resembling a workspace and begun evolving into a scrapyard cathedral. Every flat surface was occupied—tables hidden under half-assembled harnesses, shelves bowing beneath the weight of reinforced gauntlets, and the floor... well, the floor hadn't been seen in weeks.
Wires sprawled like vines in an abandoned temple, coiling across walkways with the lazy confidence of creatures that knew they owned the place. Half-disassembled prototypes jutted from bins and boxes like mechanical fossils. Someone's half-forgotten heat regulator hummed ominously from beneath a pile of testing notes. The lab smelled of solder, oil, and burnt resin.
Some of your classmates had given up trying to step safely through the chaos and resorted to using their quirks to bypass the problem entirely—floating, phasing, shrinking, or just straight-up jet-booting over the debris. It was convenient, sure, but it had the unfortunate effect of setting off Power Loader like a landmine every single time.
He would storm in, voice booming over the industrial fans:
"THIS IS A PROFESSIONAL WORK ENVIRONMENT—NOT A DEATH TRAP WITH STUDENTS!"
And then came the lecture.
About safety protocols.
About workplace standards.
About how real laboratories didn't need daily rescue missions.
The breaking point came when he walked in one evening, took one sweeping look at the battlefield of abandoned brilliance, and declared in a flat, ominous voice:
"We're throwing everything out."
The reaction was instant.
Twenty high-achieving teenagers stared at him with the same expression as civilians watching a city collapsing.
And right in the middle of the room, Hatsume Mei dramatically dropped to her knees, clutching a smoke-stained prototype like a child about to be torn from her mother.
"MY BABIES!"
She wailed loud enough to rattle the ventilation ducts, snot and tears threatening to short-circuit her own support goggles.
As the only person who could call her a friend (and survive it), you immediately began brainstorming solutions at machine-gun speed. Storage rotations. Exhibition shelving. Structural reinforcement of the ceiling. Renting a warehouse.
Power Loader rejected every one with dead-eyed patience.
It wasn't until you, half-defeated and thinking out loud, said:
"...what if we just give the extras to the hero course for free?"
that he actually paused.
You could practically hear the gears turning behind his mask.
It would clear space.
It would put functioning equipment into real hands.
It would stop Mei from chaining herself to a rack inside the lab in protest.
He exhaled.
"Fine. But only working prototypes. No unstable death traps."
Mei sniffed, wiped her face on her sleeve, and declared the plan a stroke of genius.
And by morning, word had spread.
The hero students came like starving wolves who had just scented a buffet—wide-eyed, energized, and ready to fight each other to get the coolest toys before someone else did.
Black Friday had nothing on U.A.'s first unofficial support garage sale.
The air thrummed with chatter, clattering metal, and the shrieks of equipment being tested by people who did not read instructions. Class A and B packed the workshop shoulder-to-shoulder, shoving, negotiating, comparing, and grabbing like stock traders in the middle of a crash.
If someone walked in without context, they might have assumed U.A. was holding a second festival. Maybe even a riot.
You positioned yourself near the back where the lights weren't harsh. Plastic crates were stacked neatly in front of you, each one labeled in tidy, deliberate hand:
Offensive Tools
Resistance Gear
Thermal Regulation Units
Mobility Enhancers
Auxiliary Modules
And set a polite distance away, in much smaller letters:
Do Not Activate Indoors – No, Seriously.
You sat fully suited—mask down, gloves thick, boots solid. This was simply how you operated.
At least here, covered head to toe, you didn't feel out of place. U.A. was a collection of walking biology experiments. Hell, you even saw a student whose head was a glue bottle.
Compared to all of that, a fully-suited gearhead barely registered as strange.
As you scanned the chaos, faces jumped out—familiar ones.
Some of these students had been finalists in the U.A. Sports Festival.
Unlike you.
Your grand debut had lasted roughly two-point-three seconds.
The moment the starting signal fired in the obstacle race, Todoroki had swept out a glacier's worth of ice and frozen half your class in place. You never even made it out of the tunnel—just stood there, trapped in shadow, thinking:
Well... I was sweaty anyway.
You'd watched the rest of the race on a monitor while thawing out.
Honestly? It spared you national humiliation, so you counted it as a win.
A sudden blur of pink caught your eye.
Ashido squeezed between two other students, grinning like she was here for a treasure hunt. Behind her came Kaminari, looking one power surge away from disaster, and Kirishima, politely apologising as his shoulders bumped two people at once.
And at their center—expression already set to "here against my will"—
Bakugo Katsuki.
Three semifinalists... and Bakugo, the champion. If he hadn't immediately radiated the fury of winning, you might have actually congratulated him.
Instead, you just made a quick mental inventory of what they might need.
Ashido—acid dispersion.
Kaminari—conduction stabilization.
Kirishima—impact reinforcement.
Bakugo...
Your eyes flicked over him, assessing without meaning to.
Thermal control support, if he'd listen.
Mina leaned her palms on the edge of your booth.
"So," she drawled with an exaggerated flourish, "rumour says you're the genius in charge of today's goodies?"
"That's me. And I have just the right tool for you."
