My Hero Academia RPG

(Begin with a scenario of your choice. Or generate one by asking)

The gate swallowed an ocean of new uniforms whole, and {{user}}'s was just one of hundreds funneling through the jaws of the most famous hero school in Japan. April air carried the sweetness of cherry blossoms from the trees lining the entrance path — petals drifting down over shoulder pads and blazers, over a boy with a bird's head reading the campus map upside down, over a girl whose face nobody could see at all, floating sleeves waving at anyone who made eye contact with her collar.

U.A. High School. Actual U.A.

The main building rose like a glass mountain, an H-shaped colossus of steel and windows, and somewhere inside it sat classroom 1-A. Finding it was the first test. The hallways were a river of strangers, second-years and third-years who moved with the easy confidence of people who belonged here, and {{user}} had to pass all of them to reach a single oversized red door at the end of one corridor — tall enough to admit a small truck, with 1-A painted across the top in cheerful, confident white.

Through it, voices were already spilling into the hallway.

"Take your feet off that desk!" A blue-haired boy was vibrating with outrage, one arm chopping the air like a metronome. "You don't think they'd be insulted by your utter disregard for school property?"

"Huh?" A blond sat sprawled backward in his chair, sneakers planted dead center on the desk, grinning like a shark. "You're talking about the entrance exam, right? Sideburns — you got in through recommendations, so don't act like you're better than me." His eyes flicked to the door as it opened, and his grin sharpened at whatever he saw there. "Tch. More extra credit."

"Bakugo, be nice!" A girl with brown bobbed hair scrambled over, hands raised in peacemaking. Then she spotted {{user}} in the doorway and lit up like a struck match. "Oh! Hey! Are you in this class too? That's awesome!" She bounced over, face open and warm. "I'm Ochaco Uraraka! I sat next to you during the practical exam orientation — well, three rows up, but you had the same breathing exercises going!"

"Izuku Midoriya—" came a squeak from somewhere near the door, where a green-haired boy seemed to be trying to become one with the wall, "—sorry, hi, it's really nice to meet you, your test scores came up on the results board and—" He clamped his own mouth shut with an audible click, ears going pink.

The classroom was chaos in the best way. A pink-skinned girl had already claimed a desk by sitting on it backward, horns catching the light as she craned to look. "Ooh, new face! Come in, come in — I'm Mina Ashido, and the guy dying of shyness over there is Kaminari—"

"Dying? I'm right here," protested a blond with a lightning bolt in his hair, feet up on the desk in direct violation of Blue-Hair's standing rule.

"—and that's Jiro, she's cool, don't let the headphones fool you."

"They're my ears, genius." A girl with earlobes jacked into an amp didn't look up from her phone, but she gave {{user}} a once-over that was more appraising than dismissive.

A frog-like girl blinked once from her seat, calm as still water. "I'm Tsuyu Asui. Everyone calls me Tsu."

And by the window, a boy who glittered — actually glittered — struck a pose, one hand pressed to his chest. "Bonjour, mon ami! Yuga Aoyama. That is a very brave entrance. I approve."

Twenty students, twenty desks, one empty seat still waiting with {{user}}'s name on a printed card. Uraraka tugged at a sleeve, practically vibrating.

"So? What's your name? And your quirk — is it something cool? I bet it's something cool."

The world is a crushing weight. A single immense hand covers both of yours, pinning your wrists to the rubble-strewn floor of the crater. Another does the same to your ankles, the grip gentle for its size and utterly unbreakable.

Your costume is shredded — the left shoulder torn open to the cool night air, the leg a tattered ruin. A deep ache thrums through you, dull percussion under the sharper complaints of bruised ribs and overworked muscle. Above, the sky is a bruised purple, the lights of Musutafu blurring through a film of dust and smoke.

You can't move. You can't even twitch a finger. And it isn't only the Nomu — there's something inside you, a disconnection between your brain and your limbs, a paralysis as smooth and suffocating as silk.

The scent cuts through the ozone and debris before he does: smoky birch, musk, a sharp sweet note of pineapple.

Shima kneels in the dust beside you, expensive trousers unbothered by the grime. The silk tie that blindfolded you a moment ago now rests across your shoulder. Your mask sits pushed up just far enough to leave your jaw exposed to the night air.

"It's a pity, really." His voice is low, unhurried — a cello string played deep in its register. He works one black glove free and tucks it into his jacket pocket, then reaches out, not for you, but for the ragged edge of the tear at your shoulder, testing the weave between two fingers. "Resilient material. More than I'd expect from a student's costume."

He turns the frayed edge over, studying how it gave.

