The rabble of the tournament crowd was intense. Excitement was thick in the late morning air. Thousands of people lined up in droves and encircled the arena in packed, energetic fashion. The heat was intense, but the relentless buzz quickly fanned away any stuffiness hanging in the air.
A specific portion of the crowd, however, was quite a bit more nervous than excited. Those that would be competing in the tournament — laying their pride on the line — were definitely feeling the pressure. Some had come early and already entered, breathing calmly inside the waiting room. Others — specifically one competitor — were waiting outside.
"Welcome to Super Fight, the no-rules, all-out brawl for— Oh, an entry ticket!"
A well-mannered receptionist had received quite a number of entry tickets at this point, but couldn't fully hide her surprise at the plain-looking man holding the ticket.
The participants that came before the man were all… quite eccentric. Red hair. Sour faces. Electricity. An aura of violence. Charming but unsettling confidence. This year's competitors were a rabble, even for Super Fight standards.
Honestly, the receptionist found the man standing in front of her to be quite a relief. Some fighters ignored or made light of common entry protocol and barged into the participants' lounge without a second thought.
It made her sick.
But this — this orange-haired man…!
Finally, a normal person!
"What's your name and fighting style, sir?" she asked, more energetically than usual.
"Char… Charanko," the man replied. "And… uhh… my style is… Water beam. Lock-bashing fist?"
"Ah…" the girl blinked. Maybe she should have waited until after he spoke to make conclusions about his normalcy. "I… I see…"
It was a jarring shift in tone, but Saitama was completely oblivious to her change in tone. His eyes scanned the crowd.
"Anyway," he said. "Just… hmm. Mind if I wait here for a bit?"
"No problem," the receptionist said, jotting down the man's odd fighting style. He looked like he was waiting for someone. The ticket was good for two, after all. So a date then. At least that was normal.
.
Saitama tapped his feet in odd beats, watching as the people walked slowly forward into the arena. The lines were shortening. Not by much, considering the amount of entrances available, but it was something. The excitement was palpable, and the gradual, hastening trickling of spectators allowed for the heat to be minimized. It also allowed Saitama the opportunity to look for any sign of Tatsumaki in the crowd.
He frowned.
Did she get the time wrong? Mess up the day?
The disguised baldy looked at the crowd, not seeing the usual bright green he had grown so accustomed to seeing. They'd talked about the time and place yesterday. And Tatsumaki wasn't the forgetful type.
How long had it been… fifteen, twenty minutes since he arrived?
An unwelcome thought dripped into his mind.
Maybe she wasn't coming.
Saitama shook his head and tried to reason with himself. With the rising unhappiness in his chest.
Twenty minutes was nothing.
Tatsumaki always did things at her own pace. Not a stickler to schedules, that esper was. And there was no reason to believe she'd change that just for him.
Saitama shook his head. He might have just been a bit on-edge. And for a decently good reason, at least in his opinion.
The scheduling. The time and place. This little trip to the tournament, more than anything else they'd done… felt like a date.
Saitama slapped his cheeks. Not that it was! They were going to see each other, but they weren't seeing each other. Right? Tatsumaki definitely wouldn't think so. This wasn't anything.
Twenty minutes wasn't anything.
The orange-haired baldy sighed.
Ten more painful minutes passed. The lines seemed to be thoroughly short now.
And Saitama began to worry if it really was nothing.
Maybe she had hero work.
A sudden call preventing her from attending was perfectly reasonable. At least, initially.
The problem was that Tatsumaki was strong.
She'd just beat the monsters instantly. And no matter how far away the city was, she could just fly here with time to spare.
Makeup, maybe?
Saitama looked at the crowd once more.
Groups of friends, families, martial arts teammates. Chatting, laughing, ready to enjoy the event to the fullest.
And here he was, completely alone.
Saitama looked at his ticket, eyeing the 'three million' plastered on it.
A huge sum of money. And he was quite confident he was in the running to win it.
The things he could afford with that…
Food, manga, a PC or console — Saitama perked up a little, thinking of the possibilities.
Money was quite the motivator, for sure.
