Chapter 2: Quirks, Questions, and a Custodial Contract
The world seemed to slow down. For Katsuki Bakugo, whose entire existence was predicated on being the fastest, the strongest, the most explosive, it was an infuriating crawl. He saw his own hand, sparking with miniature detonations, thrusting forward. He saw the blank, slightly bored expression on the face of the balding man. And then, he saw the man's hand move.
It wasn't a punch. It wasn't even a slap. It was a flick. A single index finger, moving with the casual disinterest of someone shooing a fly, met Bakugo's outstretched palm.
Flick.
The explosion Bakugo had been building detonated instantly, but not outwards. The force seemed to fold in on itself before erupting behind him, launching him backwards in a comical, flailing arc. He landed in a heap fifty meters away, coughing and sputtering, his ears ringing. He wasn't seriously hurt, but his pride had been utterly, devastatingly vaporized.
"Problem child," a tired voice drawled.
The remaining examinees turned to see a man who looked like he hadn't slept in a week, draped in a black jumpsuit and a strange, scarf-like weapon. It was the Pro Hero, Eraserhead. His eyes glowed a menacing red as he glared, not at the students, but directly at Saitama.
Saitama felt… nothing. He watched the tired-looking hero stare at him intently, but the strange, draining sensation other Quirk-users felt from Erasure never came.
Shota Aizawa's blood ran cold. He had his Quirk, Erasure, fully active. It should have nullified any and all Quirk factors in his line of sight. Yet, this man in the tracksuit stood there, completely unaffected, still looking as bafflingly ordinary as before. It was impossible. Unless… unless his power wasn't a Quirk at all. The thought was so alien, so contrary to the laws of their world, that Aizawa felt a headache forming behind his eyes.
"The exam is over," Aizawa announced through a megaphone, his gaze never leaving Saitama. "All examinees, clear the area. You," he pointed a finger at Saitama, "you're coming with me."
Saitama shrugged. "Okay. Do you know where I can get some lunch? I missed breakfast because of a cosmic overlord."
Aizawa decided, for the sake of his own sanity, to ignore that statement.
In the pristine, oversized office of Principal Nezu, the mood was tense. Saitama sat on a plush sofa, thankfully now with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, which he was systematically demolishing. Across from him sat Nezu, the hyper-intelligent principal; a skeletal, weary-looking man who introduced himself as Toshinori Yagi (All Might in his true form); and the still-scowling Aizawa.
"So, let us be clear, Mr. Saitama," Nezu began, his voice a calm counterpoint to the absurdity of the situation. "You claim you are from a place called 'City Z,' which does not appear on any map. You arrived here via an altercation with a 'cosmic overlord.' And your incredible strength comes from… a daily regimen of basic physical fitness?"
"That's about it," Saitama said, mid-biscuit. "The hair loss is the only real downside."
Aizawa rubbed his temples. "That's physically impossible. An ability of that magnitude has to be a Quirk. A powerful one. But my Erasure had no effect."
Toshinori Yagi coughed, a speck of blood landing on his handkerchief. "Young man… is it possible your memory is scrambled? A teleportation Quirk can have strange side effects. Perhaps you simply do not remember its true nature."
Saitama paused, thinking for a genuine moment. "Nope. I just trained a lot. Got really strong. That's my whole story." He took another biscuit. "Is there any mayonnaise for these?"
Nezu's beady eyes gleamed. This was beyond anything he'd ever encountered. A human anomaly. A being of immense, unregistered power, whose abilities defied the very definition of a Quirk. He couldn't be allowed to simply wander the streets. He was a security risk, a scientific curiosity, and, potentially, the greatest asset or threat this world had ever seen.
"Mr. Saitama, you are in a difficult position," Nezu said, his tone shifting to one of business. "You are, for all intents and purposes, an undocumented individual in a foreign world. You have no money, no home, and your power, used without a license, could land you in a great deal of trouble."
Saitama's chewing slowed. He didn't like the sound of 'trouble.' Trouble was annoying.
"However," Nezu continued, "U.A. is a place of learning and opportunity. We would like to make you a proposition. A contract, of sorts."
He slid a document across the table. "We will provide you with full room and board within the U.A. staff dormitories. We will give you a generous stipend for food and other necessities. In return, you will remain on campus, allowing us to… observe your unique condition. Furthermore, you will agree to assist with campus security should a major threat arise."
Saitama scanned the document. It was full of long, complicated words. He only picked out a few key phrases: "lodging provided," "food stipend," and "miscellaneous expenses covered."
"So, I get a free place to live and money for food?" he asked, his eyes lighting up for the first time.
"Essentially, yes," Nezu confirmed. "We will, of course, need to give you an official title for our records. A position that allows you to be on the grounds without raising suspicion." Nezu tapped a furry chin. "I believe the title of 'Assistant Groundskeeper and Special Response Consultant' should suffice."
Aizawa looked like he was about to protest, but a sharp glance from Nezu silenced him.
"Groundskeeper, huh?" Saitama mused. He didn't mind manual labor. It was simple. Honest. And it came with a free apartment. "Okay, deal."
He signed the contract with a simple "Saitama."
Later that evening, as Saitama settled into his new, surprisingly comfortable dorm room, marveling at the softness of the mattress, the three staff members reconvened in Nezu's office.
"Are you sure about this, Principal?" Toshinori asked, his voice heavy with concern. "To have that kind of power wandering our halls… we know nothing about him."
"That is precisely the point," Nezu replied, looking out at the glittering lights of the city. "If his power is not a Quirk, then he is an O.O.P.Art—an Out-of-Place Artifact. A living, breathing paradox. It is better to have that paradox inside the walls where we can watch it, than outside where we cannot."
Aizawa sighed, the sound of pure exhaustion. "I just have one question. Who's going to tell Bakugo he was defeated by the new janitor?"