Content warning: more swearing than usual for the fic, because Tristan is Tristan (nothing worse than f**k).

Recap: The Palisades are a major hero team, and Tristan's older brother Galahad is one of their main members, as is tradition for the Goodwill family. Tristan was promised (and expected to accept) a spot on the team as long as he passed his finals, and Skyler was also invited. However, although Marinette was accepted, she was later seriously injured during an incident in Class 15's third year, and the invitation was revoked. The Palisades claim this is to give her a chance to rest and recover, Tristan claims this is just them caring more about their image than about the students, and the truth is probably somewhere in the middle. Tristan is now refusing to join the Palisades, claiming he wants to make his own way as a hero instead of relying on his family, and that Marinette's invitation being revoked was unfair and insulting. When Galahad tried to pull the big brother authority card, Tristan challenged him to a fight - if Galahad wins, Tristan joins the Palisades without argument, and if Tristan wins, Galahad has to accept Tristan's choice and offer his spot to Marinette instead.

A twelve-year-old Tristan crossed his arms and whined at his seventeen-year-old brother like the spoiled brat he was. "What do you mean you won't practice quirks with me? Did you not hear me when I said I could almost fly now?!"

Their family home stood around them, as lavish and stifling as ever. Hardwood, chandeliers, everything not meant for a boy made of steel and blades, that he had to walk on eggshells around regardless because it was 'appropriate' to do so instead of actually giving him somewhere he could cut loose. Their parents were working, like always. And now Tristan was being told that even his brother was leaving him to go back to Wing Academy.

"I heard you, Tristan," Galahad confirmed, patience running thin. His four floating wings - his current maximum, soon to increase to six - shifted back and forth behind him, reflecting his frustration. "But I have to go do real practice with real heroes, not just play."

Tristan literally bristled with anger, as his wings spread and the blades spiked out. "What's that supposed to mean?!"

"You know what it means, little brother. Look, I don't have time to deal with you right now," Galahad chided him, and Tristan bit his lip. No one had time for him anymore, unless he was in trouble.

"Fine then," he declared. "I'll just join your stupid academy myself once I'm old enough!"

Galahad sighed. "Tristan, being a hero is hard. Your quirk is neat, but you might just not be as…"

"As lucky as you?" Tristan narrowed his eyes.

"As cut out for it as Dad and I are," Galahad finished. "I'll see you next time I'm home, little brother. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Tristan was silent as he was left behind.

Galahad was powerful, and he knew it. He had an amazing quirk, years of both training and experience, impeccable gear, and a fan-club the size of a rock star's. He was one of the leaders of the Palisades hero team at only twenty-four years old, and had been raised as the Goodwill heir his entire life. He moved like lightning and hit like a freight train.

So as the battle raged on, he truly could not fathom how it was that Tristan simply did not go down.

Blade met feather, steel met light, and younger brother met older brother in clash after clash. Finally, they disengaged from one another as they reset to neutral, and began to stalk the circumference of the battle ring, sizing each other up. Galahad's wings shifted behind him like mercury, but his gaze was resolute and determined, every bit the angelic hero face he had practiced his since childhood. His hero costume was even styled as the toga of a cherubim, accented with gold and blue.

Tristan, on the other hand, stood menacing and regal. The dark color of his hair and eyes matched the dark, twisting metal of his wings, claws, and barely-visible horns on his head, and every step seemed to send a thud across the room's floor, like they were reminding Galahad who he stood against.

Quirk: Steel Devil. The user has a steel-like body, powerful claws, and wings made of blades, giving him enhanced strength, exceptional durability, and built-in detachable weaponry. However, the metal also makes him heavy and slow, and regrowing the blades of his wings takes metals from his body. According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way this metallic monstrosity should be able to fly; he, of course, flies anyway.

Tristan wasn't wasting any of the blades that comprised his wings, not yet. For now he was still relying on his claws and brute force. The hero suit he wore was simple but intimidating: dark pants, a studded belt, metal shoulder pads, and a 'leather' jacket made of the same highly protective, Kevlar-esque material as all standard suits. No weaponry - all he needed was his own body.

He also wore a pair of sunglasses - not a part of his usual costume. Presumably, it was eye protection against how flashy Galahad's quirk was - literally.

"Getting tired already, Gal?" Tristan smirked, and Galahad set his jaw. Tougher than expected or not, Tristan was his baby brother, and he needed to put this issue to rest once and for all - if he didn't soundly trounce Tristan here, his authority would be in question for the rest of their lives. Galahad didn't lose, even to another Goodwill.