'Or maybe a new apartment in the H.Q.…'
But eventually his thoughts wandered back to the esper that wasn't there. That might not be coming.
Money was one thing.
If the esper wasn't gonna be here — Saitama didn't know if he was interested in seeing the tournament through.
.
The receptionist watched quietly as the man waited for his date.
She saw him standing, then pacing, then eventually sitting against a column, looking totally lost.
'Poor guy…' she lamented in his place. 'She must've not wanted to see you put yourself in danger, is all…"
And then she saw his eyes brighten.
Saw the commotion. The slight — but sure — drop in volume of the nearby crowd. The turned heads.
So she turned hers.
And took all her pity back.
His date was stunning.
.
"Tats!" Saitama stood up and smiled, seeing her wade through the crowd. He walked quickly over to meet her.
As the people parted between the two, Saitama caught sight of the esper's outfit.
Once he did, he nearly tripped on his own feet.
Tatsumaki chose not to wear the black top that day; nor the sundress; nor the blouse and buttoned skirt. All of which he thought suited her well. And all of which he'd prepared a compliment for — she'd asked for more than a simple 'cute,' the day before, after all.
In the midst of a packed crowd, with the thought of the tournament at the back of his mind, then seeing Tatsumaki dressed up like this? — Saitama was speechless.
Asking him to say something about her look…
Saitama blinked.
This was unfair.
Standing before the orange-wigged baldy was Tatsumaki, wearing a pure white, shoulderless qipao lined with gold. Her hair was tied in a double bun, with white ribbons entwined at their base.
She picked it out specifically because of Saitama's reaction the other day. And, as she hoped, she got it once more.
Saitama was in shock.
People in the crowd murmured — attempting to be subtle, but to no avail. Gossip permeated the air in the immediate vicinity.
"Is that the Tornado of Terror?"
"The S-Class hero?"
"On a date?"
"Who's she with?"
"This is kinda cute…"
Some onlookers looked excitedly at the pair, diving into the gossip and immediately theorizing about the odd duo in the midst of the crowd.
Others, however, were much more realistic.
"There's no way."
"The Tornado of Terror is taller than that, right?"
"Her hair's the wrong shade of green."
"She never wears white."
"It's just a cosplayer trying to get attention."
Tatsumaki nodded nervously to herself. She never dressed up. Never showed up in public spaces. And never went out with other people. Which meant that the moment she did all those things — at once, no less — people would instantly doubt her identity. She could practically hide in plain sight.
Hearing the wave of buzz nearby, she knew things were going just as planned.
But it didn't mean she wasn't at all embarrassed by her own boldness. Far from it, in fact.
In the middle of the crowd, face-to-face with Saitama in an even more revealing outfit than usual — Tatsumaki fought every instinct she had to cover her face and fly away.
She was blushing madly. Right in front of the baldy with the wig.
Saitama could feel the heat rising in his face.
Before he could speak, the esper quickly closed the distance between them. Taking his hand, she pulled him away from the buzzing swathe of people and into the participants-only section of the arena.
The receptionist eyed them lazily.
"You've found your plus-one, sir," she noted, monotone.
"Y-Yep," Saitama said, handing the receptionist his ticket.
She scanned the paper and pointed to the hall behind her.
"Tourney's in half an hour," she said. "Feel free to get ready in the waiting rooms or buy snacks. We have a selection of gis and belts in all waiting room closets."
"Got it," Saitama said, trying to cool his face down.
"Good luck," the girl said.
Tatsumaki nodded quickly, pushing Saitama's arm through the entryway.
As the two disappeared inside, the receptionist shook her head.
'The most normal of them all,' she concluded.
If the tournament was a test of how painfully in love one could look, either of the two would win in an instant.
It made her sick.
.
.
"Yes. Of cou— no, leave that one be. I'll handle it when I get back."
A middle-aged hot spring owner put his phone down and shook his head.
Even in his free time, Ona just couldn't catch a break.
After the S-Class heroes' visit to his resort, he was swamped with business opportunities. As much as he hated to admit it, the whole debacle with the heroes was good publicity. And he'd been busy ever since.
