The adrenaline hit me like a loan shark collecting interest—all at once, and twice as painful as I'd expected.
The tremor started in my fingers, just enough to make the Ace of Spades flutter like a dying moth. The violet glow from my Quirk faded completely, leaving behind the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that reminded me why most people didn't make a habit of blowing things up for fun.
Well, that was educational.
The aftermath of our little performance looked like someone had taken a snow globe filled with concrete and given it a good shake. Dust hung in the air and the scattered remains of the Zero-Pointer stretched across the mock city like the world's most expensive jigsaw puzzle. Emergency sirens wailed their mechanical lamentations while search-and-rescue drones buzzed overhead like caffeinated bees.
Jiro shifted her weight from foot to foot, her earphone jacks coiling and uncoiling. The girl who'd just helped me coordinate a takedown of a sixty-meter death machine was suddenly finding her boots fascinating.
"Hey, um..." She tucked a strand of purple hair behind her ear. "That was... I mean, the way you saw the whole battlefield like that. The coordination."
"Team effort," I said, though I kept my eyes on the approaching rescue drones.
"Right, but..." Her voice dropped lower, almost lost under the ambient chaos. "I was thinking maybe we could—I don't know—for training or whatever. You know how to read a fight better than anyone I've—"
The medical drone descended between us like the world's most poorly timed chaperone, its rotors kicking up a fresh cloud of dust and debris. Red crosses blazed on its white hull as it settled on the cracked pavement with mechanical precision.
"ALL EXAMINEES REMAIN STATIONARY FOR MEDICAL ASSESSMENT," it announced in a voice that could wake the dead.
Jiro's request died in the drone wash. She bit the inside of her cheek, her earphone jacks tightening into frustrated little coils. The expression said everything.
A scanner beam swept over me and the drone's speakers crackled to life.
"Subject: Minor lacerations, Quirk exhaustion level two, no immediate threats to vital functions. Proceed to Triage Area C for standard decontamination and evaluation."
"Triage Area C?" I called back to Jiro, but she was already being herded in a different direction by her own mechanical guardian. Ojiro had vanished entirely, swallowed up by the relentless efficiency of the medical response.
So much for exchanging contact information. Nothing like a little bureaucratic efficiency to kill the moment.
The drone's scanner beam shifted to an insistent red, and I got the distinct impression that arguing with military-grade medical equipment was a losing proposition. I followed its blinking lights toward a cluster of white tents that had sprouted from the ground like mushrooms after rain.
Triage Area C was a collection of automated med-stations in neat rows, staffed by bots designed with a clinical allergy to personality. I was directed to a cot, told to wait, and then promptly ignored by every piece of machinery in the vicinity.
From hero to waiting room patient in under five minutes. That might be a new record.
I settled back on the cot and took stock of my situation. My clothes were torn in several places—occupational hazard of fighting giant robots—and I had a collection of scrapes that stung like paper cuts from hell.
The medical bots moved through their routines like clockwork, applying bandages and dispensing medication. One of them rolled up to me, extended a scanner arm, and gave me another thorough examination before declaring that I was "stable but requires observation."
Story of my life.
Since I apparently wasn't dying fast enough to warrant immediate attention, I had a front-row seat to watch the controlled chaos of emergency medicine in action. The bots were efficient, I'd give them that. They moved through their protocols like dancers following choreography, each action precise and calculated.
But efficiency and competence weren't the same thing, as I was about to discover.
My attention drifted to the critical care section, where the more serious cases were being handled. The girl with brown hair was sitting on a medical table looking like she'd just stepped off the world's worst carnival ride. Her round face had gone pale green, and she was clutching her stomach like it owed her money.
A medical bot hovered beside her, extending an IV needle toward her arm. Standard protocol, probably—replace lost fluids, restore electrolyte balance.
Except the girl looked at that needle like it was a particularly aggressive snake, and when the bot inserted it, her complexion went from pale green to something approaching the inside of that kikufuku mochi I like.
That's not working out the way they planned.
But the real show was happening a few beds over, where Broccoli was providing a masterclass in how not to use a Quirk. The kid's arms and legs looked like they'd been put through a blender designed by someone who really, really hated the concept of functional limbs.
