Chapter 2: The Shield of the Outcast
The final bell didn't just ring; it screamed, a shrill electronic liberation that echoed through the cream-colored corridors of Musutafu Elementary. The tension of the classroom dissolved instantly into the cacophony of scraping chairs, the zip of nylon backpacks, and the frantic energy of freedom.
Bartholomew Kuma moved at his own glacial pace. While others scrambled, he methodically closed The Great Atlas of the World, his large, bare hands moving with surprising grace. His dark thumbs smoothed the glossy cover, the pink paw pads on his palms pressing gently against the binding before he slid the book into his expansive yellow backpack.
"That was awesome, Kuma!"
Two heads popped up beside his desk, flanking him like eager gargoyles.
To his left was Kenji, a boy with large, tufted ears and a long, prehensile tail that twitched with excitement—a monkey mutation. To his right was Ren, whose nose was upturned and whose mouth revealed small, sharp fangs—a bat mutation.
Together with Kuma, they formed a trinity of the odd, the overlooked, and the physically peculiar. They were the bottom rung of the social ladder, huddled together for warmth.
"Did you see Sato's face when the paper hit him?" Kenji cackled, swinging his tail against the side of a desk. "He looked like he ate a sour lemon whole!"
Ren flapped his arms, mimicking the motion. " Pop! And it went right back! You're the best at geometry, Kuma. Even your hands know the angles."
Kuma offered a rare, small smile. It was a subtle expression, barely lifting the corners of his mouth, but to his friends, it was beaming validation. He reached up and removed his small, circular glasses, folding them carefully into a hard case. His vision was adequate for walking; the glasses were merely a bridge to the fine print of his beloved maps.
"It was... fortunate trajectory," Kuma rumbled softly.
They exited the classroom, merging into the river of students flooding the hallway. The late afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, painting the scuffed linoleum floors in stripes of burnt orange and long shadows. The air smelled of floor wax and the metallic tang of old lockers.
For a moment, amidst the chatter of Kenji and Ren, Kuma felt a profound sense of peace. He was the flagship of this small fleet, a towering presence that parted the crowd, allowing his smaller friends to walk in his wake without being jostled.
But the peace was fragile.
As they rounded the corner near the bank of grey shoe lockers—a confined space that often served as an impromptu arena—the flow of students had dammed up. A circle had formed, the universal geometry of schoolyard conflict.
"Look at him," a sneering voice cut through the chatter. "He's trying to hide his teeth."
The crowd laughed, nervous and cruel.
In the center of the ring, bathed in the harsh fluorescent light of the locker area, a pale boy with dark circles under his eyes was pressed against the metal vents. He had a Quirk that elongated his canines and gave his skin a translucent, vein-blue quality.
"I bet he brought tomato juice for lunch and pretended it was blood," one of the bullies taunted. There were three of them—older, fifth-graders wearing the slightly larger uniforms of superior rank. The leader was a boy with forearms made of jagged, slate-grey rock. "Hey, Dracula. You gonna bite us? Are you a villain?"
The pale boy shook his head rapidly, terror widening his eyes. "No... I just... I like apple juice..."
Kenji and Ren froze behind Kuma. They knew the hierarchy. They knew that intervening meant becoming the next target.
"We should go the other way," Ren whispered, his bat ears flattening against his head.
Kuma did not turn. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, the movement shifting the air around him. Without a word to his friends, the gentle monolith stepped forward.
The crowd parted instinctively. They didn't move out of respect; they moved because a wall was walking toward them.
Kuma stopped between the bullies and the pale boy. He didn't take a fighting stance. He simply stood there, a vertical horizon blocking the bullies' view of their victim.
The leader, the rock-armed boy, looked up. And up. He had to crane his neck to meet Kuma's eyes.
"What do you want, big guy?" the bully scoffed, trying to mask his intimidation with bravado. "You're that weirdo from Class 4. The pillow-hands."
"Leave him be," Kuma said. His voice was calm, devoid of anger, like a stone dropping into a deep well.
"Or what?" The bully stepped closer, raising his rocky fists. His two lackeys—one with steam venting hissing white clouds from his elbows, the other with stretched, rubbery legs—flanked him. "You think because you're tall you can boss us around? We're fifth graders."
"I do not wish to hurt you," Kuma stated, his palms open at his sides. The soft, pink pads faced the floor, stark against his dark skin. "Please. Just walk away."
The arrogance of youth is a blinding thing. The rock-boy saw Kuma's passivity as weakness. He saw a large, soft target that refused to fight back.
"Get out of the way, freak!"
The bully threw a punch. It wasn't a playful tap; it was a jagged, rocky fist aimed right at Kuma's stomach, powered by a Quirk that could crack concrete.
The students gasped. The victim on the floor covered his eyes.
Kuma didn't dodge. He didn't block in the traditional sense. He simply raised his open, bare palm.
Pad.
The contact was absolute.
The moment the rough rock fist touched the soft pink pad, the kinetic energy didn't absorb—it rejected.
DOOM.
A shockwave of air blasted outward, rippling the clothes of the nearby students. The bully didn't just stop; he was launched backward as if fired from a cannon. He flew five meters through the air, his shoes screeching across the linoleum, before he crashed into his two friends, bowling them over like pins in a strike.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
Then, the whispers started. Low, urgent, and filled with a mix of fear and awe.
"Did you see that?"
"He didn't even push him..."
"It was like he hit a wall of air."
"Is that his Quirk? That's scary strong..."
"Don't look at him, he might do it to you."
The three bullies groaned on the floor, tangled in a heap of limbs and bruised egos. They looked at Kuma with wide, fearful eyes. They hadn't been hit; they had been returned.
Kuma didn't pursue them. He didn't gloat. He turned his back on them completely, dismissing them as a threat.
He extended a large, bare hand down to the trembling boy on the floor.
"Can you stand?" Kuma asked gently.
The pale boy looked up. The terrifying silhouette that had just launched three boys across the hall was now offering him a hand that looked surprisingly soft. He reached out.
"Y-yes," the boy stammered.
Kuma's grip was warm and firm, pulling the boy up with effortless strength. "Come. We are leaving."
Kenji and Ren, recovering from their shock, scrambled to catch up, their chests puffing out with second-hand pride as they walked past the stunned onlookers.
The four of them walked out of the school gates, the orange glow of the setting sun casting long, stretched shadows behind them. The bullies were left behind in the dust, and the hierarchy of the hallway had shifted, just a fraction.
"My name is Kuma," he said to the new addition, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"I'm... I'm Vlad," the pale boy whispered, wiping his eyes.
"Vlad," Kuma repeated, testing the weight of the name. "It is a strong name."
And as they walked into the evening light, a new, silent understanding passed between them. They were the outcasts, yes. But they had a guardian now.