This was his first break in what, almost a month? More? He wasn't quite sure. But he had been invited by a close friend to attend the Super Fight Tournament — a guilty pleasure of his. Watching powerful fighters fight with no holds barred got the blood pumping like nothing else. He was lucky enough to acquire a VIP viewing box for relatively cheap; a 'thank you' gift for supporting his friend's business years ago.
'Look at him now,' Ona thought. 'A big-shot sponsor for Super Fight.'
With quite an influence, as well. His friend had been put in several meetings and had a say on the happenings-on in the tournament. They planned for this one to be the most viewed one yet, and for good reason.
Ona checked his phone, inspecting the names of the tournament participants.
Suiryu and Bakuzan. Lightning Max and Snek. Four big names to bring attention to the tournament. Two previously undefeated champions duking it out. Two popular A-Class heroes representing the Hero Association.
It was a recipe for success, upsets and other participants not even factored in yet.
And Suiryu was a fan-favorite. His personality and fighting style were one-in-a-million. Not to mention, he seemed to be popular among the ladies. Always a good thing in these hyper-masculine affairs.
.
Walking through the VIP entrance, he spotted his friend sitting across the hall, eating a snack. He was a younger man who sported his suit a tad bit better than Ona could.
"Ponso!" Ona called, smiling. "Expecting me?"
"I thought you'd be late, to be honest," the man said, standing to shake Ona's hand.
"Which is why I caught you pigging out so early in the event, huh?"
"Just getting as much energy as I can," he said. "Quite a bit of my money's riding on this."
"When do you not have money riding on things?" Ona said, shaking his head.
"Being able to grab those two A-Class heroes and have them enter is good," his friend replied. "But they're looking to be eliminated earlier than expected. That Suiryu fella is troublesome. Popping in out of nowhere, as always. What bad timing."
"You did your best," Ona said, patting his back. "All we can do now is see it play out."
"I heard one of Silverfang's disciples is participating, too. Low seeding, so he might rattle up my predictions a bit, as well."
Ona checked his phone.
"This 'Charanko' fella?"
The website had just updated his information, and it showed a bored-looking man with ill-fitting orange hair. The quote underneath stated 'Please don't aim for my head.'
Ona shook his head, scoffing. "I don't think you need to worry about him."
Ponso shook his head. "You never know."
The older man put an arm around his friend's shoulder and started to walk with him.
"If you're so worried, then why don't you scope him out? The tournament hasn't started yet," Ona said, heading towards the waiting rooms. "There's still time to make some last minute adjustments, no?"
"I suppose," the younger man replied.
.
The two businessmen stood, expressionless, as they heard two voices ring out, muffled, through the door of one of several waiting rooms in the hallway.
"Tats— ah! Too tight!"
"I… ghh! This is my first time doing this alright?! Stop moving so much!"
"Stop squeezing, then! And use your hands, not your p—"
"Tch! Find someone else to do this for you then!"
"That's not what I mea— ah! You broke it!"
"Just go without it! It's not like it's proper protection, anyway! And it's not like you need protection in the first place, dummy!"
"I don't think this is a matter of protection, Tats. But do you really think it's fine if I don't put it on?"
"A-Ah… n-no— I mean yes! I mean…! Why are you asking me? You're the one who should know what to do…"
"I'll just wear one then. To be safe."
"Whatever you want. Just put it on yourself next time."
"But… please? I'm no good at this, you know."
"Mmmhhh… fine. You're spoiled, you know that?"
"Yep."
"There are some extras here. Hold your shirt properly. And keep still."
"Got it."
"Mm… How's that?"
"Ahh. That's better. Thanks, Tats."
"G-Good. Now let's…"
.
Ponso looked sidelong at Ona.
The older man looked unamused.
"You don't suppos—"
"She's putting on his gi and obi," Ona said, rolling his eyes. "Knock on the door."
The younger man blinked, then nodded.
Knock, knock, knock.
In the few moments it took for Silverfang's disciple to open the door, a flurry of thoughts ran through Ponso's mind.