No more playing games, he decided. One of his six wings shined a bright white-gold, leaving its wing-like shape to become flowing and transitive. It coiled and spun around his outstretched arm as his body braced itself, before it was fired off and sang towards Tristan like a heavenly bolt. Tristan immediately wrapped his body in his wings to guard himself with, and the sound of light striking metal rang out like a gothic cathedral bell through the room. Galahad blinked the gleam out of the corners of his eyes, and felt the familiar sensation of suddenly standing a bit heavier on the ground.

Quirk: Light Angel. The user has six floating wings made of a strange heavenly substance as though it was solid light itself. He can use these wings as weapons or spend them as energy blasts, whether for long-range projectile attacks or as close-range detonations. He regenerates these spent wings by absorbing light into his skin. The wings also have an anti-gravity effect, and the more he has, the more mobile he is with his levitation and hovering. Overuse steadily impairs the sight of the user, filling his own vision with blinding light. Such a flashy, 'righteous' quirk must have been a hard act for a punk little brother to follow, which might explain a couple things.

One wing down, with only a weak fluorescent gymnasium light above him, against a brother who was apparently able to withstand his attacks. But he couldn't care less - Galahad wasn't any old hero, he was Sandalphon. He smiled, confident bordering on arrogant.

"Not even close, Trist."

Across the ring, Tristan tilted his head. A wing took exactly three seconds to fire. That was very good to know.

A sixteen-year-old, pre-academy Tristan walked towards Wing Academy for his entrance exam, surrounded by friends he couldn't stand.

The group of teens laughed and joked with one another, some of them trying fruitlessly to catch Tristan's attention before giving up when he didn't respond. Couldn't these morons see there was something more important here than who was dating who, and which house was best for weekend parties when parents were gone? What a useless carnival of clowns.

"Tristan?" his friend Jason tried. Tristan turned his head to look at Jason when he heard that. Jason was a shithead through and through, but he had proven himself useful for social purposes, and Tristan had to spare him a few bare glances at least.

"New club opens downtown this weekend. Think you could get us in? Y'know, pull some Goodwill fam' strings or something?" he asked like it was only natural.

A twinge of frustration hit Tristan. Of course. Goodwill fam'. But he just sighed as they reached the main doors to Wing Academy. "Yeah, sure, whatever. Look, I gotta go crush the entrance exam. Go… I dunno, hit your heads against pavement or something. Whatever you idiots do when I'm not around."

"Knew we could count on you! See you this weekend, Trist!" Jason and his other 'friends' waved to him and chorused their goodbyes as they left. He didn't bother saying it back. Tristan stepped into the entryway of the enormous blue-and-gold themed academy. It looked more like a fire station than a school, all function over form, but he supposed it would do. He would skyrocket through the training, show up all the weaklings in his class, and be one step closer to what he wanted - no, what he deserved in life.

An enormous yeti-boy that Tristan now knew as Winston bounded up to him, so similar to a dog that it made Tristan sick. "Hey! Are you here for the entrance exam too? You're that Goodwill dude, right? I'm - "

"Woah, woah, woah." Tristan held up a hand and sneered. "I'm sorry, did I say you could talk to me?"

The boy stopped. "H-huh?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Take a few steps back, I don't want your monkey fur on my clothes. This shirt costs more than your entire closet." Tristan rolled his eyes and stalked past him, before turning around to the stunned young man and raising an eyebrow. "…You can go now."

The boy sputtered, baffled and affronted. "What is your problem?!"

Tristan shrugged and kept walking.

Tristan, Galahad, and Marinette combined had made for quite possibly the most intimidating trio of people possible out of everyone in the building, perhaps discounting some teachers, so clearing a sparring room was a simple task for them. Galahad had wanted Marinette to leave as well, but Tristan refused this wholeheartedly, and Galahad really didn't have the bandwidth to argue with him when a duel sat in front of them. Besides, he figured. Maybe an audience will help the inevitable loss sink in a little more for Tristan.

He didn't regret this thought as the battle wore on and he found himself down to three wings - Galahad would never admit to being wrong, even in his own head. But he realized he would potentially need to alter his original assumption, as Tristan was proving extremely difficult to take down.

As specified in the original verbal challenge, the brothers were using knockdown rules. Since heroes may need to be called to a crisis any time, fighting to actual, physical defeat often wasn't an option, especially when on-duty. So, an alternative had to be found - in knockdown battles, instead of fighting until incapacitation, the battle went until one contestant hit the floor in a solid enough thunk without an immediate roll, jackknife, or any other method of quickly returning to one's feet.

Traditionally, the looser, messier nature of knockdown duels meant they required a referee - it was hard to argue with a boot on your throat at the end of a more classic-style sparring match, but what did and didn't count as a 'knockdown' could be the subject of furious debate, or often physical violence given the setting. But while Marinette could have served as a referee, everyone knew it didn't matter here. Knockdowns were obvious enough for simple sparring, or for settling a bet such as in this case. Tristan wouldn't lie, and Galahad couldn't lie - he had a reputation to maintain.