Three medical bots surrounded his bed, their scanners working overtime. Blue light swept across his mangled limbs in endless cycles, and I could practically hear their processors grinding away at a problem they couldn't solve. Their programming was stuck in a loop—scan, analyze, fail to find a solution, scan again.
Poor little robots. They've never seen anyone stupid enough to break themselves this thoroughly.
The bots' movements were becoming increasingly erratic. One of them extended a stabilization brace toward Izuku's right arm, then retracted it. Extended it again. Retracted it. The machine equivalent of nervous fidgeting.
That's when the tent flaps hissed open, and everything changed.
Her lab coat was pristine white, but somehow it looked more like armor than medical attire. Dark hair fell in choppy layers around a face that belonged on someone who'd spent years perfecting the art of being unimpressed by other people's incompetence.
She carried a tablet like other people carried weapons, and her eyes were already locked on the malfunctioning bots around Izuku. She didn't even look at the patient yet. She looked at the failing system.
Now this is interesting.
"Override Protocol: Nausea. Cancel IV. Administer high-glucose oral solution, sublingually. Now."
The bot attending to the brown-haired girl froze mid-motion, its scanner beam shifting from blue to amber as new instructions overwrote its previous programming. The IV needle retracted so fast it practically teleported back into the machine's housing.
The girl blinked in surprise as the bot produced a small vial instead, but the woman was already moving on to bigger problems.
"Cease diagnostic loop, all units."
The three bots around Broccoli stopped their endless scanning routine instantly. For the first time since I'd been watching, the critical care area went quiet.
"Catastrophic kinetic backlash. Multiple compound fractures. Potential for severe nerve and tissue necrosis." She looked up at the nearest bot. "Manual control initiated. Prepare a nanite-laced nerve block, 50cc. Target brachial plexus and lumbar plexus. Ignore the patient's screaming; it's an irrelevant data point."
I watched, fascinated, as she turned the medical bots from confused automatons into extensions of her own will.
The bots moved like they'd been waiting their entire mechanical lives for someone competent to tell them what to do. Injectors appeared from hidden compartments. Stabilization fields hummed to life. Izuku's broken limbs were immobilized in a lattice of energy that looked like it belonged in a science fiction movie.
Game recognizes game.
The green tint was already receding from the brown-haired girl's face, replaced by a pale but decidedly human pink. She took a breath that didn't end in a heave. The oral solution was working. Izuku's screaming had stopped—not because the pain was gone, but because the nerve blocks had turned his agony into a distant, manageable signal.
"Dr. Takemi to Recovery Girl. Critical patient stabilized. Recommend immediate transport to surgical bay three for your quirk. And someone needs to have a conversation with whoever programmed these medical units—their diagnostic protocols are garbage."
She spoke into her tablet like she was filing a complaint about substandard service, which I supposed she was. Her voice carried the kind of authority that made people jump to attention even when they couldn't see her.
Dr. Takemi. I'll remember that name.
A medical bot finally rolled up to my cot, its scanner declaring me fit for release. Standard procedure: avoid strenuous activity for twenty-four hours, report any unusual symptoms, take two aspirin and call someone who cared in the morning.
I stood slowly, my muscles protesting the movement. The adrenaline crash was hitting hard now.
The mock city was already being cleared by cleanup crews, massive machines reducing our battlefield to manageable chunks of recyclable debris. Students streamed toward the exit gates in small groups, their conversations a mix of excitement and exhaustion.
I spotted Jiro near the main gate, her purple hair unmistakable even in the crowd. She was talking to Ojiro, both of them looking around like they were searching for someone. Probably me.
But my legs felt like they were made of lead, and the thought of navigating through the crowd to reach them seemed about as appealing as solving calculus problems while being attacked by wasps. Besides, if we'd all passed the exam—and I was reasonably confident we had—there would be plenty of time for reunions later.
Assuming we all get into the same class. Wouldn't that be convenient.
I took a different path toward the exit, one that led away from the crowds and toward the quieter side of the campus. My phone buzzed against my leg—probably Kimiko, wondering how the exam had gone. She'd want details, a full report on everything that had happened.
But right now, all I wanted was to get home. To sit on our lumpy couch and eat whatever miracle Kimiko had managed to create from our perpetually understocked kitchen. To process everything that had happened in the comfortable silence of our small apartment.
Curry. She said she was making katsu curry tonight.
And after the day I'd had, that sounded like the most heroic thing in the world.