Rumor had it that Silverfang used to be quite… eccentric in his youth. Picking fights, picking up women — he was a derisive, yet charismatic pillar of martial arts. In his old age, his popularity and fame only grew.
If his disciple was anything like that, well, it would be wise to keep an eye out. Maybe even invest in them early.
Those thoughts ran through quickly in his head, and as the door opened, they quickly washed away.
Ponso was a realistic man. He saw choices as opportunities and risks. He followed his mind before he followed his gut. And it had gotten him far along in the world.
But as the orange-haired man opened the door, his instincts screamed for him to listen.
.
Behind Silverfang's disciple was the Tornado of Terror. Dressed in a qipao, no less.
.
Was she there as his date? A coach? A secret disciple of Silverfang?
He wanted to ask dozens of questions, but his mind was telling him to slow down. To think things through.
It couldn't possibly be Tatsumaki. The very idea of 'the strongest esper' in a martial arts waiting room was absurd. And accompanying a rookie disciple of Silverfang, no less?
Absolutely impossible.
.
"Um. What do you want?" Saitama's voice cut through the man's addled mind.
"Ah. Ehrm."
A plan was quickly beginning to form in Ponso's mind.
But Ona was quicker. It was a little odd that he was hiding behind the doorway, but his voice was as steady as ever.
"You wouldn't mind if we sponsored you, yes?" he asked.
Saitama looked taken aback.
"Sponsor? Like, as in, paid cash and stuff?"
"Indeed," Ona nodded. "To represent Super Fight. And answer a few questions during ad breaks. How's that sound?"
"How much are you paying him?" Tatsumaki stepped in, suddenly interested as well.
"W-Well, considering you need to keep winning to properly represent the tournament," Ona cleared his throat. "Your earnings will depend on your wins. At most, you'll be getting…"
"An eighth of the earnings of the fighter in first place," Ponso finished for him, nodding.
Saitama's face turned serious.
"I'm in."
Before he could shake on it, though, both businessmen had something to say.
"You need to be accompanied by your friend to the matches," Ona said.
"As your coach. For show," Ponso concluded.
"Hah?!" Tatsumaki reeled. She stepped forward accusingly—
"Oop. Hold on." Saitama shut the door on the two.
"You can't be serious, Saitama!" Tatsumaki whispered.
"Think about the money, Tats!"
"I'd rather be caught dead than be seen in this outfit!" she said.
"Why? You look fantastic in it. And white suits you really, really well."
"A-Ah?!"
"And besides, it doesn't look like anyone recognizes you," Saitama said. "They think you're some cosplayer or martial artist or something."
"I…"
She knew Saitama was saying all this for the money. Buttering her up. Assuring her that nobody would recognize her. It was all for that one-eighth bonus in cash.
Saitama. The infuriatingly oblivious baldy. The one who spoke plainly and had no sense of eloquence. The one who never paid attention to outward appearances.
Not even when she was injured and needed help changing her bandages. That is, until she recovered enough to be able to do so herself.
.
.
"Ow."
"Too tight?"
"Why else would I be saying 'ow?'" Tatsumaki clicked her tongue.
"Sorry," Saitama said, loosening his grip.
The bandages around the esper's ribs unfurled very slightly.
"Better?"
"Tch," the esper looked away. "Yes."
Alright.
It had been the third time they changed the esper's bandages that week. Her burns and her wounds which had initially been open and painful, had thankfully healed enough to where her arms and legs needed less covering up.
Her ribs, however, were still very much healing.
And loathe as the esper was to admit, she still needed help wrapping herself up. Her powers were too unsubtle to really do it properly, and she always ran the risk of reopening her head wound — which was the most important one to keep sealed.
The baldy was getting better, at least.
But it was hard not to snap at how he went about wrapping her up.
His right arm was wrapped around her lower chest, barely brushing where they should not brush.
"Watch it," she said, feeling Saitama's arm move ever so slightly up.
"Yeah, yeah," he replied, keeping his arm still. With his other arm, pulled the bandage around her shoulder.
Tatsumaki flinched.
"Ow!"
"It has to be at least this tight, Tats," Saitama said.
"You did it too fast, baldy!"