Galahad expected to be able to simply blitz his brother with his speed. Not only was he mach-fast compared to an average human, Tristan was actively slowed by his quirk. He could move fast in a straight stretch thanks to his strength, but the raw inertia of his mass meant things like nimbleness and agility simple weren't possible for him the way they were for humans who didn't have metal bones. All Galahad should have needed to do was overwhelm his brother with mobility and attack speed - even without being spent as blasts, his base wings were still weapons in their own right.

But Tristan was an iron wall (almost literally). He was extremely durable to begin with, although that wasn't a surprise to Galahad - he knew his brother would be stubborn and sturdy, and a knockdown against an enemy so heavy would be a lengthy process no matter what. But that wasn't the real problem: no matter where Galahad moved in for an attack, spikes of metal awaited him, like Tristan wasn't attempting to react to each individual strike, but rather predicting his older brother's attacks and making sure he had as many defensive contingencies around his vulnerable areas as possible.

This baffled his older brother. It was as though Tristan had paid attention to his attack patterns while growing up in his shadow, and had learned them enough to preemptively defend against them. But that couldn't possibly be right - after all, Galahad simply couldn't believe that anyone would pay so much attention to someone other than themself.

A heavenly wing deflected a riposte of steel claws, before dark metal feathers guarded against a (literal) flying spin kick. Tristan growled in tightly-controlled fury and shoulder-bashed his angelic opponent dead in the gut, sending him sprawling. It wasn't even close to a proper knockdown for the purposes of the sparring match rules - Galahad easily engaged the levitation his wings provided him and rolled over his grounded shoulder to return to his feet with a dramatic skid. But even if it hadn't ended the match, Tristan had sent him to the ground, and that was unacceptable for a hero like Sandalphon. Playtime was over.

He flicked a small switch on his belt, and the intense battery-powered lights inside of his suit began shining against his skin, as Galahad began to glow and supercharge.

"Well, isn't this a sorry sight. Who died and left you out of their will?" A first-year Tristan snickered at Conner, who was sitting dejectedly in the dorms common room, scrolling through his phone's email inbox for the thousandth time that day. "Sulking isn't a good look on you."

Conner sighed. Tristan knew he was easy to mess with, but not very fun - he was so chilled out most of the time that he didn't have any good reactions at all. What a waste.

"What do you want, Tristan?" Conner almost never raised his voice above a casual tone, but he sounded nearly frustrated this time. Maybe some potential, then, Tristan figured.

"I want you to stop moping in my common room. You're bringing the property value down." Tristan crossed his arms.

"It's not your common room. That's literally the point of a common room."

"Irrelevant. Spit it out or go cry somewhere else."

"My internship application got ignored, okay?" Conner turned to him. "So go on, laugh. Tell me about how you're gonna intern with your family without even having to apply, or how I'm weak for not making it, or whatever - "

"It got ignored?" Tristan interrupted him, frowning. "Not rejected, ignored?"

"Yeah. They were supposed to email me back, like, a week ago. And still nothing," Conner huffed.

"You've been letting these people ignore you for a week?!"

"Look, it's whatever. The agency was a reach, anyway. It wasn't realistic to start with."

"No, it's not 'whatever,' you damned pushover! People need to say what they mean! If those wishy-washy so-called 'heroes' don't want you, they should at least have the guts to say it. And you should have the guts to demand an answer!" Tristan scoffed. "God, people like them piss me off. How are you gonna have the guts to face down a villain if you can't even turn down some weakling rookie hero student to their face?"

"People like them piss you off? Not me?" Conner raised an eyebrow.

"It will be people like you if you just sit there and take this like some kind of dog with his tail between his legs, whimpering because he's too scared to bark!"

Conner wasn't sure whether he should feel ashamed or reassured. "Um… okay. I'll, like, send another email, I guess." Tristan glared at him wordlessly, and Conner raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay! I'll go to their office in person this weekend."

Tristan nodded. "Good. No classmate of mine is going to drag me down to being mediocre by association, no matter how pathetic he is."

Conner actually smiled. Maybe Tristan wasn't all bad after all, he supposed. But still a prick. He stood up, running a hand through his blue hair. "Right. Hey, Tristan? You're part metal, yeah?"

"What tipped you off, the wings?" Tristan mocked him. "Yeah, I have metal in my body. Why, jealous? You should be."

""Nah. Just making sure." Conner gently placed a hand on Tristan's back. Tristan was about to shove him away, before suddenly Conner was in front of him, despite not having moved. Tristan was being pulled backwards. He flailed through the air before slamming hard into the wall that Conner had lightly tapped at the end of their talk. Tristan struggled against the magnetic force, but the steel he was so proud of was his downfall, and he could not break himself from the two points of attraction.

