Bakugo was frustrated.

He was supposed to be strong.

He was strong.

A flash of blonde hair over an indistinct face mocked him.

His fingers clenched around his chin.

That villain had been tough as shit. And a freaking sociopath. She'd killed Ryuko's dad. Then came all the way to UA to finish the job. And worse, she made him look weak. Weak like Deku. He'd thrown everything in his arsenal at her. He'd literally broken his arm blasting her face into the ground. And he helped Ryuko punch her over the horizon. But none of that had been enough. She'd shrugged off their attacks like they were nothing. Because they were nothing. All while mocking him. His snarl steadily deepened alongside the growing sense of unease.

The only reason they were still alive was because of All Might.

And while he stewed in class, Ryuko was talking to the cops.

Because he couldn't remember anything about that bitch except for her stupid blonde hair.

"Hey, man, you alright?"

For some bewildering reason, shitty hair decided to get up, walk across the room and stand next to his desk like they were friends. Which they weren't. But even half-exhausted from that old woman healing his fractured arm, leaving him tired and starving, Bakugo still had enough to angrily ignore him, "The hell do you want?"

"You've been angry since we got back. Well, angrier than usual," unfazed by the blistering waves of annoyance blasting against his soul like heat from an oven, Kirishima pointed over his shoulder, where a third of the class was staring in their direction, "You know, for a guy who beat a villain even the teachers say was dangerous, you don't look happy."

He refused to dignify that, "We didn't beat her."

"Come on, we all saw her go flying," Kirishima remembered exactly what happened after All Might haymakered that brain villain, "Even that hand dude was shocked when she crashed landed next to him. Before he started laughing," his eyebrows rose before he shook his head and pumped a fist, "But you and Matoi must've kicked her butt because her boss laughed about it!"

"I said we DIDN'T beat her!"

Clenching his teeth tightly enough that they ground against each other, Bakugo felt himself snap, the weight of failure and weakness overwhelming his admittedly short temper, "We threw everything at her. I slammed her with the biggest, most powerful explosion I could. It tore off her freaking arm. But she shrugged it off like it was nothing," his hands trembled not from anger, but impotence. His Quirk was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be strong. But that woman treated him like Deku. The same Deku who broke both his legs and arm helping All Might, "Then she grew it back."

Rikido Sato double-took at the mental image, "Wait…seriously?"

"It pisses me the hell off, but we got lucky," his anger cooled into tranquil fury, "She was faster than me. Faster than Ryuko. The only reason we're still breathing is because whatever All Might did, it distracted her long enough for Ryuko to deck her in the freaking face."

"Heeeeeey…"

At the front of the room, sitting on a desk not her own, feet kicking back and forth, Mina smiled, a villainous grin, "When did you and Ryuko become so close?"

It was such an out-of-the-blue question that Bakugo, if only for a second, forgot he was angry, "Eh?"

"Oh, you know," the pink skinned teenager laced her fingers together, exposing a mouthful of white teeth.

That didn't answer anything, "The hell are you talking about?"

"Oooooohhh…."

This time, Uraraka smiled while bouncing in her seat, "Oh my god, you're right, Mina! He and Ryuko must've become best friends forged in the heat of battle," a fuse was lit with that false assertation. A spark that transformed Bakugo's confusion into bombastic fury. Something worsened by what she asked next, "What do you suppose we should call their team?"

"EH!?"

"Hey, what about 'hot-blooded?" offering a suggestion heedless of the cost to his life and health, Hanta Sero's smirk was only surpassed by Bakugo's temper, "Since Ryuko's Quirk is all about blood and Bakugo's always about to explode like a volcano."

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, DUCT TAPE, BEFORE I BLOW IT UP!"

The tape-wielding hero-in-training pointed at said exploding student, "See? It's perfect."

"THE HELL IT IS!"

"Huh," Jiro knew she shouldn't get involved, yet she commented nevertheless, "He's got a point."

"THE HELL HE DOES!"

"Please, let's show each other respect," waving his arm while interjecting himself into the conversation, Ida, if only briefly, earned the closest emotion he could to respect in Bakugo's mind before throwing that away with a comment so absurd it actually threw off reality, "Nekketsu sounds much more professional!"

"I'LL KILL YOU!"

Things quickly devolved into a one-sided shouting match.

Bakugo vowing to kill everyone and at least a quarter of Class 1-A wondering what happened between him and Ryuko.

