Needlework

The air in Denki Kaminari’s room was thick with the scent of ozone and cheap cologne. It was a typical Thursday night in the Heights Alliance dorms, which meant the chaos was localized but potent. Denki sat cross-legged on his bed, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he wrestled with an E-string on his electric guitar. The instrument let out a discordant, dying-cat screech every time he turned the tuning peg.

"Dude, I think you're gonna snap it," Mineta muttered, not looking up from a magazine that featured a hero in a very tactical, very tight swimsuit. He was sprawled on a beanbag, his expression one of glazed-over adoration.

Yuko Shimura sat on the floor, leaning against the foot of Denki’s bed. Her pale pink hair, shimmering like spun glass under the LED strips, caught the light as she tilted her head. Her green eyes were fixed intently on the handheld Nintendo screen in her lap. With a rhythmic flick of her thumb, she drifted around a corner in Mario Kart, her face a mask of cold, tactical focus.

"Blue shell incoming," Yuko said, her voice a flat, melodic monotone. "Denki, you’re about to be demoted to eighth place. My condolences."

"No! Not the shell! Anything but the shell!" Denki wailed, abandoning his guitar to scramble for his own console, but it was too late. An explosion rocked his screen. "Yuko, you’re ruthless! Where’s the mercy? Where’s the 'Plus Ultra' spirit?"

"Mercy is a tactical error in a competitive environment," Yuko replied, her gaze never wavering. "I am simply optimizing my victory path."

Beside her, Raibaru Utsumishi was huddled in an oversized UA sweater that practically swallowed her small frame. Her yellow-blonde twintails bobbed as she scribbled furiously in a notebook. She looked up, her large, watery blue eyes wide with anxiety.

"Um, Yuko-chan? I think... I think we were supposed to finish the English essay on 'Heroic Ethics' tonight," Raibaru whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Present Mic said... he said he’d use his quirk to wake up anyone who forgot. I don't think my ears can take that."

Yuko paused the game. "Ethics. Right. The concept of not vaporizing the opposition unless strictly necessary. I have three bullet points written. Most of them involve the legal definitions of 'justified force.'"

Before Raibaru could spiral into a full-blown panic attack about the curriculum, a heavy, rhythmic thudding shook the door. It wasn't a knock; it was a demand.

"Oi! Dunce Face! Open up!"

The door practically rattled off its hinges. Katsuki Bakugo stood in the hallway, his palms sparking with small, impatient pops. He looked like he was vibrating with repressed kinetic energy.

"I need a sparring partner," Bakugo barked, his eyes scanning the room like a predator looking for the least-pathetic sheep. "Kirishima’s at the gym, Iida’s doing some nerd shit, and Deku is... Deku. Get up. We’re going to the Gamma field."

Denki threw his hands up in a defensive gesture. "Whoa, Bakugo! It’s 9:00 PM on a Thursday! My brain is fried—literally! Ask someone else!"

Bakugo’s scowl deepened, his gaze landing on Mineta, who immediately hid behind his magazine. Finally, his eyes snapped to Yuko.

"I’m bored," Yuko said, standing up in one fluid, athletic motion. The moles on her face, so reminiscent of a certain green-haired classmate, crinkled as she gave a small, sharp smirk. "I’ll go. I need to test the trajectory of my remote sparks anyway. Your explosions are loud and predictable; they make for excellent target practice."

Bakugo’s eye twitched. "Predictable? I’ll show you predictable, you knock-off firecracker! Fine. Move it!"

He turned to stomp down the hallway, but stopped when he realized Yuko wasn't alone. Raibaru was clinging to the hem of Yuko’s shirt, her knuckles white.

"I... I’m coming too!" Raibaru squeaked. She shot a look back at Mineta, who was currently sniffing a page of his magazine. "I can’t stay here. It’s... it’s scary in a different way."

The walk to the training field was filled with the sound of Bakugo’s angry footsteps and the soft, metallic *clink* of the gear Yuko carried. As they stepped onto the floodlit concrete of Training Ground Gamma, the night air felt crisp.

"Standard rules," Yuko said, pulling a roll of athletic tape from her pocket. She began wrapping her palms with practiced ease. "No permanent structural damage to the facility, and try not to aim for my face. I’m fond of my peripheral vision."

"Shut up and fight!" Bakugo yelled, already launching himself into the air with a twin-blast of heat.

They moved like two sides of the same violent coin. Bakugo was all raw power and overwhelming pressure, a storm of orange light and concussive sound. Yuko was different. She didn't stay close. She danced on the edges of his range, her movements gymnastic and precise.

She snapped her fingers—*Ting!*—and a spark ignited a trail of her nitroglycerin sweat she’d flicked into the air moments before. The explosion was small, concentrated, and hit Bakugo’s shoulder with the force of a sniper round.

"Too slow, Katsuki," she called out, her voice devoid of heat.

"Don't call me by my name, you damn brat!" he roared, swinging a massive explosion that Yuko narrowly dodged by detonating a spark behind her, propelling herself upward in a jagged, high-speed burst.

Raibaru watched from the sidelines, her hands hovering over her utility belt where her handmade rag dolls were tucked away. She was shaking, her eyes darting between the two explosive powerhouses. She felt so small compared to them—so "scary" in her own way, but so weak in others.

"Um... Bakugo-kun? Yuko-chan?" she called out during a brief lull where both fighters were catching their breath. "Can I... could I try? Just a little? I want to practice my binding movements."

Yuko landed softly, her palms smoking. "It’s a live-fire zone, Raibaru. You might get singed."