Quirk: Magnetizing Hands. The user's right and left hands can apply north and south charges respectively via touch. Overuse causes dizziness and disorientation, like a compass that has lost its magnetic poles. Seems like the medium-blue of his hair is from a combination of the indigo-blue of the south charge and the sky-blue of the north charge.

"Thanks for the advice, Tristan. You're actually almost cool, you know that? And, uh, just so you know: next time you call me pathetic, I'm magnetizing you to the ceiling instead," Conner informed him with a friendly tone and a warm smile.

"Get back here, you damn…!" Tristan struggled once more, before giving up - he was solidly stuck. "How long does this last for?!" he exclaimed with a hint or worry in his voice. His only response was Conner's chiming laugh as the blue-haired boy walked to his dorm to get ready to follow Tristan's advice.

Galahad's golden ram horns, angelic wings, and hero suit shined with power as the lights inside his suit powered him up. Usually, he would need to ration the battery power of the suit-lights over an entire shift or patrol, but all he needed to worry about right now was this duel, meaning he could turn their intensity up to full blast. Within seconds, a new wing was formed, bringing him to four total, and a fifth was on its way. Tristan's callous mask was perfect just like Galahad's angelic one was, but his older brother knew what he looked like when he was nervous. Good, Galahad thought. He should be.

Galahad raised both arms this time, and spent two wings at once to fire off simultaneous projectile blasts. Tristan had defended against the blasts with his wings so far, but two at once was a different story. The force of the impact lifted him off his feet for a moment and forced him several feet back as he grunted with effort and surprise. After the temporary quirk-caused impairment of his vision, Galahad saw how damaged Tristan's wings were, with multiple blade 'feathers' loose and nearly falling off from the hit.

Tristan scowled and rushed in to close the distance, with his powerful steps once more shaking the floor. They both knew Tristan didn't have the long-range capacity that Galahad did, especially while Galahad was regenerating wings so quickly. Galahad was aware that the smart strategy would be to hover away out of his reach, use his superior speed to keep distance, and continuously fire off projectiles until Tristan's wings were damaged beyond using them to guard. After all, Tristan had no real way of keeping up with his speed, and would have to spend metal feathers from his own method of defense to even attack Galahad from a distance.

But this fight wasn't wasn't about strategy, it was about proving a point. Tristan had already forced him to use his suit-lights, which was a concession Galahad hadn't been happy to make - he had wanted to defeat Tristan without apparent effort. Now, he had to play a little more visibly smug to make up for it. He needed Tristan to know that he wasn't even dangerous enough to be strategic against. Galahad stepped forward to meet Tristan's charge, and the brothers engaged once more.

"HEART CRASH!"

Just before a second-year Tristan was slammed into the ground by a shining pink aerial piledriver, all he could really think about was how stupid it was to say the names of your attacks out loud. Then, impact. His head spun for several seconds, and then all he could think about changed to the fact that he couldn't get up. His endless pride and blazing fury meant nothing when it was stuck in a body that was simply, soundly, utterly defeated. His sickeningly generic rival Sherman had finally beaten him - for the first time ever.

The boy with dyed pink streaks in his hair and a shining pink aura around his body landed in a three-point stance. He didn't bother standing back up into a ready position - he knew it was over, and Tristan did too. "Heart Fade," he muttered as the aura around him died, and his skin lost its trademark crisscrossing pink lines of power.

Even if Tristan could have sat up, he wasn't sure he would have. After the roaring of battle in his ears died down, it was replaced by a hollow, almost contemplative peace. He lost. No excuses, no outside influences, nothing he could have done different or better. Sherman had defeated him. Despite himself, laughter bubbled up from his throat, almost giddy with absurdity.

Sherman caught his own breath as his quirk powered down, and Tristan felt the war drum of his opponent's heartbeat slow to as close to normal as Sherman's pulse could ever be. He didn't seem to know how to deal with this development, as Tristan raised a hand to his own forehead - still fully horizontal on the ground - and his chuckles grew into him howling with laughter.

Years upon years of being the best. Of being a Goodwill, of being 'Galahad's little brother,' of being a terror and a menace and an embodiment of power. Shattered in one bout.

He had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. It was freeing.

His wild laughter steadily calmed down, and he caught his breath. "Not bad, Rosie," he called out, referencing Sherman's affinity for pink. "You really got me."

Sherman, half waiting for the other shoe to drop, nodded cautiously. "Yeah. But you… you sure made me work for it, man. Good match."

"Damn straight I did. C'mon, simpleton, help me up. Least you can do after you broke my back." Tristan raised a lazy hand from his supine position. A peace offering.

