The weather is nice today.
You walk along the sidewalk, alone. Usually the path was crowded with students clad in the same uniform as yours, the benches occupied by couples flirting and hugging or friends talking and giggling. You were among them, once, smiling and chatting up a storm.
Now, the sight of them always made you a bit jealous.
When you reach the main school building, you scan your student ID and unlock the glass doors. You slip in quietly and make your way up the stairs. Your first class is math. The familiar door comes into view, chestnut-colored wood with a singular rectangular window, giving you a peek inside. You are an hour and a half late, but your teacher is kind and accommodating.
You walk past it anyways.
Trudging up three flights of stairs, you finally reach your destination. Your eyes light up triumphantly, but sadly the feeling is fleeting and dies down fast. You pull your ID out again and bring it up to the scanner. It beeps twice, before displaying the routine error message.
Access denied. You click your tongue at the familiar text and stuff your card back in your bag. Whatever. Not like it's stopped me before.
Closing your eyes, you can see the area beyond the door: the roof. You reach for it and pull yourself through the expanse, past the door and onto the concrete flooring on the top of the school. The space around you warps and shifts to accommodate your sudden transfer. When you open your eyes, you find yourself taking in the view of the roof, surrounded by a flimsy chain link fence, and sigh in disappointment. Your Quirk has worked perfectly--again.
How boring.
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"Every period you will change classes. Your schedules are all the same, so help each other out."
Akiko leads the foreign students through the halls. She approaches a door and pushes it open, revealing an empty room. In the front are three large screens and a single desk and podium, dwarfed by the sheer size of the room. They face rows and rows of long tables, with seats lined up nicely behind them. Each row is raised higher than the one before it, like stairs.
"All first-floor classes are subjects that are lecture-based, like history and ethics. Instead of classrooms, we use lecture halls."
She shows them a class on the second floor. It is a normal classroom, with individual desks facing a larger one and a whiteboard at the front. "Second-floor and third-floor classes are the same, and are more hands-on work. Mathematics and certain hero studies, for example."
As she finishes speaking, a bell rings through the building. Muffled voices suddenly sound from the other classrooms before their doors burst open and students in gray uniforms fill the halls. Some glance at class 1-A curiously, but all of them choose not to approach the new faces and make their way down the stairs. Some stay, whispering and giggling; they steal quick glances at the young heroes-in-training, then turn back to each other, chattering in rapid-fire English.
"The bell. . .what is it for?" Iida asks their guide.
"It's our lunch break. We get 45 minutes to eat, longer if you don't have a class after. You all do, though," the tan-skinned girl replies. "Perfect timing, too. That just about wraps everything up. The cafeteria is in an extension of the bottom floor. There are tables inside, but you could eat anywhere. I have duties as the student president, so if you'll excuse me."
Akiko leaves quickly, leaving behind a class of bewildered students in her wake. They stare after her until she disappears from sight, then turn to each other nervously.
"Should we go to the cafeteria then. . .?" Midoriya mumbles to his friends. Todoroki, Iida, and Uraraka nod in agreement, and begin to make their way to the stairs.
"Oh, Midoriya! Wait up!" Kirishima jogs to join them, an angry ash blond trailing behind the red-haired teen. "Let's go together!"
"Like hell we're going together!" Bakugou snaps, but makes no move to leave.
"Well, we're all headed the same way, so why not?" Ashido grins, and 1-A gathers together again, walking towards the bottom floor.
---------
"Have a good day!"
"You too," you mumble out of reflex, opening one of your bags and peering at the contents inside. Simple groceries, like meat, vegetables, and fruits fill it to the brim. You close it and look in the other one, moving aside the milk and bread to reach what you wanted. Feeling around, you graze the metal tin before tugging it out, revealing a small container of wet dog food.
I wonder if she ate the last ones.
You leave the block where the grocery store is and check your phone. At school, it would be around the end of third period right now, half an hour before lunch started.
"Ah."
Lost in your thoughts, you pass the alleyway. Retracing your steps, you stop in between a rundown apartment complex and a small floral shop, and enter the gap between the buildings.
The alleyway is dark and gray, despite it being bright out. The mood shifts from warm streets to somber shade. On the ground is an array of thin metal cans, each empty and reeking. You could read the labels if you looked closely. They are all dog food, in a variety of different flavors.
"You must've been hungry. I brought some more," you call. As usual, there is no reply. You walk forward until you reach the end of the alley and kneel down to peer inside the trashed cardboard box laying on its side.
Immediately, you hear growling and snapping. You frown.
"Come on," you coax softly. Opening the container in your hands, you nudge it forward. "I know you've been eating them."
"[Name]?"
Turning your head, your gaze meets an elderly man's. He is wearing a black apron over his blue tee and gray slacks, and holds a broom in both of his shaking hands. "Mr. Evans. Good morning."
The owner of the adjacent flower shop huffs. "Don't 'good morning' me, [Name]. What are you doing out of school?" he chides. He walks over slowly, but stops when he sees what you are sitting in front of. "You skipped school just to feed that dog again?"
"Yeah," you mutter, slightly guilty, and poke at the food again. The growling only increases in volume.
Mr. Evans is quiet. "She's been eating it. I see the empty containers when I leave her water," he informs you, and you nod. A moment of silence passes before he speaks up again. "It's kind of you, to bring her food every day. You can't see right now, but she's getting less skinny."
Your eyebrows push together. "Kind," you repeat, trying out the word, "I don't do it out of kindness." No, it is the opposite--it is because I am selfish. You do not add that in.
Thankfully, Mr. Evans does not press further. He simply nods, before hobbling back to his store. "I see. Well, have a good one, [Name]. Don't forget to visit your mom. She's been asking for you." He disappears around the corner.
You tense. Your grip on the plastic bag tightens, and it crinkles in indignation. A bubble of impatience rises in your stomach and you suddenly want to take it out on someone.
"Eat it," you snap angrily at the dog, whose snarls had lessened during your chat. Irritated, you grab the container and shove it in the box. "I don't have time for this. . .!"
She bites you.
"Shit--!"
You recoil, dropping the food, and cradle your bleeding arm. Your mood only worsens and you resist the urge to break the closest thing to you--which happened to be the unfortunate canine snapping angrily in its box. "You damn mutt--!"
You cut yourself off. Your rage has suddenly died down, and in its place a strange weariness has filled you. You lean against the wall of the apartment buildings. It feels wondrously cool. Sliding down, you bury your face in your hands. "I'm sorry," you say, "I didn't mean that."
The silence that follows is deafening. "You don't have to say it," you whisper, desperate to break it. "I know I don't deserve to be a hero."
You do not hear the quiet sounds of a parched tongue lapping at the food as the poor excuse of a pet hungrily devoured the meat. You are too caught up in yourself.
How disgustingly selfish.