(A/N) Okay, so, I know you guys did not pick this one, but I have roughly 7 chapters after this ready, and even more than that planned. Just lemme have this one, kay? Anyway, character development is fun, so torture it is. Sorry Shinso.
He got in. He got into UA. The top hero academy. He'd taken out a couple robots, and really had thought he wouldn't get it, although his high written scores said he'd probably make it into General Education at least, but apparently there was a second series of points. He knew he'd saved quite a few people during the test, mostly if they weren't fast enough, although he'd taken quite a few hits for people during the test. None lethal, of course, and none that would slow him down too much. He knew he got some worried looks from other participants when he barely slowed down to bandage an admittedly pretty bad wound. Which had been why he stopped at all.
Of course, once he had gotten home, he had tallied up his injuries, carefully recording them in a notebook he'd gotten for that specific purpose, gotten from a previous foster home with a daughter that hoarded notebooks and hadn't minded parting with one. Thank goodness for that. Perhaps it wasn't strictly necessary, but he found no little pleasure detailing each injury, how and where it had occurred, then when it finally healed, and whether it left a scar or not. He very carefully did not scratch at the mask(muzzle) biting into his face. He didn't need to get blood on the notebook. He didn't usually record bruises, but did note them if they weren't going to fade within a day or two.
Technically, he didn't really have a reason to keep the notebook, no one actually cared enough about him to get any of his foster parents convicted, but he supposed the notebook was his way of holding onto hope. And just maybe, it helped him stay sane. Checking off injuries as they healed, adding new ones most days, and occasionally, if he was really stressed, counting up the number of times the quirk suppressing mask(muzzle) pierced the skin.
He liked counting. It was calming, kept his heart rate down, which was always a plus, and kept him from spiraling into a full blown panic attack.
Hitoshi stopped himself from scratching at the edge of the muzzle again, grimacing under it as he saw the blood on his fingertips. A quick removal of the blood via his shirt later, and he could tell the blood was from his mask. He sighed silently, getting to his feet and dragging himself to the bathroom to check the injury. It wasn't too bad, just a bit of blood. It wasn't even dripping down the mask. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, washing that down the sink with a quick blast of water. He snuck back to his room, sitting down and recording the newest of the nose/cheek injuries. He already knew it would add to the scarring there, and as such, just noted that down.
He noted the time, went through and checked each injury, the long road scrape on his left hip from being thrown across the road by one of the robots while taking a hit for a small grape person, a massive bruise on his left side he maintained worry that he had fractured a rib, as it did hurt slightly to breath, plus the massive scrape on his right side from a head on hit from another robot, this time defending some odd blue kid. Everything scabbed over and healing nicely.
When he finished, he carefully opened the door, making sure it made just the slightest of noises to alert his foster parents he was coming. They hated it when he accidentally crept up on them, years of abusive foster parents and bullies made sure he was almost completely silent when he walked. Mostly when he was uncomfortable or didn't feel safe. So almost all the time.
Hitoshi purposely stepped on the creaky board at the bottom, alerting his foster parents to his presence.
His foster mother approached him to remove his mask. Hitoshi froze in place, stiff as a board as she approached, carefully reaching behind his head to unlock the muzzle. He had ten minutes to eat. Then the muzzle was back on. Honestly, he was lucky he got to eat at all.
Hitoshi made a beeline for the fridge, quickly locating some leftovers and wasting a full thirty seconds to heat them up in the microwave. Three tortillas later, his minutes were up, so he quickly wiped his face down with a rag, avoiding the bloody spots, they'd fasten it even tighter if he got blood on the rag, and put the leftovers away.
His foster father was the one to shove the muzzle on his face, Hitoshi stiff as a board. Fresh blood welled up as the muzzle was fastened, then tightened, his foster father storming off.
Hitoshi quickly slipped away, staving off panic with deep breaths he was barely able to take through the mask.
He curled up on the bed he was supposed to sleep on but rarely did, using his ratty t-shirt to mop up the blood welling up. He hated the muzzle, the feeling of claustrophobia it gave him.