Sherman smiled and took it.

With a snarl, Tristan swung with his claws in a brutal attack pattern, but Galahad simply danced away before using a melee detonation of his wing to blast into Tristan, who barely concealed a sharp inhale. The older brother was almost certain that if he had been able to see Tristan's eyes under the sunglasses, they would have been shut in a wince.

Galahad was spending his wings almost recklessly, but what did it matter when they recharged so fast? Even in melee range, Tristan was slowed enough by his steel body that Galahad could dash in and out of his attack range. Finally, they were fighting on Galahad's terms. Watching from the sidelines, Marinette shook her head sadly.

It was strange, though - Galahad knew that his brother could manually regrow his wings by spending the metals in his body, meaning he could effectively 'patch up' his damaged feathers. And yet, he still left so many of them dangling by nearly-shattered connections. Why?

Galahad almost smirked to himself. Oh, baby brother. Don't tell me you forgot your iron supplements today. And yet, you still chose to fight me? You really need a lesson in humility, he thought, without a hint of reflection.

Galahad's confidence had waned at the beginning of the fight, but it had returned full force now that his suit-lights were active and Tristan showing again and again that he simply could not stand up to Galahad. He was actually looking forward to training him on the Palisades, and making Tristan almost as strong as he was.

"No snark, little brother? No more comments?" Galahad questioned him as they traded blows, all of Tristan's missing the mark while Galahad's slowly wore him down. "That's a first!" He matched the 'first' with another detonation of a wing.

"Gah!" Tristan cried out in pain, no longer able to steel himself against the attacks. Not a knockdown, not yet, but Galahad knew he was getting closer and closer. He still had at least four more minutes on his batteries, meaning at least four more minutes of nearly unrestricted spending of his wings. As far as Galahad was concerned, the match was his. And he was pretty sure Tristan knew it, too.

A third-year Tristan forced himself to his feet as war raged through the urban labyrinth around him. He was dizzy from spending so much iron (not from blood loss, he told himself, he couldn't let himself think about that right now, the blood in his eyes was unrelated, he promised, the dizziness was just from spending the iron), but he would rather die here than give up and live a coward. Not when Zack was still calling out verse after verse of hypnotic song against entire squads of mooks, not when Vitani rocketed through villain after villain while soaring through the air - no. Not soaring, suddenly. Falling. Tristan's heart dropped with his classmate's limp body, and then his throat caught as Zack's siren song turned to a cry of pain from a goon's cheap shot flinging him into a wall. They were down.

Tristan moved like lightning. His enhanced strength forced his legs to launch himself forward to catch Vitani safely, then used a furious dual wingbeat to fire a pair of blades from his already diminished wings to distract Zack's foe.

"Get away from my fucking classmates!" he roared, brandishing his claws like a wild beast. Backup would come soon. The class just needed to hold out for a little while longer. And as long as he drew breath, no one would touch them. His steel would be unbreakable.

As Tristan reeled from the close-range detonation, Galahad rushed in. It did seem a little odd that Tristan was already so hurt by his attacks. Galahad knew his angelic floating wings were good weapons, but they were mostly for whittling enemies down with an storm of smaller hits, and Tristan was made of steel. But he just took it in stride: clearly, he was stronger than he thought. Or maybe Tristan just wasn't as durable.

His sight was filled with blinding light from overusing his quirk, but he couldn't care less - he was steadily realizing that losing his peripheral vision may have been dangerous against a real opponent, but not when it was just his baby brother. He didn't need to see out of the corners of his eyes when the only things that mattered were his body dodging Tristan's increasingly wild (or desperate) attacks and his wings striking his brother's steel-strong body.

"Don't worry, Trist. I don't want to damage your body. I just need to crush your ego!"

Tristan was finally off-balance for real - this was Galahad's moment. Six wings went to five as a powerful detonation blew Tristan's defense wide open, and an onslaught of attacks began. Wing strikes, punches, kicks, throws, anything and everything to damage Tristan and prove himself the stronger brother like he knew he was. Tristan hardly even seemed to be fighting back as Galahad's vision turned more and more into blinding white light.

"And then you can be better! I can train you, you can finally be a proper Palisade and a proper Goodwill like me and dad. You can be a real hero instead of a devil! I'll help you!"

The attacks of a supercharged, fully trained professional hero slammed into the steel of Tristan's wings, then his forearms, and finally his torso as his guard crumbled. As soon as he spotted the opening, he spent two wings at once in point-blank full power detonations. Galahad went down to three total wings for the moment, and Tristan was launched backwards and sent reeling.

Galahad exhaled. "…So you're welcome."

