Chapter 34: Hero Names, Internship Choices, and a Very Serious Stench
The air in Class 1-A's homeroom was fundamentally different. Two days of rest had done little to quell the restless, kinetic energy buzzing under the surface. The Sports Festival had been a crucible; it had forged rivalries, exposed weaknesses, and ignited ambitions. The students were no longer just classmates; they were competitors who had tasted the roar of the crowd and the bitter reality of their own limits. The afternoon sun streamed through the massive windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, carrying the faint, clean smell of chalk and the charged scent of ozone that always seemed to linger around so many powerful Quirks.
The classroom door slid open with a theatrical flourish, and the R-Rated Hero, Midnight, strode in, the sound of her heels a sharp, commanding rhythm on the polished floor.
"Now that you've all had a taste of the big leagues," she announced, her voice a purr that nonetheless commanded absolute attention, "it's time to take the next step. It's time to choose your hero codenames. The names you will be known by for the rest of your careers!"
A wave of excited murmurs rippled through the class. This was it. This was the moment their abstract dreams began to solidify into a professional identity.
The process was a wonderful, chaotic portrait of their personalities. Yuga Aoyama presented his name with a pose that nearly blinded the front row. "I am the hero who cannot stop twinkling! My name is… 'I Cannot Stop Twinkling'!"
"That's a sentence, not a name," Midnight said flatly, though with a hint of amusement. "Shorten it."
Mina Ashido bounced to the front. "I've got the perfect one! 'Alien Queen'!"
"Hold on," Midnight countered, tapping her chin. "Are you referring to the creature from that old horror film with the acid blood? Because it's a truly terrifying monster, and I'm not sure you want that association." Mina trudged back to her seat, dejected.
The choices came thick and fast. Tsuyu Asui, with her usual straightforward charm, chose "Froppy." Eijiro Kirishima, his eyes shining with passion, chose "Red Riot," a heartfelt tribute to his personal idol, the Chivalrous Hero: Crimson Riot.
Then came Katsuki Bakugo. He stomped to the podium, a feral grin on his face. He slammed his whiteboard down. Written in angry, explosive script were the words: "King Explosion Murder."
Midnight's whip-like pointer tapped the board. "That's far too violent and villainous."
"WHAT?!" Bakugo roared. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH IT?!"
"Everything. Try again."
He furiously erased it and scribbled a new name: "Lord Explosion Murder."
From the corner of the room, Aizawa, who had been grading papers, spoke without looking up. "Just call yourself 'Human Grenade' and sit down."
The emotional peak of the session arrived when it was Midoriya's turn. He walked to the front, his hands trembling slightly as he held up his board. The entire class leaned forward. On it was written a single, simple word: "Deku."
A murmur of confusion went through the class. Bakugo's head snapped up, a look of pure, unadulterated rage and disbelief on his face.
"Midoriya-kun?" Kirishima asked gently. "Are you sure? Isn't that… you know…"
Midoriya took a deep, shaky breath. "I know," he said, his voice quiet but clear. "For my entire life, this name has been an insult. It was a word someone used to tell me I was useless." He glanced briefly at Bakugo, then his eyes found Uraraka's, and he gave her a small, grateful smile. "But… someone changed the meaning for me. They showed me that it could mean something else entirely." He looked out at his classmates, his expression now firm with resolve. "To me, this name now sounds like… 'You can do it.' So I'm going to make it my name. The hero name, 'Deku'."
The room was silent for a moment, the weight of his declaration settling over them. Then, a wave of admiration. He had taken a scar and turned it into a shield.
While the next generation of heroes was forging their identities, the current generation was dealing with a ghost. In the sterile, sound-proofed quiet of Principal Nezu's office, the atmosphere was heavy. The only sound was the soft hum of the air purifier. On the large monitor was the grim face of Detective Tsukauchi.
"The investigation has hit a wall," the detective reported, his voice tired. "The villain, Muscular, is still at large. We believe he was gravely injured, but he managed to escape before a proper perimeter could be established. As for the perpetrator… it's a phantom."
He summarized the dead ends. The hysterical, contradictory witness accounts. The security footage, conveniently wiped by an energy surge they couldn't trace. The complete lack of any forensic evidence.
"It's as if he was never there," Tsukauchi concluded. "Whoever this person is, they are either the luckiest individual on the planet, or they operate with a level of precision that is… deeply unsettling."
The call ended, leaving the three U.A. staff members in silence.
"It was him," Aizawa stated, not as a theory, but as a fact. "The lack of evidence is the evidence. No Quirk leaves no trace. Only he could do something so catastrophic so… cleanly."
"This is a grave complication," Nezu said, his small, beady eyes reflecting the city lights from his panoramic window. "Our 'secret weapon' theory is holding the media at bay, but this second identity, this 'Hooded Finger-Flicker,' is an uncontrollable variable. We cannot be blind. Passive observation is no longer sufficient." The weight of his next words was palpable. "I am authorizing a new protocol. We need to know where he goes when he leaves this campus. We need a discreet, mobile surveillance team."