Even more, he hated how he froze whenever someone approached his face. A robot had almost gotten a hit in because he froze. He froze in the line of fire, all because a piece of rubble had flown right past his nose. Luckily someone, a black-haired kid with what looked like a hardening quirk, pulled him out of the line of fire, taking the hit himself instead. He didn't look like he'd taken any damage though.
He was pretty sure his assorted foster parents had no problems with his freezing thing, using it to taunt him and sometimes leave him frozen, unable to force himself to move because of the proximity of something to his face, for hours on end. Often a coat stand or something. Sometimes a door.
Hitoshi eventually managed to completely stave off the attack, fingers and t-shirt bloody. In two days. Two days was his first day in the hero course at UA academy. He could survive two days at the house.
It quickly became a mantra, just two more days. Just two more days.
He didn't add many extra injuries; but didn't get to eat most of the days. Hitoshi couldn't decide which was worse.
The muzzle was on the entire two days, and Hitoshi didn't sleep at all. He rarely did anyway. Two days without sleep was nothing.
Finally, finally, he was going to UA. He almost broke through his frozen state with excited quivering, but as always, the fear and paralysis won out. He left early enough to stop by a nearby cafe and borrow the bathroom to apply some makeup to hide the massive scar stretching across his face. It wasn't the best job, but it was all he could do. The texture was off from the semi clotted wounds, and the color was off, but nothing too noticeable. He located a scarf without too much trouble, wrapping it around his neck high enough to somewhat hide his face. He could bury his face in it if needed, although he was unlikely to do it.
He arrived precisely on time, slipping past a green-haired kid to sit in his seat. The class was far too loud for his comfort, so he put his head on his desk and tried to use his scarf to muffle the noise.
The class abruptly fell silent, and Hitoshi risked a glance up, meeting the eyes of the hero Eraserhead, a hero Hitoshi had idolized since his debut into the hero world. Oh gosh, now he was in the class taught by his idol. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Even with the volume of the class.
"Situational awareness is important," Eraserhead deadpanned. "We'll be working on that. Welcome to the Hero Course. I am Aizawa Shouta, your homeroom teacher. Get these on and meet me in the field." He placed a box of gym uniforms on the table.
Hitoshi wondered if he could keep his scarf on. Probably not, but he could at least try.
He changed quickly and in a corner so the others wouldn't see the injuries and bruises dotting his torso and arms. Luckily they were all rather preoccupied with the uniform, most of them marveling at the soft texture. Not to say Hitoshi wasn't also quietly amazed they had made the gym uniforms this soft, which he was, but he wasn't doing it and wasting time, which he assumed Eraserhead would prefer if they didn't waste any time.
He slipped out of the dressing room, having ultimately decided that if told to, he could take off the scarf. It made him feel more comfortable, and in this case, he would take comfort over the risk of being told off or beaten. Wasn't like he couldn't handle it anyway.
Eraserhead, or was he supposed to call him Aizawa-sensei, certainly noticed the scarf, but didn't mention it. Hitoshi took that to mean him wearing the scarf was alright.
"We'll be doing a series of tests to establish a baseline for the rest of the year. We will do this again at the end of the year to see how far you have progressed. Bakugo Katsuki, what was your top throw of a softball in middle school?"
"About 65 meters, why?" A blond with hair resembling a pompom said.
Aizawa-sensei tossed the blond a softball. "Throw this, but use your quirk this time."
Hitoshi scrunched his shoulders up to his ears when he spotted the sparks. Some sort of explosion based quirk, it would be loud.
It was. Not as bad as Hitoshi had feared, but loud nonetheless.
A mechanical voice spoke. "705.3 meters."
Hitoshi looked at the odd robot thing, then noticed Aizawa staring at him. He shrunk, or tried to, attempting to fade to the back of the class.
Once safely hidden behind one of the people taller than him, some guy with six arms, Hitoshi breathed a silent sigh of relief. Until a cheerful greeting made him jump.
(A/N) There was no good place to end this chapter, so you get the 'wait who's that person?' So who d'ya think it is?