With a pained hiss of anger, Tristan rolled back up to his feet quickly but unsteadily, and Galahad had to admit that if nothing else, he was impressed by Tristan's perseverance. He was really putting in the work to keep from staying down long enough for a true knockdown. Weird, though - he really thought Tristan practically let him get that last combination off. If Tristan knew the battle was as good as over like Galahad did, why was he still trying so hard to stay on his feet?

Pride, Galahad supposed. It made fools of the best heroes. But he wouldn't let it make a fool of him. He raised his arm for a final wing blast projectile, ready to knock Tristan down for real and knock those stupid sunglasses off his face, and -

Realized his sleeve wasn't glowing. Why wasn't his sleeve glowing? Why wasn't any of his suit glowing? And why was Tristan smiling?

His eyes widened with panic as he frantically flipped the switch on his belt back and forth. No, no, no, my batteries can't be dead already! What -

As his hand moved on his belt, he saw the problem. The belt had been severed, and the power cords for the suit-lights with it. That was why Tristan took the blows. He wasn't using the moment to defend, he was using it to make one, single cut. Overusing his quirk and filling his eyes with light had literally blinded him to what Tristan was doing - slicing his belt and wires in the middle of being brutally attacked.

This is fine, Galahad told himself. I'm sitting low at two wings left, but he's still slower than me, so I just have to play keep-away until the fluorescent gym light can -

As Galahad's mind raced and the light in his vision began to clear, Tristan took full advantage of his hesitation and lowered his wings almost all the way to the ground, preparing.

Galahad's eyes widened once he realized Tristan's target. "Tristan - !" he shouted, and began to fire off another wing. But Tristan had already clocked the time a projectile blast took at the start of the match, and knew he was faster. Tristan swung his metal wings upwards with all his might, and a storm of feather projectiles launched up into the light overhead.

Things tended to get messy in Wing Academy sparring rooms. Some quirks were hard to control, and some students weren't fully capable of (or interested in) controlling them properly. The walls, doors, and even lights were powerful, sturdy construction. Even if Tristan had launched all the feathers he was capable of in a usual wingbeat - around ten at best - it wouldn't have been enough to break the glass overhead. But while his feathers were hanging onto his wings by threads like they currently were thanks to Galahad's attacks, he could fire countless of them in a single dual wingbeat. Tristan's attack shattered the bulb and drowned the room in shadow.

With the sudden surprise of darkness, the wing-blast went wide, narrowly missing Tristan and leaving Galahad with only two wings left. The only remaining light sources were the bright but limited lights from outside the door's small windows, the dim lights from inside the locker rooms around the corner, and Galahad himself - not even close to enough for proper wing regeneration, meaning he was stuck at only two wings. In addition, because of the blinding light in his eyes of his quirk's recoil effect, his pupils would stay constricted, and he was effectively blind in the dark.

In the darkness before him, Tristan removed his glasses, and crushed them in his steel hands before letting the shards fall to the floor in a chiming, clinking mess. "You're next," he growled to his brother.

Marinette sighed. Those glasses had probably been expensive, but she had to respect the theatrics.

Galahad's jaw dropped in horror. The sunglasses hadn't been protection against his quirk at all. He had been intentionally keeping his pupils dilated, ready for the dark. Wearing the sunglasses, studying the time it took to spend a wing, keeping his feather loose instead of regrowing his wings, goading Galahad into spending too many wings… Tristan had planned this out all along.

"You wanted snark and comments, Gal?" Tristan asked. In the dark, gleaming with the dim light of Galahad's wings reflecting off his steel wings and claws, he truly looked like a devil. Tristan raised his right hand. "Here's snark." He raised the other. "Here's comments." He brought them both into a combat stance, and he finally began to regrow his own wings - horrifying creaking and splintering noises echoed through the dark, as the shapes loomed higher and higher. "Don't worry - you'll get plenty of them now."

A post-finals third-year Tristan sat on his bed, almost numb. He had done it. They had done it, every single one of them, despite everything. They passed their finals, and got their full licensure. They were heroes.

Now what?

As soon as he heard the news, Galahad had texted Tristan - all business, of course - his congratulations, and had let him know that the Palisades would be officially inviting him to join them, alongside Skyler. Marinette, however, would not be invited, due to her injury.

Tristan was lost. This was all he had ever wanted: to be a Palisade just like his father and brother, to stand side-by-side the 'proper' Goodwills and prove he was one of them. Right?

And yet, his fingers typed out a text refusing the offer, while his brain only watched as though it were a dream. He did not press Send.

Three years of training, the battle against the Stone Syndicate, and a whole new world of companionship - dare he say friendship? Yes, he decided, he did dare. Friendship - had turned his entire sense of self upside down. And maybe had shown him a couple of things he didn't quite realize before. He didn't want to be a Palisade. He probably he never had. He only wanted to belong.

