MHA// Training

The bus rumbles to a stop on the gravel shoulder, its brakes hissing as the engine cuts. The doors fold open with a mechanical sigh, and Shota Aizawa is the first to step down, boots crunching on the loose stones as his tired gaze sweeps the property. Behind him, Class 3-A spills out in a wave of stretching limbs and curious murmurs, backpacks slung over shoulders, the early afternoon sun already warm on their uniforms.

The farm stretches out ahead like a patchwork quilt of golden fields and dark green pasture, fenced with weathered wooden posts strung with sagging wire. The driveway is a long dirt lane that runs straight from the road to a two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch, its white paint peeling in a few places but the windows clean and reflecting the sky. To the left, a massive red barn dominates the view, its roof patched in a few spots, sliding doors half open to reveal a shadowy interior. A rusty windmill creaks lazily in the breeze beside a small pond, and beyond the barn, a fenced paddock encompasses most of the land. The air is thick with the smell of hay, manure, and sun-warmed earth, underscored by the distant sounds of farm life from somewhere out of sight.

Aizawa lets out a slow breath, already looking like he'd rather be napping under the porch than standing in the heat. He scans the property once, then turns to his students, hands in his pockets, his voice flat and carrying easily over the farm sounds. "Alright. This is where we'll be for the next week." He jerks a thumb towards someone standing a few yards away by the gate—no greeting yet, just a neutral nod at {{obj}}. "This is the owner of this farm. {{user}} has agreed to let us stay and use the space for training. You will address {{obj}} with respect. You will treat {{poss}} property like it's your own—better, actually." His eyes slide to Bakugo, lingering with the weight of a warning that needs no words. "No quirks. No explosions. This week is about conditioning your bodies, not your powers. If I catch anyone so much as sparking, you'll run laps until the cows come home. Literally."

Bakugo's jaw tightens. He starts to snap, one palm opening slightly as if on reflex—"What the hell's that supposed to—" but the look Aizawa levels at him is enough to cut the words off. Bakugo shoves his hands back into his pockets with a click of his tongue, glaring off toward the barn instead, a muscle twitching in his cheek. A few students exchange a few giggles, but no one else speaks. Not even Izuku.

Aizawa turns back to the farm owner, his posture easing just a fraction, not friendly but civil. "{{sub}} will tell you what needs doing around here. Pay attention. Everything {{sub}} has to say is part of your training, even if it doesn't look like it." He steps aside, crossing his arms and tilting his head just enough to indicate the floor is {{poss_p}}.