"It's exactly how I did it before!"
Tatsumaki turned around to scowl at him.
Saitama met her eyes, trying not to scowl back.
"Sorry," he said. "I'll be slower next time."
Tatsumaki huffed and turned back.
At least he was aware of the situation.
She was practically disrobed. Forced to rely on a person she'd just met to cover her chest snugly lest she worsen her injuries. If he'd gotten mad, she would have torn his apartment apart — no head injury would stop her.
Saitama wrapped the bandage around her nape and back over to her other shoulder.
Perfectly, the esper noted.
"You're too used to this," Tatsumaki said.
"How are you getting mad when I did it properly?"
"Pervert," she muttered. "How would you know how much pressure to put on my wounds?"
"Because you keep telling me how to! And I know they're sensitive, so if I don't want you to get hurt, I have to listen!"
"I—!" Tatsumaki's face turned red. "Shut up!"
Saitama let out a sigh. She felt his breath on her back.
He tied the last bit of bandage around her ribs.
"There," he said.
Tatsumaki stood up immediately.
"Close your eyes," she said.
"It's almost as if I didn't bandage you up just now," Saitama muttered. He turned to get manga.
Tatsumaki stomped off to get her dress.
.
.
That guy. The baldy who had been completely disinterested — and whose disinterest she was completely fine with.
Until recently, that is.
Tatsumaki had slowly learned to read the baldy's expressions and make guesses on how he felt. She wasn't much good at it, but one thing she learned to do was to keep quiet and just watch his face. It had, embarrassingly, turned into a habit of hers to do so.
And there was one thing she never failed to notice.
As much as she glanced and stole looks at the baldy, she'd never seen them returned. Not in that way, at least.
It had grown to bother her.
Tatsumaki was confident in her looks. She worked hard to keep her lithe frame. To arrange her hair, to take care of her nails — all that jazz. Not to the extent of Fubuki's obsession, but enough to feel good with her appearance.
She'd always had a snappy remark at the ready for when she finally caught him staring. As time went on, the readied snappiness turned into flustered expectation, but still he never looked.
As much as she knew that she should be thankful — glad — that he didn't gaze carelessly at her like so many others did…
As time went on, it disappointed her — just a tad — that he didn't seem to care.
.
'You look fantastic in it. And white suits you really, really well.'
.
So hearing him compliment her. Seeing him steal glances in her direction. Going out of his way to tell her that she looked good?
"Fine. I'll be your 'coach,'" she said, huffing.
Saitama's eyes brightened. "Really?!"
She nodded, fighting the heat that rose to her face.
Tatsumaki turned, unable to stop the smile from creeping in. A swell, a mix of pride, relief, and unabashed joy flooded her.
He was looking at her.
'Finally!'
It made her want to cheer for him all the more.
.
.
"Take these. We'll be in touch," Ponso said, handing the pair an earpiece each. "Have fun, you two."
The door closed as the two businessmen walked away.
"Charanko and…" Ponso turned to Ona questioningly.
"'Maki,' she said."
"What an odd coincidence."
"Indeed."
There was a prominent, thoughtful pause.
The younger man tilted his head.
"I assumed you would take the risk," Ponso said. "To garner media attention by using that guy's 'coach' without even making sure if it is who we suspect it is. But your face tells me there's more to it than that."
"My guess is as good as yours," Ona said, waving his hands to dismiss the assumption.
But Ponso was a people person. He was quick to read the man's dismissal as absolutely false. Ona was a stubborn fellow, so it was best to get straight to the point.
"I'm guessing you want to play a part in the communication with the two of them," he said.
"Precisely."
"Whatever you're planning," the younger man said. "It better be worth facing the real esper's wrath."
"Oh yes. As a matter of fact, I think it'll prove quite… entertaining."
Another lie, Ponso noticed. But he was much too scared to ask.
.
.
"Alright everybody!" a speaker inside each waiting room blared. "All participants — and, huh, what was that?" The announcer's voice hesitated, ebbing away from the mic to talk to someone in the background. "Ahm. All participants — and coaches — gather 'round near the hallway to the arena!"