Semantics, labels, all sorts silly things that meant nothing. But somewhere, he knew which words were right and which were wrong. Palisade, angel, even Goodwill - wrong. Classmate, protector, devil, friend, steel. Those were right. He pressed Send.

Tristan's punches, kicks, and even a couple of headbutts pummeled into his brother over and over. With only two wings' worth of speed for dodging and points of defense for parrying and guarding, Galahad frantically ducked and weaved as he was pushed back. But the turnabout had given Tristan a second wind, and the younger brother was relentless.

Marinette watched in amazement as Tristan drove Galahad, a man she had only ever known and frankly revered as Sandalphon, into a corner, literally. She had always been aware that Tristan was (surprisingly, at first) academically smart, but this kind of scheme was completely out of left field. And by the looks of it, Galahad thought the same. It seemed as though Tristan really had grown beyond brute force.

Not that he didn't still have brute force, of course - while Galahad's attacks on Tristan earlier in the battle were death-by-a-thousand-cuts, this was death-by-a-thousand-wrecking-balls. Each blow was a true impact on the angelic hero, as his wings faded and weakened for a split second with each hit like dying fairy lights.

True to his word, Tristan spoke no snark or comments. All of the talking was done with his body. Every time Galahad moved to disengage and make any sort of space between him and the metal monster he was facing in the dark, a feather blade hit the ground where he was about to step. It clearly wasn't even a real attempt to hit him, it was a message: get over here and fight me.

Eventually the offensive assault was simply too much for one of the light-wings to try and guard against, and it dissolved into feathery quirk-power. No, no, no! Galahad thought in panic. This wasn't working. No more defense, no more dodging. He planted his feet and gathered his single remaining wing and all his limited power he still had. One last attack was all he had. One final, desperate shot.

He was Galahad Goodwill, he was Sandalphon, he was the best. There wasn't another option, and there wasn't a choice. He had to win this.

Tristan narrowed his eyes.

The brothers attacked at the same time. Only Tristan's landed.

A steel fist hammered directly into Galahad's jaw, and he saw stars from both his quirk and from the blow. The world spun, and spun, and spun, and once it stopped, he felt something against his back. A pit formed in his stomach as he realized it was the floor. He had lost.

Tristan flourished his wings as he rolled his shoulders. Shit, playing possum the whole battle like that had hurt. But the fight was over - no more focus and gravitas. He began to look like a part-metal cheshire cat as raw younger-sibling energy flooded his body, and a cheeky smile grew to a full grin on his face.

"Well, would you look at that…?"

Galahad sat up and looked like his world was crumbling around him. "…No. No, no, no. This can't…"

"What's the matter, Gal?" Tristan gloated, as though he wasn't beaten half to unconsciousness himself. "Got caught off guard? Forgot that you're not as perfect as you pretend?"

"Shut up!" Galahad snarled as his angelic mask began to finally break and his lips twisted in a sneer remarkably similar to Tristan's signature. His remaining wing burned with agitation, and he looked as though he was ready to continue the fight. "I'll show you who the real - !"

"Mister Sandalphon." Marinette's voice cut through the room, and Galahad stopped. He had forgotten himself. If this was just a fight between brothers, he may have been able to get away with taking it further. But Marinette's words were a reminder that he wasn't just a Goodwill brother; he was a representative of the Palisades, in front of two new heroes. With a laborious effort, he forced himself to lower his wing from it's blast-ready position.

"…Very well. You have defeated me, according to the rules of the match." It was as close to saying that didn't count as he could get. He wanted to stand up again and prove the real power of the Goodwill heir to his insolent younger brother, but he had lost by the rules in place. If he continued now, Marinette would be a witness to a seriously unheroic act of poor sportsmanship.

"Yeah. I did. Now I'm sure you remember the terms." Tristan was breathing heavily as well, but he couldn't care less - he just cocked his head and grinned, clearly taunting Galahad.

"Yes, I remember. I hope you're happy, Tristan," Galahad spat.

Tristan was, in fact, very happy, and more than a little smug. "Good. You can tell Dad that I'm not joining the Palisades, and that the Palisades have decided to respect that. I'm sure that'll be a fun conversation between him and his little golden boy." Galahad's eye twitched, but Tristan continued before his brother could get a word in. "And I think you have something to say to my classmate."

Galahad was silent for several full seconds that felt like hours, before he used every remaining ounce of formality and propriety to force a weak semblance of his angelic mask back onto his face. "…Miss Lemaire, we'll be in touch."

"Thank you, Mister Sandalphon," she responded softly, like she didn't want to shake the snowglobe and stir up any more powder. Not when the snow was already falling in her favor, for once in several months.

