Iwata Shiritsu Junior High School was the name of it, definitely outranking the likes of Aldera Junior High with their relatively caring educational partners, after school activities funded by some people higher up in the food chain, and kempt facilities that loomed high over the horizon. Round arches are pronounced and glittering from the charcoal and vibrant rose red paint set onto the base of the main school building, taking inspiration from one of the biggest hero high school's color schemes, Ketsubetsu Academy. It's not like you were actually interested into buying into the entire hero schooling biz in the first place, it just happened to be the closest and least ragtag of the schooling nearby your neighborhood, and then here you were.
As the saying goes, the early bird catches the worm, so you routinely rose from the dead to clamber on in your uniform shoes to rest and let some soft sunbursts to warm the surface of your face, looking at the clouds in some sort of bout to gain inspiration for writing a song in your trusty notebook. Dragging your feet to scuff the soles to commence your foolhardy actions of laying onto the ground in front of the entrance doors, your torso flops and ribs ping at a struck brick that slams into it, making you groan and just roll over so you lay onto your stomach.
Without a doubt, your cranky belly was doomed to growl and spit at you while class would be passing, and to that you mumble a cheers into the quiet air and let yourself stare off into the distance. You were never that entranced by the motions of vigilantism, more or less being tangoed into the joy of adrenaline rushes, swerving your frame until the exertion took its toll, you revelled in taking effort and then some more to keep fighting. Never remembering most of the ugly mugs you shoved into the ground, causing them to choke on their own words and simmer with their saliva and blood pooling at the back of their nasty throats, only focusing on the faces of the would-be victims to atrocious crimes.
Why, you ask? What good would it do you to keep your anger like magma flowing within the center of a crust filled volcano, to pace about and endlessly enrapture yourself within the qualms of criminal minds, their motives and what drove them to the matter? Philosophy was surely no pet peeve of yours, yet focusing on the past perpetrators did not help your peace of mind from overflowing and drumming more nonsense into your cranium.
In the time that has run its course, you hadn't noticed flocks of classmates and upperclassmen starting to make their way within the building, flowing in and momentarily stopping to glance a curious eye to whatever it was you were doing, and then enter to take their seats in their respective classes. Deciding to not waste any more time reflecting upon your own moral code and the why's and why not's, you bring yourself to brush the dust off your black and red tailored uniform and pick up your belongings.
Slinging a maroon backpack onto the tops of your shoulders, you clear your throat and step towards your destination; homeroom, one of your more favored classes over the dull and monotonous readings of your English teacher scraping your nerves raw. Since you had applied and made your case to the principal of this fine establishment, he hired a new professor for only one subject, Psychology. Normally only offered once students like yourself entered the magical realm of High School, the man decided to show mercy for your poor soul and others who enjoyed learning about the subject.
Reaching your unassigned assigned seat in the lived in room, you plop yourself onto the chair and bring your song notebook to rest on the desk's oak top. Singing and songwriting had become an encouraging hobby of yours, although your voice happened to fall in the higher range in the likes of mezzo-sopranos and countertenors, your actual speaking voice greatly contrasted towards anything remotely pointing to your vocal range. More of a deeper voice for someone of your sex, it seemed as if your vocal chords decided to join in your clandestine rebellion against the norm and subtly be on your side.
Either way, it was a win-win situation and you weren't critical of your voice anyways, as long as one was on pitch and on time, anyone could sound good even if they could squawk like a chicken in this type of performing arts. Tapping your nimble fingers on the hollow tan desk, humming crept its way out of your throat to start joyfully stepping in tune to your set beat, an amalgamation of themes running through your mind to compliment the improvised song.
Guttural drawls and clanging guitar riffs in sync with pounding drum lines suited your listening tastes, while you preferred to sing more opera-esque and from the soul. Punk and alternative music was the equivalent of bounds of herbs containing catnip, you yourself being the cat feeding on its source, while yowling was better suited for a slower genre on your throat. Imagine hearing a cat attempting to sound off along with intense tempos, and you'll get the picture. Back to the topic of education, you were pretty much the farthest from illiterate except for the tiniest exception being reading music, sue me all you want, but it's part of the reason you happened to be so captivated by it. The more you thought about it, it reminded you of a familiar face splotched with purple reminiscent of red cabbage, the thrums of bass lines and speakers feeding noise in high quantities.
Come to think of it, part of the reason Tsukauchi was further itching your fists to clock him where the sun doesn't shine was because of this newfound body burner who just happened to get a buzz out of dressing in such a gothic style. Now, you may make yourself known as looking for tomfoolery and creating shenanigans from your little quips, but you aren't exactly slow on the uptake, either. Taking into account the amount of conspiracy theory blogs you had dug tooth and nail to traverse through to even sniff the smallest whiff of travesty in Endeavor's ruin, you could say you knew a thing or two about the deranged and psychotic upbringing his family certainly had, one of your first clues to who the man may be.