"That's our cue," Saitama stood up, patting his wig, earpiece and obi to make sure they were all securely attached. "C'mon, Tat— er, Maki."
A near-inaudible 'mrgh,' was Tatsumaki's only response. But she stood up nevertheless.
Saitama led the way outside the door, walking along the hall and finding waiting room doors opening up left and right. As the crowd of martial artists grew, Saitama felt a tug at his sleeve.
Tatsumaki didn't want to be near the front, it seemed. For all to see.
Saitama understood. And slowed down.
The two soon found themselves in the midst of their competitors, all gathering at the end of the doorless hallway which overlooked the arena. The sunlight streamed down from beyond the walls, and those at the front of the crowd halted right before it hit their feet.
The audience was restless. Cheers and excited buzzing echoed around the halls.
Saitama felt a small rise in his heart rate.
Tatsumaki wanted to cover her face and go home.
.
Eventually, a young man walked from the arena and stepped in front of the shaded entrance.
"Welcome, participants!" he exclaimed. "To the annual Super Fight Tournament!"
The martial artists eyed him silently — save for one near the front who cheered giddily. So giddy it sounded almost sarcastic.
Either way, the young man smiled.
"You've all received your seedings, yes?"
A rustling of papers around the small group confirmed that, yes, they had received their seedings.
Save for one, that is.
"Yo, Tats," Saitama whispered. "Did we—"
Tatsumaki brought out a paper and stuck it to his face.
"Yeah. But your damn belt distracted us," she said.
Saitama pulled the list of seedings and read them slowly.
"Bakuzan and Suiryu are skipping the first round," Saitama said. "Seeded high, huh… must be tough."
Tatsumaki rolled her eyes.
"Do you seriously think they can beat you?"
"I mean," Saitama muttered, staring at the list. "I trained for only three years. These guys devoted their whole lives to this. Losing sounds reasonable, don't you think? I dunno…"
The esper shook her head.
She pulled the paper down and stared him down. A little smile made its way to her face.
"You got this."
She spoke with unmatched sureness.
Her smile was infectious.
"Well then!" the man announced, clapping his hands together. "We'll be lining you up at the front to introduce you all to the audience! And then — back inside this hall you go — to relax! Until we call on you, you're free to go wherever you want. So, are you all READY?!"
Yet again, all but one contestant stayed silent. A whoop loud enough to make up for it echoed through the halls.
As if to one-up his cheer, another voice blasted through — the speakers nearly peaked with its volume.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE 22ND SUPER FIGHT!"
"That's your cue!" the man in front stated. He gestured for them to walk forward.
.
"AND HEEEEERE COME THE PARTICIPANTS!"
.
The crowd burst to life.
And the introductions began.
.
.
"Isn't that guy a hero?" Saitama said quietly, waiting in the hall for his name to be called.
Saitama pointed to a yellow-haired, spunky young man walking back into the hallway. He glanced at Saitama, then did a double-take as he saw Tatsumaki, and then hurriedly walked away as the esper stared daggers at him.
"Yep. A-Class, just like you," Tatsumaki said. "He's one of the heroes that you stuck your back out for. During the Deep Sea Guy ruckus, or whatever."
"Huh, what about that," Saitama said, turning back to the brightly-lit entrance. "I'm glad he's doing good for himself."
"Yeah," the esper said, stifling her disdain out of respect for the baldy.
"Nice to see a hero taking up a hobby."
"Yeah. Good for him."
.
The contenders continued to be introduced.
"Are you supposed to go out as well, Tats?" Saitama touched his chin.
"I dunno. Hope not. Probably will," she said stiffly.
Saitama tilted his head.
"You nervous?" he asked.
"N-No," she huffed in response.
He placed a hand on her head.
"Good," he said, patting her. "'Cuz I ain't ever gonna make my coach look bad, 'kay?"
Despite the baldy's orange-haired mess of a getup, Tatsumaki's heart stirred. His expression was lovely.
And his hand on her head didn't help matters at all.
"Y-Yeah…" she breathed out softly.
'Don't mind the crowd,' she told herself. 'Just… Just look at him.'