And after everything that happened, even with two of their classmates in the nurse's office and heroes swarming the campus, things felt relatively normal.

My Bloody Academia

"Let's review what happened one more time."

She resembled a half-assed mummy.

Bandages covered every finger except her left thumb. Another bandage was glued to her left cheek. A thick layer of bandages was wrapped around her forehead and wrists. It didn't hurt. Not anymore. But it itched. And there was nobody to blame but herself. First-degree burns. Second-degree burns. You name it, she had it. And it was all thanks to burning herself with her Quirk. Something she hadn't thought possible until her blood literally cooked her body from the inside. Recovery Girl hadn't been happy. Oh, like she needed that old woman to tell her she had high blood pressure. Or that suddenly absorbing twenty liters of blood without giving her body time to acclimate put a lot of strain on her heart. Or that somehow getting angry literally made her blood hotter.

"What's the point?"

Arms folded, one sneaker pressed against the table, Ryuko teetered on the back legs of her chair and doubled her glare, "It ain't like you're gonna do anything productive with it."

As always, the guy ignored her.

"Thirty witnesses were present at the USJ – you, your classmates, All Might and nine members of the faculty. Not including the dozens of criminals arrested," Mirai Sasaki, otherwise known as Sir Nighteye, flicked a finger against his glasses while reviewing collated statements from said witnesses on the laptop next to him, "We're still in the opening stages of the investigation henceforth known as the USJ Incident, but one thing stands out concerning the villain known as Couturier," he observed, noted and ignored Ryuko's reaction to such an auspicious choice of name, "You're the only one who remembers more than cursory details of her appearance. Not even your classmate…a Katsuki Bakugo…can recall her name."

Ryuko snorted, "…so?"

Bright-yellow eyes behind triangular glasses gave off an impression of a stern glare.

She didn't care.

"Your cooperation would be helpful, but since you probably aren't aware of any reason why your memory is surprisingly intact, I suppose it's not worth pushing the envelope," fingers raced across said keyboard while his other hand shuffled handwritten statements, "Particularly since today's incident explains the trouble I've experienced with your father's case."

"Trouble?"

That had to be the nicest way of saying he haven't found shit.

"Over the last one hundred and eighty-seven days, I've interviewed fifty-three witnesses – civilians, pro heroes, high school students, your neighbors and one chatty criminal arrested that same night," behind Nighteye, afternoon steadily surrendered to evening, turning the somber conversation into one fitting for a funeral. Yet his yellowish eyebrows didn't budge above his glasses, "All were dead-ends. Their usefulness limited by lack of knowledge. None remembered a blonde woman in a school uniform with laughter like ground glass."

His finger tapped against the copy of Ryuko's testimony from September.

"It wasn't surprising. Eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable and subject to unconscious bias and memory distortions. A mother on her way home from work will subconsciously note the scarred individual across the street, not the friendly girl walking towards her," enunciating each word, Nighteye steeped his fingers, spread them widely and leaned backwards in his seat, "But after today's incident, I went back and carefully reviewed every single interview. That's when I discovered something rather peculiar."

He did not explain how he reread hundreds of pages of notes in the hour or so it took to travel from his office to UA.

"Two witnesses remembered seeing a young woman with light blonde hair with approximately the same height as Isshin's assailant," a short pause between his words, "And that was all they could recall. I hadn't recognized it at the time, but upon further review, something stuck out – their testimonies were equally vague. Why was that? Could they have colluded somehow? They'd never met. Never spoken to one another. And always lived at least twenty kilometers apart. The odds they'd managed to speak and compare notes were less than one in a billion," sunlight reflected off his glasses, highlighting the sternness plaguing his voice, "From that, I've developed a theory – this 'Couturier' either possesses a Quirk allowing her to erase from memory anything capable of discerning her identity or works alongside another villain who does."

Ryuko strummed a bandaged finger against her bicep.

She waited for him to say anything, and when he didn't because they both knew she didn't know why she could remember, moved onto something more important.

"That reminds me."

Her sneaker slid off the table, followed by the front two legs of her chair slamming against the floor, "What's the deal with her stupid name?"

The former sidekick's expression – overbearingly stern with a side of authoritative glaring – shifted so subtly she almost missed it.