Toshinori looked pained. The ethics of it were a nightmare. But the alternative—letting a walking, reality-breaking force wander their city unchecked—was far worse.
Saitama's day had been long and uneventful. He had spent most of it touching up the paint on various handrails around the campus. He returned to his small, spartan dorm room, looking forward to a quiet evening. The moment he opened the door, however, he was hit by a wall of stench.
It was a truly complex and horrifying odor. A foul, sickly-sweet smell, like seafood that had been forgotten in a hot car, layered with a sharp, acidic tang of decay that stung the back of his throat.
His face scrunched up in disgust. He was a man who had faced down subterranean monsters and cosmic warlords, but this was a different kind of horror. This was a domestic terror.
His investigation began immediately. He sniffed the air like a bloodhound, his head darting around. He checked the tiny trash can under his sink—not the source. He opened his laundry basket; it smelled of sweat and old socks, but it was not the foul demon he was hunting. He dropped to his hands and knees, peering into the dark abyss under his bed. Nothing but a single, lonely dust bunny.
His frustration grew. This was illogical. An odor of this magnitude had to have a source. He was about to give up and just open a window when his eyes landed on a plastic grocery bag, crumpled and forgotten behind a small bookshelf. He remembered now. In his haste to put away the pork and cabbage after the incident, he must have dropped it.
He approached it with the caution of a bomb disposal expert. He pinched the top of the bag with his thumb and forefinger and lifted it. Inside was a package of squid he had bought on a whim because it was on sale. It was no longer solid. It had devolved into a grotesque, grayish, semi-liquid state, shimmering with a faint, putrid sheen. It was the heart of the darkness.
As a triumphant Midoriya writes his new hero name, "Deku," on the classroom board, a symbol of his future. In his office, Nezu signs a document, authorizing the budget for "Project Chimera: Phase Two - Mobile Surveillance."
And in his dorm room, Saitama marches to the large outdoor dumpster, holding the leaking bag of abominable squid at arm's length. With a grunt of victory, he drops it in, closing the lid on the foul mystery. He had, in his own small, smelly way, saved the day.
Chapter 35: Departures, Discreet Tails, and a Defective Toaster
The great, vaulted ceiling of the Musutafu Central Train Station echoed with a symphony of departure. It was a grand, cavernous space where the rumble of arriving trains was a constant, deep vibration felt in the soles of your feet, and the sharp, electronic chime of the departure boards was a ceaseless melody of comings and goings. The air smelled of clean, metallic ozone from the tracks, mingling with the savory steam of pork buns from a nearby kiosk and the faint, sweet scent of coffee. It was a place of a thousand hellos and a million goodbyes, and today, it served as the launching point for the futures of Class 1-A.
Dotted among the swirling sea of anonymous travelers, the students stood out in their crisp U.A. uniforms, each a small island of nervous, excited energy.
"You guys, be safe out there!" Mina Ashido wailed, giving a teary-eyed hug to Kirishima, whose own eyes were suspiciously watery.
"Of course! We will return as manlier men!" Kirishima declared, thumping his chest. "You too, Ashido! Be the manliest… uh… woman you can be!"
Nearby, a more serious and poignant farewell was taking place. Midoriya, Uraraka, and Iida stood together, their train schedules a tangible countdown to their temporary separation.
"I still can't believe you're going to Gunhead's agency, Uraraka-san," Midoriya said, his voice a mix of admiration and awe. "His martial arts are incredible. You're going to learn so much."
Uraraka clenched a fist, a determined fire in her usually soft eyes. "I have to," she said, her voice firm. "After the festival… I realized I can't just rely on my Quirk. I was too much of a one-trick pony. I need to get stronger. I need to be able to fight." Her ambition was a palpable thing, a quiet declaration that she was more than just the "floating girl."
They both turned to Iida, who stood as ramrod straight as ever, his suitcase placed perfectly parallel to his feet.
"And you, Iida-kun," Midoriya began, his voice softer, laced with concern. "Your internship is in the Hosu district, right? That's where…"
He didn't need to finish. The shadow of the Hero Killer, Stain, loomed over the conversation. Iida's expression, usually so open and earnest, was a carefully constructed mask of formality.
"Indeed," he said, his voice clipped. "There is a prestigious hero agency in Hosu that has extended an offer to me. It is a valuable opportunity to learn from experienced professionals in a high-activity area." He was speaking like a textbook, but his hands, clenched tightly at his sides, betrayed the truth. The knuckles were white. His eyes, behind his glasses, held a cold, hard glint that hadn't been there before.
Uraraka saw it. Midoriya saw it. This wasn't about learning. It was about revenge.
"Iida-kun…" Uraraka started, reaching a hand out. "If you're ever in trouble, please… call us. Don't try to handle things by yourself."
Iida's mask cracked for a fraction of a second. He offered a stiff, appreciative nod. "Of course. We are classmates. Now, I must be going. My train departs in three minutes."
He turned and walked away without another word, his back rigid, his destination not an internship, but a hunt. As a final, shrill train horn blasted through the station, the remaining students waved their final goodbyes and boarded their own trains, each one a vessel carrying them towards an unknown, and dangerous, future.
