Chapter 13: Stealth, Stupidity, and a Serious Sale
Shota Aizawa had had enough. Mic's approach was a blunderbuss. Ectoplasm's was an over-engineered farce. They were treating Saitama like a complex puzzle box when the answer was likely much simpler. They were failing to test the most fundamental thing: his raw, unfiltered physical reflexes. Aizawa, a master of stealth, logic, and pragmatism, would conduct the next test himself. And he would not fail.
His plan was stripped of all unnecessary variables. It would be a direct physical stimulus from an unknown vector when the subject was completely at ease. No clones, no soundwaves. Just action and reaction.
Aizawa had observed Saitama's habits. Every Friday, like clockwork, he left campus for precisely one hour. He would walk to the small shopping district two blocks away, methodically collect the sales flyers from every market, and then walk back while reading them. It was during this return trip, when his mind was wholly focused on the mundane task of finding the best deal on king crab or bok choy, that he would be most vulnerable.
The weapon was a custom-made, high-density rubber projectile, designed by Power Loader. It was non-lethal but packed enough kinetic energy to feel like being kicked by a horse. It would be fired from Aizawa's own capture weapon for speed and precision. The location was a deserted alleyway that Saitama always used as a shortcut. It was perfect.
That Friday, Aizawa was perched in the shadows of a fire escape, completely invisible. He watched as Saitama entered the alley below, his eyes glued to a colorful flyer, his face a mask of intense concentration. Aizawa had never seen the man look so focused, not even at the USJ. He was reading about a limited-time "Buy One, Get One Free" offer on marbled beef. This was it. The perfect moment of distraction.
Aizawa aimed for the center of Saitama's back—a large, unsuspecting target. He remained motionless, controlling his breathing, becoming one with the shadows. He applied pressure to the mechanism.
Fwip.
The projectile shot out, a silent, black blur traveling at over two hundred miles per hour. A perfect shot. In the 0.2 seconds it would take to reach its target, there was no time for a normal human to react, let alone perceive the threat.
Down below, Saitama was deeply troubled. The sale on marbled beef was fantastic, but it ended at 5 PM. If he ran, he could make it. But on the other side of the flyer, there was an all-day 50% off sale on kombu seaweed for making dashi stock. He couldn't do both. It was a terrible, agonizing choice.
At that precise moment, a single, tiny mosquito, drawn by the warmth of a living body, buzzed lazily past his right ear.
It was a minor annoyance, but an annoyance nonetheless. Without taking his eyes off the flyer, driven by a primal, universal human instinct, Saitama's right hand shot up to swat the insect.
His hand moved in an imperceptible blur. It was not a punch, not a chop, just a casual, thoughtless slap.
The high-velocity rubber bullet, halfway through its journey, suddenly found its destination occupied by a rapidly approaching palm. Saitama's hand intercepted the projectile. He felt a tiny tick against his palm, the equivalent of a grain of sand hitting him. He closed his hand, squashing the mosquito flat.
He brought his hand in front of his face, still frowning at the flyer. He opened his palm. He saw the remains of the mosquito, and a weirdly shaped, compressed lump of black rubber stuck to its leg. He stared at it for a second, his mind registering it only as some bizarre piece of alleyway garbage the insect had picked up.
"Weird," he mumbled.
With a flick of his finger, he sent the rubber bullet and the dead mosquito flying, and immediately went back to his catastrophic dilemma: beef or seaweed?
On the fire escape above, Shota Aizawa was paralyzed. His logical, rational mind, the mind of a Pro Hero who had faced down hundreds of villains, had simply ceased to function. He had seen the movement. It wasn't human. It was faster than a bullet, executed with zero thought, to accomplish the most trivial of tasks. He had fired a projectile meant to knock out a heavyweight boxer, and the man had caught it by accident while killing a bug, and hadn't even noticed.
He slowly, mechanically, reeled in his capture weapon. The full, soul-crushing weight of their situation settled upon him.
Later, Aizawa walked into Nezu's office. He looked pale. He bypassed the couch and went straight to the tea kettle, pouring himself a cup with a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly. He downed the hot liquid in a single gulp.
Nezu watched him, his expression unreadable. "I take it your test is complete, Aizawa-kun? What are your findings?"
Aizawa placed the cup down and looked his boss directly in the eye. His own gaze, usually so tired, was now filled with a profound, chilling clarity.
"We need to stop," he said, his voice a low, grim rasp.
"Stop the tests?" Nezu inquired.
"Yes," Aizawa confirmed. "We are operating under a dangerously false premise. We think we're scientists in a lab, studying a new element. We're not." He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower. "We are children poking a sleeping Titan with a sharp stick. And the most terrifying part of it all," he concluded, "is that I don't think he even feels the stick."