You reached into a crate and lifted a device—sleek, wrist-mounted, with a pressure-adjusting spraying system and an acid-resistant channeling plate.
"This stabiliser was designed for corrosive outputs," you explained. "It prevents accidental overcorrosion and improves directional precision. Great for close-quarters work or environments where collateral damage is a concern."
Mina's jaw dropped. "You made that? For real?"
"It's brand new," you admitted. "I'd prefer it not get used on a wall first. Or a classmate."
Mina bounced on her heels. "I'll take it! I'll totally respect the lab and—"
"Already used your one pick," Kirishima warned. He looked like the guy to follow every rule to the T.
To avoid hoarding, the support class unanimously voted on a "One student, One gadget" rule.
Mina froze mid-bounce, betrayal etched across her face. "Shimaaaa!!"
You hummed thoughtfully. "Rules are rules. But I'll put it aside. If any unclaimed items remain at the end of the day, it's yours."
Mina saluted you like she had just been granted military clearance. "You're an angel."
You nodded, the fabric making a heavy noise with the movement.
Kaminari leaned over your crates. "So uh... hypothetically—what would you recommend for someone with—"
"Explosions," Kirishima supplied, throwing his friend directly under the bus.
The three of them turned toward Bakugo.
Bakugou looked murderously offended by the situation—jaw clenched, nostrils flared, shoulders tight, eyes looking off towards the exit. He had the expression of a woman in her 40s discovering that her burger still had pickles even though she asked twice 'no pickles!'.
You suspected, from that look alone, that no one's offerings today had impressed him.
"...Tch. All this crap's just stupid Doraemon gadgets."
Kaminari audibly gasped. "HEY. Doraemon is NOT stupid."
"That's your issue with what I said?" Bakugo snapped.
You cleared your throat and interjected before a war of anime opinions broke out in front of your workstation.
"Explosion-type quirk users typically need assistance with two primary issues."
Bakugo's eye twitched as if physically offended that you were offering analysis.
You calmly continued.
"One, recoil strain. Overuse tends to cause joint stress—elbow, shoulder, occasionally wrist depending on technique. Two, overheating from sustained output—"
Bakugo cut you off immediately, arms crossing with the defensive energy of someone protesting a murder charge.
"I don't overheat."
Kirishima winced like someone watching their friend lie under oath.
You paused.
"...Every explosion user overheats."
"You deaf? I said I don't," Bakugo insisted, tone daring you to say otherwise.
Behind him, Ashido whispered with the subtlety of a foghorn:
"He totally does."
"I CAN HEAR YOU, RACOON EYES!"
You nodded once, unbothered.
"Well, for an explosion user who hypothetically does not overheat, I'd recommend a stabiliser brace. Something to offset torque during recoil."
Bakugo scoffed loudly.
Then his gaze finally flicked to one of your crates, and his hand twitched.
He could pretend all he wanted—he was absolutely searching for something that worked, and probably hadn't found it yet.
You leaned one elbow on the table.
"If you want something that boosts output without straining your wrists, I might have a prototype that fits."
Bakugo's snapped back to you like a dog hearing a treat bag rustle.
He tried to hide it under a scowl.
"Tch. Show me then."
Kaminari grinned wide enough to show molars.
"Ohhh damn—Cinderella finally found a shoe that fits!"
Bakugo's glared.
"You want me to beat your face?"
The dark blond threw his hands up and laughed. "Just saying!"
You unlatched a reinforced case and extracted a pair of slim black braces—smaller than they looked, meant to sit flush beneath the gauntlet without affecting his range of motion.
"These mount under your hero gear," you explained. "The stabilizers disperse recoil and the heat channels—"
"I know how to install braces," he grumbled, snatching one from your hand. "Not a moron."
You blinked once, unoffended.
He was halfway through examining a joint in the brace when his gaze finally dragged up—really seeing you up close for the first time.
Full protective gear.
Helmet, tinted visor, winter UA gym clothes in the middle of summer in the sardine packed room.
Not a centimeter of exposed skin.
He stiffened.
"What—you working in a damn furnace, freak?"
Kaminari sucked air through his teeth. "Dude!"
Kirishima swatted Bakugo's arm, scandalized. "You can't just say that!"
You simply answered, voice even through the cloth:
"Occupational safety."
Bakugo huffed like OSHA regulations personally offended him, then shoved the braces into the pockets of his pants with zero ceremony.
"I'm done. You two finished?"
His friends stared at him like he'd just walked out without paying the bill.
Kaminari spluttered, "Dude, you could at least say—like—thanks!?"
Kirishima shook his head with a sigh. "Man, you're impossible..."
Bakugo ignored both of them, already turning toward the door.
Mina lingered for a heartbeat, offering you a small, apologetic smile.
"Sorry," she said under her breath. "He's actually nicer than he looks—just... y'know. Bakugo."
You gave a thumbs-up—it was easier than forcing your voice through the helmet again.
Mina grinned and bowed dramatically.
"Thank you—seriously. We'll put your work to good use."
Then she jogged after the boys, leaving you with your crates, the hum of the lab, and the faintest spark of amusement behind the visor.
He hadn't thanked you.
But he'd taken the braces.
Which, in Bakugo language, was practically a love letter.