"Couturier. French," Nighteye's fingers flickered over the keyboard, "Defined as a fashion designer who manufactures and sells clothes specified to one's measurements and personal requirements," his plain white suit stood out in the otherwise fantastical teacher's lounge, "An oddly specific name. One a normal villain wouldn't choose off the cuff. That she picked a French word as her moniker yet spoke fluent Japanese suggests she's either traveled internationally, is an exchange student or is somehow connected with the fashion and support development industry."

His glasses turned opaque.

"Were there any memorable features on her clothing?" he prefaced the question by stamping something. And then stamping it again, "A designer's mark or label, for example."

Ryuko's face scrunched.

She thought about it.

She really did.

But nothing came to mind except the color pink.

Lots and lots of pink.

"An egregious choice of coloring implies a similarly narrow-minded view," filing away the information for future use, Nighteye tapped several keys, opened a file and quickly proceeded to document every word of the ongoing conversation, "An unconventional moniker. A theoretical Quirk capable of altering visual and auditory perception. Regeneration. Connections with organized villainy. Possible relationship with the international support item or fashion industry. This will be useful to my investigation."

Ryuko choked on the grade-a bullshit, "Investigation? From where I'm sittin', I'm the one doing all the work!"

"Indeed."

He did not pretend to have the answers, "Which is a problem," and he refused to paint over the truth with convenient lies, "This Couturier's demeanor during your fight suggests her unhealthy interest in your Quirk borders on obsession," placing both hands on the table, he stood up, shoulders hunched and bright yellow eyes locked with Ryuko's, "The probability she returns is one hundred percent."

Light refracted off his glasses.

"Obsessive-compulsive. Narcissistic. Sociopathic," his hands slowly spread apart, "In other words – she's dangerous. And despite the principal's confidence, I'm not terribly convinced UA's security measures are sufficient to keep someone like her out. In my personal opinion, it would be wise to withdraw from the hero course and move somewhere more secure."

Ryuko snorted, "I'm not going anywhere."

"How childish," the salaryman returned her snort with a derisive scoff, "Isshin wouldn't want you to throw your life away over petty revenge."

Something in Ryuko's chest clenched, "Don't you dare go there."

"Then prove yourself capable of controlling your emotions. Or are you telling me those bandages are merely for show?" Nighteye asked without a shred of humor, "Perhaps you plan on petulant stubbornness and determination carrying you to victory like a comic book protagonist," a flicker of acerbic wit as he dropped a silver case approximately the same size as her backpack onto the table, "Very well, since you intend on heading down this foolish path, I suppose there's no other choice."

With a flick of his thumbs, he flipped opened the case.

And Ryuko felt the exact moment her curiosity crashed and burned, "Oh, joy, a pair of gloves."

"They're called the Seki Tekko," a recently clipped fingernail tapped against the table as Ryuko examined something she knew almost nothing about. Because if she were familiar with the cutting-edge technology currently being treated akin to a venomous snake, she would have been more grateful, "Isshin was planning on giving to you for your fifteenth birthday, whether or not you decided on continuing with a career in the private sector or chose to become a hero."

He watched her irritation and frustration immediately give way to depression and guilt.

"Following his untimely passing, they were shipped to my agency, as per his last will and testament," paying attention to Ryuko's change in demeanor, the hero tapped a finger against the case, "The Seki Tekko are designed to minimize your Quirk's most prominent weakness. If you look closely, woven into the reinforced Kevlar fabric around the wrists are twenty-two microscopic needles," he held it in front of his face, "These arteries function as connections between the glove and your circulatory system. To cut to the chase – as long as you're wearing these, you can use your Quirk as much as your like without concerning yourself with exsanguination."

Ryuko stared at the fingerless gloves with newfound respect.

"You're shitting me."

"I'm not," something vaguely resembled humor in Nighteye's excessively dry response. The concept of a joke. Maybe a pun, "If you doubt its functions, please address your complaints to the one who designed them," the stern pro hero waited precisely ten seconds for a response before sliding an instruction manual thicker than an old-fashioned phone book across the table with almost deliberate slowness, "Now, I recommend carefully reading the instructions. It's quite informative, although the middle tends to drag on."

The bandage on her cheek peeled away.

That was a joke, right?

The guy was joking.

But he wasn't smiling.

"Uh…" it was so awkward that Ryuko didn't know she'd accepted something that was probably bullshit until the words passed through her mouth, "…okay?"

She couldn't tell if he was joking.

And she was too unnerved to ask.

My Bloody Academia

Pink and white sneakers stumbled into an exhausted salaryman at the end of his shift.