In a cramped, stuffy, and completely anonymous-looking surveillance van parked on a quiet side street two blocks from the U.A. campus, Shota Aizawa was contemplating the series of life choices that had led him to this moment. The van smelled of stale coffee, overheated electronics, and Present Mic's offensively loud coconut-scented hair gel. The only light came from the green glow of a half-dozen monitors, displaying various camera feeds of the street outside.
Aizawa was wearing a dark blue fishing hat that did nothing to hide his exhausted glare, and a pair of sunglasses despite being in a dark, windowless van. It was, he had been assured by Nezu, for "plausible deniability."
"Okay, Watchtower is operational!" Present Mic whispered, his voice still managing to be three times louder than necessary. He was wearing a truly hideous Hawaiian shirt and a large, fake, bushy mustache that drooped slightly to one side. "All visuals are green! We are a go for Operation: Toaster Recon!"
Aizawa let out a sigh so heavy it felt like it might collapse a lung. "Firstly," he grumbled, his voice a low rasp. "Stop calling yourself 'Watchtower.' Secondly, stop calling it 'Operation: Toaster Recon.' And thirdly, just be quiet."
On the main monitor, a figure emerged from the U.A. gates. It was Saitama, wearing his gray hoodie and carrying a reusable shopping bag.
"THE EAGLE IS ON THE MOVE!" Mic hissed, furiously scribbling in a notebook. "I repeat, the Eagle has left the nest! His trajectory is… westbound on foot!"
"He's going to the electronics store, you idiot," Aizawa said, rubbing his temples. "Just like we predicted. Because his toaster is broken. This is the least clandestine operation in the history of espionage."
For the next ten minutes, they trailed him from a distance. It was the most excruciatingly boring ten minutes of Aizawa's life. Mic, however, treated every moment like a scene from a spy thriller.
"Target has paused at the crosswalk!" Mic reported breathlessly. "Is he meeting a contact?! Making a dead drop?!"
"He's waiting for the light to change, Mic."
"He's petting a stray cat! It could be a carrier! The cat could have a message for him!"
"It's a cat."
"He's entering the objective! The Eagle is in the building!"
Aizawa just sank lower in his swiveling chair, pulled his hat down, and wondered if it was too late to fake a sudden, debilitating illness.
The inside of the "Big Amp" electronics superstore was an assault on the senses. A colossal wall of high-definition televisions, fifty screens wide, blasted a kaleidoscope of bright, strobing commercials, each with its own blaring soundtrack. The speaker section was a cacophony of thumping bass and screeching pop music. The air was cool and sterile, smelling faintly of plastic and ozone.
Saitama stood in the toaster aisle, his expression one of profound, existential despair.
His problem was simple. His old toaster, a reliable companion for years, had developed a fault. The left heating element now burned with the heat of a thousand suns, while the right element only produced a gentle, apologetic warmth. The result was a slice of toast that was half charcoal, half lukewarm bread. It was inefficient. It was illogical. It had to be replaced.
But the choices were overwhelming. He was surrounded by chrome-plated monstrosities with digital displays, Bluetooth speakers, and more settings than a commercial airline cockpit.
"Why does a toaster need Wi-Fi?" he thought, staring at a box that promised to sync with his phone. "Does it browse the internet for pictures of toast to get inspired? This is all so stupid."
"I can see you're a man who appreciates quality!" a voice chirped beside him. A young, impossibly cheerful salesperson with a name tag that read 'Kenji' had appeared. "This is our top-of-the-line model, the Toast-a-Tron 5000. It has twelve precision browning settings, a dedicated bagel function, a gluten-free mode, and it can even send you a notification when your toast is ready!"
Saitama looked at the salesperson, then at the ridiculously complex machine. "Does it have a setting," he asked, his voice deadpan, "that just toasts both sides of the bread evenly?"
Kenji blinked. "Well… yes, of course, that's the primary function, but it also—"
"I just want that one thing," Saitama said.
After another five minutes of searching, he found it. Tucked away on a dusty bottom shelf in the clearance section was a simple, white, plastic, two-slice toaster. It had one dial for browning and one lever. It was perfect. A wave of genuine relief washed over him.
He purchased the toaster and walked out of the store, his mission accomplished. He was completely unaware of the black van parked across the street, where a man in a fake mustache was triumphantly speaking into a hidden microphone.
"Alpha Team, this is Watchtower! The Eagle has acquired the… toaster!" Mic declared. "I repeat, the Eagle has the toaster! Mission successful!"
Aizawa did not reply. He had his face buried in his hands, wondering if a lifetime of fighting villains in the dark, thankless alleys of the city had been worth it, only to end up here, secretly monitoring a man who couldn't be trusted to buy a kitchen appliance without a full surveillance detail.
The final scene cuts across the country. Midoriya, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and reverence, stands before a dilapidated, grimy, two-story building that looks more like an abandoned warehouse than a hero agency. The nameplate on the door is old and worn, but the name is still legible: "Gran Torino."
He takes a deep breath, the air tasting of dust and rust, and knocks on the door. He is about to begin his real training. The journey of a hero.