Dabi's name doubtlessly came from the trenches of an old Japanese idiom that went along the lines of Cremate the Body, either referring to his jeopardizing firestorm of a quirk that devastated the corpses into nothing but small oxidation grains, or someone that is dead, plainly. Before the media could confer with Endeavor to cover up the disappearance of one Todoroki Touya with his status being deceased on paper, morsels of data made itself known into backup websites that refused to follow cease and desist notices from the number 2 dookie himself.
You couldn't help but put two and two together in the middle of the night, still living off of the high the conclusion you came to that fed your serotonin receptors to the very next day. The fact that heroism had itself ingrained so deeply within the roots of society and managed to clobber the 5 senses out of the morality instilled the line of work was worryingly realistic, if the mainstream media hadn't covered it up it would have caused shudders to reign upon the Hero Commission for years to come. Saddened, you let your face wear a frown as you continued falling down through the rabbit hole of information clacking the sides of your head akin to a bingo ball machine.
It's part of the reason why you don't normally watch in glee as a superpower boosted hijinks boom into the streets and let your eyes wander to more important things, like Psychology! Being honest with yourself is partly a flaw of your character, and so is the stars in your eyes when you read case studies about other people who have gone through unsavory events, haunting them for the rest of their lives. Fun, right? It's just human nature to be instilled in a sense of satisfaction for the motivations of others, along with the characteristics of their upbringings acting as colliding factors for the wrecking balls soon in their futures.
Professor Onigawara abruptly interrupted your thoughts, starting with the stable introduction of Freudian Concepts from the big shot himself, Sigmund, his psychoanalytic perspective on the broad subject ever interesting any time it's mentioned. The theory is majorly based on the three types of consciousness, the mentioned acting as the waterline for the tip of the iceberg that is metaphorically the human mind, unseen thoughts and urges that can be brought to the surface level surge from the preconscious level, and finally, the unconscious plane in which theoretically most of the action in the mind takes place.
Ego, Superego, and Id are their respective labels, with the extremes being the first and last: Primal instincts and emotions taking over any and all actions primarily make up the Id, fiercely underlying sexual tensions and imbued weaknesses of self being a large part of it, conforming and priming one's self to become clay to the mold of preconceived notions is the essence of the basis containing the Ego, like the marble mask you wear at night to protect your identity from prying eyes, it is a precaution to continue to live in the world while also disobeying and following various rules, and finally, the Superego.
Morality is the bridge connecting the gathered extremes together, principles attaching values that require higher order thinking, and the subjective terms to rule over Id and Ego is the Superego, quite possibly one of your favorite parts of the subject as a whole, other than the characteristics of Mental Disorders. The building blocks of your ideals are transfused into your nighttime work, representing as much of your values you try to. Bite the hand that feeds you if it consequently takes from you too, don't blindly live without gaining the knowledge you seek.
The rest of the day passed in a blitz, unknown to your shitty sense of time, and before you knew it the bell tolled, signalling the end of the day. You couldn't help but let your eyes follow a distinct head of hair that was indigo-mauve, wild and untamed locks spurting out in an imitation of a lion's mane, your classmate, Shinso Hitoshi. It had been the final few months of the 1st year of school and you had still yet to become close friends with him, even with your persistent attitude fretting at your same eye bags, he would just flip his hair like he was on a L'Oreal commercial and mutter, "They're Gucci, and yours are Versace. Get on my level." A bit of a dick move, but funny nonetheless, and it made your insides snap, crackle, and pop with a huge burst of laughter at the time.
"'Sup, eggplant?" is what you stifle out in the midst of your cackling, earning you a punch to your already sore shoulder. His even darker purple eyes trace your traitorous, goofy smile and he infectiously starting chuckling as well.
"Nothing much, how about you, discount Eraserbitch?" Shinso drags out with a perfectly impetuous tone, deadpan face at the ready for a battle of wits that would most certainly lead to your throat being irritated.
Overly exaggerated shock fills your face, limbs starting to contort into the most fruity pose you could muster in your faux state.
"How dare you," is said with you looking more comedically disgusted all the while, backing away in preparation to lay your body to falsely faint.
"My ass will never be as thick as Eraserhead's and I'll never be claimed by a screeching, yellow cockatoo!" with your hands slapping your behind embarrassingly loud within the classroom, wiggling them while keeping your composure in your made up disgust.
Hitoshi's face crumples into a puckered face and he unsurprisingly chokes out an oh my god, leaning down to his knees for support in the face of your absolute tomfoolery. You fall victim to your own joke, screeches seizing your shuddering body in feral laughter that most certainly is self gratifying.
"You'll never let me live down the day, I didn't know he was dating an actual banana that screams into the radio!" tumbles out of his mouth, exasperated arms coming up in response for you rustling his jimmies.