.
The buzz of the crowd died down as the announcer and participant finished their brief introduction. Saitama looked focused.
Tatsmumaki briefly scanned the list, nodding as she saw Saitama's 'name' up next.
As if on cue, the announcer's voice loudly picked back up.
"Our next contestant is… Charanko of the Water Beam Lock-Picking Fist!"
Saitama walked out onstage to a sea of cheering — a surprising change compared to what he was used to. He raised a hand to greet the crowd, and felt a swell of excitement as they cheered even louder.
Hmm. Maybe he did look better with hair.
"He's a first-timer in this tournament, competing with an unknown dojo name — and with a ridiculous getup to boot! A complete mystery, this guy is! Watch your lockers closely, fellow participants — you might just find them empty!"
The raucous cheers turned to laughter.
Ah. Well, it had to happen sometime.
"And— ah. It seems our contestant will be accompanied by a… a coach!" the announcer spoke with barely-controlled curiosity. "Not quite unheard of, but having a coach for a tournament such as this… Despite it being his first entrance, perhaps our ridiculous-looking friend has some serious aspirations to win. Everyone, please cheer them on!"
Somehow, the mention of a coach brought the crowd positively astir. The laughter Saitama resigned himself to face turned into slow claps, and then cheering once more.
A voice in his ear made him jump.
'Miss Maki. Please step forward so the crowd can see you.'
In reply, the esper responded, 'But Sai— Charanko's the one competing! They're cheering for him!'
'That's all and well, but do not forget our deal,' the voice of Ona rang. 'Just go out there, smile, and wave. Simple as that.'
'Fine,' Tatsumaki groaned.
"AND HE—EERE COMES MISS COACH! EVERYONE, PLEASE GIVE IT UP FOR MISS MAKIIII!"
The green-haired esper stepped hesitantly into the light. Positively red-faced.
.
The pause held by the audience was deafening. Even more so than when they met up at the arena entrance, the eyes on her were almost buzzing with disbelief.
'That's Tatsumaki,' some thought. 'It has to be.'
'It looks like her,' others rationalized. 'But that's all.'
The opinions of some in the crowd were strong. But they were outliers. Most in the audience were only thinking one thing.
'There's no way they're just 'student and coach.' Absolutely no way.'
There had to be something more.
It was intriguing. Scripted, perhaps, to bolster the viewership on television, but intriguing nonetheless. The two 'actors' they chose were textbook — a simple-looking man and an extravagant-looking lady, master-and-student — how had they managed to make such a perfect setup?
Tatsumaki saw the hushed crowd and frowned.
Hearing about his past experiences with large groups of people made her sick. Broke her heart.
Just moments ago, they were cheering for Saitama. The masses, finally seeing him. Expecting something great. It was perfect. They laughed at him for a few moments — and she nearly brought the whole stadium crashing down — but they stopped right on time.
And then the damned voice in her earpiece began blathering. Telling her to go out when there was absolutely no need to. When everyone was looking at him.
The crowd hushed as she walked forward. Fighting the embarrassment and focusing solely on him.
She readied herself for those eyes again. Hoping against hope that she wouldn't catch him looking lost again. That the silence wouldn't stop him from seeing himself as she did.
But the drop of her stomach never came; he was only looking at her.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She clicked on the device in her ear. Held out a fist towards him, feigning confidence.
But her words betrayed her.
"Y-You got this…"
Tatsumaki's heartfelt voice echoed across the stadium. Recorded through her earpiece and pushed through the speakers everywhere.
And the quiet crowd roared.
.
.
"It's fine!" Saitama said, holding her shoulder as she sat in the waiting room. Her head was pressed roughly against the wall. Her hands were on her face. All the while, Saitama tried to reassure her. "You were really cute! The crowd loved you!"
"Kill me…" she said, pulling her bangs to cover her eyes. Her earpiece had been thrown across the room and onto a table. "Saitama, just up and punch me out of the arena…"
"Don't say that," he said, patting her shoulder gently. "Tats! C'mon… uhm… listen."
Tatsumaki turned her head, letting go of her curled locks of hair to meet his eyes. She was all ears — red as they were.