Bakugo, surprisingly, didn't yell. He huffed, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. He looked at the trembling girl in the oversized sweater. Everyone in the class knew Raibaru was a nervous wreck, but they also knew her quirk—Voodoo—was terrifyingly effective if she actually landed a hit.

"Fine," Bakugo grunted, shoving Yuko aside with a rough shoulder. "Move it, Shimura. You’re too fast for her to catch anyway. Hey, Twintails! Get over here."

Yuko blinked, a rare expression of genuine surprise crossing her face. She stepped back, sitting on a nearby equipment crate to finish wrapping her hands. Her palms were raw; the price of her quirk was a constant battle with friction and heat. She watched, fascinated, as the most hot-headed boy in UA actually lowered his stance.

"Your dolls," Bakugo said, his voice uncharacteristically controlled. "They’re useless if you can’t get close enough to grab a hair or a drop of blood. Stop shaking. If you shake, your aim is trash. Look at me."

Raibaru gulped, stepping forward. "I’m sorry! I’m so sorry if this hurts!"

"Stop apologizing! It’s training!" Bakugo barked, though the volume was tuned down from his usual 'murder' setting. "Throw the doll. Predict where I’m going to move, not where I am. Come on!"

Yuko watched them. It was a bizarre sight: the King of Explosions patiently—well, 'Bakugo-patiently'—instructing a girl who looked like she might faint at the sight of a hangnail. There was a strange, rough kindness in him that Yuko had sensed that rainy day in the phone booth, the day she was supposed to kill him. It was the reason she was here.

After twenty minutes of Raibaru successfully "pinning" Bakugo’s shadow with her dolls, the blonde girl was panting, a small, triumphant smile on her face. Bakugo stood with his arms crossed, looking begrudgingly impressed.

"Better," he muttered. "Still too slow, but better."

Raibaru took a deep breath, her courage bolstered by the successful session. She looked from Bakugo to Yuko, who was quietly tending to a burn on her wrist.

"Bakugo-kun?" Raibaru asked softly. "Can I ask you something? It’s been bothering me."

"Make it quick," he snapped, though he didn't walk away.

"Do you... do you hate Yuko-chan?" Raibaru’s voice was small but clear. "I mean... you’re always yelling at her, and you call her names, and you act so... so disrespectful. But she’s my best friend, and she’s actually really nice once you realize she isn't trying to be mean, she just... doesn't know how not to be."

Yuko froze, her fingers stilled on the tape. She didn't look up, but her ears were ringing in the sudden silence of the training hall.

Bakugo remained silent for a long beat. He kicked a piece of loose rubble on the floor. "Hate her? Why would I waste energy hating her?"

"But you're so mean to her!" Raibaru persisted, her watery eyes narrowing with a rare spark of protectiveness.

Bakugo glanced at Yuko, who was still staring intently at her hands. He scoffed, a sharp, jagged sound. "She’s a pain in the ass. She’s blunt, she’s got no filter, and she looks at people like she’s deciding which artery to cut first. She’s weird. She hangs out with the Grape-Idiot and the Sparky-Moron."

He paused, his expression shifting into something harder to read.

"But she’s not a fake," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Most people in this school act like heroes because they want the glory or because they think they’re supposed to be 'pure.' She’s here because she chose to be. She failed a mission to take me out and instead of running back to the dirt, she stood up and decided to walk in the light. That takes more guts than most of these extras have."

Yuko felt a strange warmth spread through her chest—a sensation far more intense than the thermal priming of her quirk.

Bakugo turned his head away, his ears slightly red. "Besides, her explosions are actually decent. I can’t respect a weakling. She isn't a weakling. Now stop asking stupid questions before I blast you into next week!"

Raibaru beamed, a radiant, teary smile. "Oh! So you *do* like her!"

"I DIDN'T SAY THAT! SHUT UP!"

Yuko stood up, walking over to them. She stopped in front of Bakugo, her face returning to its usual deadpan mask, though there was a slight softness to her green eyes.

"Bakugo," she said.

"What?" he snapped.

"I have determined that your assessment of my tactical bravery is accurate," Yuko stated. "In return, I will refrain from detonating a spark in your locker for at least forty-eight hours."

Bakugo’s jaw dropped. "You were planning on—? You brat! Get back here!"

Yuko had already turned, walking toward the exit with a slight spring in her step. "Come on, Raibaru. We still have to write that essay on Heroic Ethics. I think I have a new opening sentence."

"Wait for me!" Raibaru scrambled after her, clutching her dolls to her chest.

As they walked back toward the dorms, the moon hanging high over UA, Yuko felt a sense of belonging that the "Hound" she used to be would never have understood. She was a Shimura, a girl born of tragedy and rewritten by villains, but as she listened to Raibaru chatter about the homework and heard Bakugo’s distant, angry pops of frustration behind them, she knew she wasn't a ghost anymore.

"Raibaru," Yuko said as they reached the front doors.

"Yes, Yuko-chan?"

"Thank you for asking him," Yuko said, her voice barely a whisper. "It is... useful to know the status of one's alliances."

Raibaru giggled, hooking her arm through Yuko’s. "You're welcome. But Yuko-chan? You're smiling."

Yuko touched her face, her fingers brushing the moles near her mouth. "Am I? I must be experiencing a localized surge of dopamine. I shall have to monitor this development."

"It’s called being happy, silly!"

"Happy," Yuko repeated the word, testing its weight. "I think... I think I could get used to the side effects."

Inside the common room, the lights were dimming, and the smell of Denki’s burnt guitar strings had faded, replaced by the quiet, mundane hum of home. For a girl who had once been told she was expendable, the mundane was the greatest victory of all.