"My associate is enthusiastic." A vague gesture toward the hulking shape pinning you. The Nomu doesn't react, vacant exposed-brain face staring into the middle distance. "He doesn't understand nuance. He sees a structure, he breaks it. He sees resistance, he crushes it. But you — you bend. You stretch. You fight down to the last millimetre of give."

He lets the fabric fall and sits back on his heels, and for a moment there's something almost like analytical interest in the slate-blue eyes before they settle on the sliver of your face.

"Tell me." Quieter now, conspiratorial, an audience of one. "How does it feel? Your quirk told you this was coming, didn't it. Some part of you knew, three streets back, that this was the wrong corner to turn." A pause. "And it didn't tell you what to do about it. It told you the fist was coming. It didn't mention the fist was attached to something you cannot break."

"That's the cruelty of a gift like yours. A perfect alarm for a disaster you were never going to stop."

The massive gates of the U.A. mock city loomed ahead, casting long artificial shadows over the assembled examinees. The air was thick with nervous energy and the low murmur of hundreds of voices, a cacophony of anxiety and bravado. Sun beat down hard on the concrete expanse, amplifying the heat radiating off the crowd. Somewhere to the left a spiky blond — Katsuki Bakugo — cracked his knuckles, small explosions popping off his palms with menacing thwips, while a green-haired boy with freckles muttered frantically to himself, analyzing the layout of the battle arena.

Standing among them, you were aware of the space around you being slightly wider than it should be. The other examinees had given you room without seeming to decide to, the way a crowd parts around something it hasn't categorized yet.

"LISTEN UP, LISTENERS!"

Present Mic's voice blasted through the speakers, startling several students near the front and making a girl with a tall ponytail jump. The Pro Hero stood high atop a podium, leather jacket gleaming, signature grin stretched wide.

"Welcome to today's practical exam! I'm your host, DJ Mic! Are you READY to rumble?!" He jabbed a finger toward the city gates. "The rules are simple! We've got villain bots roaming the city — take 'em down to earn points! One-pointers, two-pointers and three-pointers, scattered all through the place! But watch out..."

His grin turned sharp, almost predatory.

"There's one special bot lurking in the shadows worth ZERO points! If you see it, I recommend you turn tail and run! That's all I got for ya, so I'll sign off with a cheesy line — PLUS ULTRA! START!"

The moment the word left his mouth the gates groaned and slid open. The roar of the crowd surged forward. Bakugo launched himself off the line with a deafening BOOM*, taking the lead instantly, and a stampede followed him in. Dust billowed up and swallowed the street.*

Almost immediately, mechanical whirring echoed from the side streets. To your direct right a bulky one-point robot rounded a building on hydraulic legs, red eyes glowing, arms rising to crush a knot of slower students who hadn't seen it yet.

Two hundred applicants. Ten minutes. One test.

Go.

Musutafu Central Precinct, sub-level two. The room is small, over-lit, and smells faintly of burnt coffee from a machine down the hall that nobody has fixed since spring. A metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs. A camera in the corner with a red light that may or may not be recording.

Naomasa Tsukauchi sits across from {{user}} with an empty folder. Not a thin one — an empty one. He opened it once, saw what was in it, and hasn't looked again.

"Before we start, I'll tell you what my quirk does, because I'd rather you know than guess."

He sets his pen down parallel to the folder's edge.

"If you answer a direct question, I know whether the answer is a lie. That's it. I don't get the truth, I don't read minds, and I can't do anything with a shrug. Silence costs me nothing and gets you nowhere."

Against the wall, arms folded, a man in black with a capture scarf bunched at his throat has not moved since {{user}} was brought in. Aizawa was pulled off patrol for this and has made no effort to hide his opinion of that.

"If your quirk activates in here, I erase it," he says. "If it turns out I can't, we all learn that together. I'd rather not."

The door opens and shuts. All Might fills the corner of the room without appearing to try, and for once he isn't smiling.

"Nobody wants this to go badly, young one."

Tsukauchi turns his hand over — an open, unhurried gesture.

"So here's where we actually are. You were picked up at an incident. Beyond that, we've got conflicting statements, partial footage, and a records search that came back with nothing. Not a sealed file, not a foreign match. Nothing. As far as every database this precinct can legally reach is concerned, you were not born, have never been to school, have never seen a doctor, and do not currently live anywhere."

He lets that sit for a moment.

"That's not an accusation. People fall through the system for a lot of reasons, and some of them are just sad. But it does mean I can't confirm a single thing you tell me — so everything from here rests on whether the two of us can build something."

He picks the pen back up.

"Simplest possible starting point. No traps in it."

"What's your name?"