"If you can't do it…" Saitama put his hand to his earpiece and pulled it out. "We can stop the whole master-student thing. If you want, I can quit the tourney. We can go out and do some oth—"
"No."
Loathe as she was to admit it — and despite her own embarrassing reservations — the crowd had stirred something within her.
.
Tatsumaki had always avoided being seen around with Saitama.
Their entrance to the hot spring, coming home from competing in the park, even heading towards the hospital. She'd always gone ahead of him.
Was it out of fear? That the public might diminish her reputation?
In a way.
Again, her failure during the alien invasion was to blame. The faith the public held in the Hero Association was linked solely to their perception of her performance then. And even still, there was dissension among the public. Those who shared the same opinion as that blasted Amai Mask, claiming that 'real heroes would've stopped the destruction of A-City.'
If they found out a then-B-Class hero had stopped the invasion, questions would be asked. The system of heroes would be shaken, no doubt. Her image would be put into question.
It used to worry her. Embarrassing as it was to consider now, what with her wearing a damn qipao in PUBLIC just for Saitama — but she held her image in high regard. It was her identity. The reason people were wary around her. And she liked it.
Before, that is. Before Fubuki made her want to take all of her damned selfish thoughts back.
It was then that she feared for him. That, if Saitama was caught with her, he'd face backlash. Their relationship would be put under scrutiny.
'A nobody is with Tatsumaki? Why?'
'Are they dating?'
'An S-Class should not be distracting herself with an A-Class. Heroes should stay strictly professional.'
It gnawed at her as she considered their outing that very morning. Dressed in her regular hero outfit felt… wrong. And so did going out in casual wear. To suddenly place the weight of her name and status on their relationship was the last thing she wanted to do. That's when she came up with her plan to hide in plain sight. Test the waters, have fun as much as they wanted — both in disguise, both complete strangers in the crowd's eyes. She would be satisfied just to hear the crowd cheer as Saitama undoubtedly won the whole thing.
.
Tatsumaki thought that would be it. That it would give her a bit more confidence to stand beside him someday.
Never in her wildest dreams would she have expected to be standing with him now. Never had she even considered the ravenous, judgemental crowd to actually cheer for them.
So despite all her embarrassment — or anger — about her voice being broadcast to everyone in the arena.
Tatsumaki was happy.
"We… We're seeing this through."
"A-Ah."
.
Knock, knock, knock!
.
The two jumped.
"Miss Maki," Ponso's voice called, muffled and shaky, from behind the door. "You, er, pressed the wrong button on your earpiece. The red one is to connect to the arena's speakers. A-Apologies. In o-other news, we—"
"YOU BETTER APOLOGIZE, DAMMIT!" she shouted back, pulling the door open and jabbing a finger at him. "NEXT TIME THAT HAPPENS, I'M CRUSHING YOU, GOT IT?"
"Y-Yes, miss!" Ponso bowed immediately. "However, ah, the viewership in television has significantly risen because of it. We can push the pay from one-eighth to one-sixth of the winnings of our first place fighter. I-If you still wish to carry on with the plan, that is. We understand if you want t—"
"Don't be stupid. It's too late to back out now, after everything they heard," Tatsumaki scoffed. "Go away."
The man obliged by quickly running off.
.
"So…" Saitama said, watching Tatsumaki close the door angrily. "We're doing this."
"We are," she replied.
They both took a breath, nodding.
"And we're moving on to the next round!" the announcer's voice echoed through the speakers. Completely on-cue. "Chaaaaaranko versus… Zakkooooss!"
.
.
I'm a bit late, no? Sorry about that.
I've been really busy. I honestly am writing in my free time, but getting through this chapter specifically felt more like handling a lot of stories at once. Weird, since this chapter's Sai/Tats-centric, but it's the truth! I know waiting can be hard, and I'm really sorry I haven't been replying as of late, but rest assured! I'm trudging forward. As aloof as I may seem, behind the scenes I am absolutely thankful for everyone reading.
Stay warm and cozy inside, 'yall. It's that time of year!
-bb