"Watch where you're – "

The rhinoceros-looking accountant, appeared to have swallowed a lemon before bowing low enough for his horn to touch the floor, "Forgive me, ma'am!"

She held a cup of sweetened black coffee in one shaking hand. In the other, several blueprints and confidential designs. Both hands covered in bandages and white tape. Her buttoned-up, off-pink shirt was noticeably creased with one sleeve rolled to her elbow. Instead of a business skirt, she wore faded jeans, one knee ripped and measuring tape sticking out from the back pocket. Thick glasses sat skewed in front of shoulder-length disheveled blonde hair that hadn't seen a comb in days. Around her neck, bouncing with every step, was a worn ID bearing her face, name and enough security measures to put banks to shame.

Nui Harime
High-Order Tailor
Revocs Corporation

She was the High-Order Tailor of Revocs.

The Grand Couturier.

Through her authority, every support item and article of clothing, costumes included, underwent rigorous quality testing. Nothing was released without her permission.

She had hundreds of managers overseeing ten times that many designers across the world.

That meant she was always busy.

"Miss Harime!"

Speaking of her workload, one of the Tokyo branch's managers, a man with eight arms and a name she couldn't remembered, hurried across the floor as soon as she stumbled through security, "We've been trying to reach you all day!"

She almost dropped her coffee.

"Sorry, I overslept," disheveled hair bounced in front of her glasses, "And forgot to charge my phone."

That the manager wasn't surprised by one of the most prestigious designer's chaotic lifestyle was evidence that not only was this not the first time it happened, but that it happened on such a regular basis to be considered normal, "My apologies, but we received an emergency repair order from UA."

"An emergency…wha?" the bundled collection of blueprints and designs momentarily slipped from her fingers.

She caught them, of course, but not before spilling a little of her super-sweetened coffee onto the floor and her employee's shoes.

"Sorry!" one breathless apology and a promise to foot the bill for new shoes later, Nui recovered most of her bearings, handed off her coffee to the newly annoyed manager, promised to cut back on the caffeine and then, only after doing so, asked something relevant to the discussion, "I'm not saying you're wrong, but I could've sworn we already received an order from UA. What are they doing over there?"

To his credit, the manager recomposed himself rather quickly, "Haven't you seen the news?"

"News?" her glasses slipped further down her nose, "What news?"

"There was an attack. A group of small-time villains," side-eyeing the half-empty cup of coffee hovering dangerously close to spilling once more, the general manager coughed into a hand, "I only found out during my lunch break, but All Might managed to drive them off."

"I…uh…well…" arms sagging under the weight of feigned embarrassment while her disheveled hair looked even more disheveled, Nui looked left, then right, "While I'd ~love~ patching up All Might's costume, we don't have his contract. And David's not the kind of man to hand over something so valuable, even if I asked nicely."

"The order is for a student, not All Might."

She blinked.

"Oh…uh…give me a minute…"

There wasn't any rush to sign the forms, not when it would take at least an hour for the authorization to work its way through Revocs to the proper channels. But she was always one for punctuality, even if she was at least three hours late to work roughly thirty percent of the time. Across the Costume Development Division and through Field Testing she stumbled over her sneakers, the middle manager in lockstep behind her. Eventually, as in five minutes after demanding for a minute, she reached her desk. Not her actual desk. But her personal station, covered in confidential rough drafts for costume and support items worth hundreds of millions of yen on the black market. As well as six or seven coffee-stained mugs.

"The form."

The manager handed over not just one piece of paper, but an entire binder filled with enough legalese that Nui didn't bother reading. After dropping the blueprints and designs onto her desk, she opened a drawer, found a pen that had some ink left in it and signed off on the emergency repair authorization. That should have solved everything. But as soon as she sat down and breathed a weary sigh, all while reaching for her coffee, more managers rushed over like ungrateful sharks smelling blood in the water.

"Miss Harime! Detnerat is requesting another meeting with you!"

"The European and American divisions are requesting your input on a matter concerning…"

"Your virtual conference with David Shield has been moved to next Tuesday."

More.

And more.

And more.

"Madam Kiryuin's demanding to know where those designs are!"

She immediately snapped to attention.

"H-Huh?" her sputtering doubled, "Did she say which designs she wanted?"

"I'm afraid not," a manager with a great white shark's head apologized.

"You've got to be kidding me," as her public persona crashed under the pressure, Nui's glasses slid down her nose, "I only slept in a couple of hours! How could everything fall apart!?"