Galahad turned to Tristan with poison in his gaze. "You're making a mistake, Tristan," he said in a low, certain voice. "You'll realize how dumb you've been, and you'll realize how much you've given up. You had your chance, and you've thrown it away."

"Sorry, I don't speak sore loser." Tristan completely disregarded the grim prediction, reveling in the chance to be the infuriating younger brother now that he had won properly. Galahad's eyes blazed with fury, and he turned to stalk out of the sparring room with any pride he had left.

"Tell Miss Bell-Reid that we'll reschedule our conversation with her," he proclaimed back with barely-hidden anger.

"I love you too, big brother!" Tristan called in a mocking singsong tone. Only once he was certain Galahad was gone did he finally exhale properly, letting the stress leave his body and heart. That was… close. Maybe too close to have bet his whole future independence on. But he won.

Marinette walked over to him, with nothing to offer as payment but a water bottle and her gratitude. "…You really beat him," she said with unconcealed wonder in her voice.

Tristan barked a laugh and took the water. "Yeah, well, when you're compared to your brother your whole life, you make a few plans on how to beat him if you ever need to. And honestly, it felt good to take him down a peg or two. He's a bully."

"What makes you say that?" she questioned.

Tristan didn't meet her eyes. "Takes one to know one."

They were silent for a moment, before Marinette said softly, "You didn't need to do that. I'm strong - I can take care of myself."

Tristan scoffed. "Course I know that, idiot. It doesn't have anything to do with strong. You can call sitting there and taking bullshit you don't deserve being 'strong' all you like. But if you're not gonna fight for yourself, I will."

She opened her mouth to rebuke him, but found she had nothing to say. In its place, she sighed deeply and nudged him with her shoulder, releasing the pent-up tension from the battle and the argument beforehand, and maybe even some unrelated tension before that. "…Thank you, Tristan."

He rolled his eyes but gave her a simple comforting pat, the Tristan equivalent of a full Christmas present. "Yeah, whatever. I've got your back, Mar. Besides, I got to kick Gal's ass five ways to Tuesday, so it was hardly altruistic."

Her mouth quirked in a smile. "You were so close to losing."

"I had everything under control," he countered, and their back-and-forth continued as they walked out of the sparring room to innocently inform the academy of the mysteriously shattered light.

Another big boy chapter! A bigger boy than last time, in fact, all about Tristan. I think most characters are going to have their their 'screen time' spread out rather than in a big ol' chunk like this, but I wanted to try out writing a more focused spotlight, and I figured it would be best to show Tristan's more positive qualities early on so that it didn't seem like he was just a jerk for too long.

In case it wasn't clear, that villain battle flashback was the battle in which Class 15 took down the Stone Syndicate, as mentioned in Chapter 4. Vitani and Zack were absolutely key in thinning the oppressive number of enemies, but that made them targets, and left Tristan to protect them until backup came.

It's probably not hard to tell that Tristan has a complex relationship between his own pride and his connection with his classmates. After years of grappling with his place in the world and how other people compare and contrast to himself (especially his family and classmates), he has tentatively settled on a sort of tribalist arrogance: he's absolutely certain that he's awesome, and his classmates have proven to be his peers, meaning his classmates are also awesome, because they're his classmates, and any slight against one of them is therefore a personal attack on him. Not exactly a traditional hidden heart of gold, but hey, at least he loves his friends.

Galahad, meanwhile, isn't a bad person, but he's definitely a bad brother. Tristan brings out the worst in him, and steadily devolving into an arrogant prick as the fight went on to mirror Tristan evolving into a better person in the flashbacks was very intentional. He got lost in the fight and the years of baggage the two have, and he's still definitely a prick to be sure.

For reference, Conner can absolutely magnetize things that are not metal - metal is just a stronger magnetic force for him to work with. Is this actually how magnetism works? Who knows. I honestly just thought it was funny to give one of the most docile boys in class a nigh-impossible matchup for the class jerk.

For the powerscalers out there who might be (understandably) concerned that a student just beat a notably skilled pro, fear not - Tristan is weaker than Galahad. Tristan didn't win because he was stronger, he won because he took advantage of Galahad underestimating him, and because he had paid attention to Galahad's powers and tactics for years while Galahad never bothered with Tristan's (or anyone's but his own).

As always, I welcome constructive criticism. I'm not super confident in the jumping back and forth between flashback and battle, to be honest - I like the concept, but I don't think I can have an unbiased opinion of it while reading it, since I wrote it and all. And I'm always looking for ways to improv my action scenes. Let me know if you think I can do anything better (or if there's any blatant typos or repetitions or anything of the sort - I did a lot of the editing for this one while somewhat sleep-deprived lol).

Next chapter should be a more casual, everyday moment with the classmates. Thanks for reading!