CHAPTER 18: The Aftermath and the Alias
The morning sun filtered through the high windows of Class 1-A, casting long, peaceful shadows across the desks. The atmosphere was a strange cocktail of exhaustion and electric excitement. For most students, the world felt different today. They weren't just kids anymore; they were public figures. Their faces had been broadcast to millions, their quirks analyzed by every armchair expert in the country.
Sherlock Sheets, however, seemed remarkably unchanged. He was currently folded into his chair, his head resting on his crossed arms, eyes glazed with the heavy fog of a man who had reached his social interaction quota for the next decade. The bandages on his arms were thinner now, but the mental fatigue was a weight he couldn't quite calculate away.
"You know, Sherlock," a soft voice drifted from his right. Momo Yaoyorozu was leaning over her desk, a playful glint in her eyes that Sherlock hadn't seen since they were children. "For someone who was just crowned the 'Magician of the Heart' by the Number One Hero, you look remarkably like a discarded piece of scrap paper."
Sherlock didn't move his head. He merely shifted one eye toward her. "The physics of the human body are fundamentally flawed, Momo. We require an irrational amount of sleep to process a single afternoon of high-intensity combat. I am currently in a state of power-saving mode. Please do not wake the processor."
Momo let out a small, melodic huff of a laugh. "The processor was awake enough to dismantle Todoroki's trauma yesterday. And yet, here you are, defeated by a 9:00 AM homeroom bell. It's a very inconsistent look for a future top hero."
"I am not a hero yet," Sherlock mumbled into his sleeve. "I am a student with a very expensive medical bill and a profound desire for a nap."
"Too bad," she teased, tapping a pen against her chin. "The world is watching. You can't just sleep through your debut."
● I. THE AUDIT OF FAME: THE DRAFT NUMBERS
The door slid open with its signature heavy thud. Shota Aizawa shuffled into the room, looking even more disheveled than usual, his bandages now replaced by a few simple patches of gauze. The class fell into a hushed, terrified silence.
"Good morning," Aizawa muttered. "Now that the Sports Festival is over, we're back to the grind. But first, we need to discuss the results of your performance. Specifically, the recruitment offers from pro agencies."
He pressed a button on a remote, and a holographic chart flared to life on the chalkboard. The students leaned forward, their hearts racing.
The numbers were staggering.
* Shoto Todoroki: 4,123
* Sherlock Sheets: 3,890
* Katsuki Bakugo: 3,889
The room erupted. "Four thousand for Todoroki?!" Kaminari yelled, clutching his head. "That's insane! I mean, I knew he was a prodigy, but that's a whole different level!"
"It's likely due to his dual-element versatility and his father's reputation," Mineta squeaked, looking at his own meager numbers with a sob. "The pros want a brand they can trust."
But then, the realization hit. The class went silent as they looked at the second and third spots.
"Wait... Sherlock is higher than Bakugo?" Kirishima whispered, his eyes wide. "By... by one offer?"
Bakugo's desk literally sizzled. Small, angry pops of nitroglycerin-fueled sweat echoed in the quiet room. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "WHY?!" he roared, slamming his hands down. "I WON! I took the gold! That damn paper-waster lost in the semis! Why the hell is he ranked higher than me?!"
Aizawa sighed, rubbing his temples. "The pro world isn't just about who stands on the podium, Bakugo. There are two primary reasons for this discrepancy. First... frankly, your behavior during the medal ceremony was troublesome. Being muzzled and chained doesn't exactly scream 'marketable hero' to most agencies."
A few students muffled their snickers. Bakugo looked ready to commit a felony.
"And second," Aizawa continued, his eyes shifting to Sherlock, who was still trying to nap. "The pros were deeply impressed by Sheets' determination. Despite a clear elemental disadvantage—a disadvantage that should have logically resulted in an instant loss—he fought until his medium was entirely depleted. His 'Mechanical Arts' showed a level of technical mastery and psychological insight that many veterans lack. They see a 'Magician' who can think his way through an apocalypse. That is a high-value asset."
"One offer..." Bakugo hissed, staring at the back of Sherlock's head. "One damn offer."
● II. THE ART OF THE ALIAS: THE MIDNIGHT JUDGMENT
The heavy classroom door didn't just open; it was thrown wide with a flourish that could only belong to one person. Midnight, the R-Rated Hero, sauntered into the room, her whip cracking against the air for emphasis.
"Names! Names! Names!" she cheered, her voice a melodic contrast to Aizawa's monotone. "A hero's name is the face you show the world! It's the brand that carries your conviction through the night! I'll be here to judge the aesthetic, the flair, and most importantly, the heart behind your choices!"
The classroom immediately dissolved into a flurry of frantic activity. Pens scratched against whiteboards with the intensity of a thousand swords. For most, this was the moment they had dreamed of since childhood. For Sherlock, it was another exercise in precision. He sat back, his eyes half-closed, mentally filtering through thousands of linguistic permutations.
"Ready?" Midnight asked, her eyes sparkling. "Let's see the future!"
The parade of names began.
"I'm the Sturdy Hero: Red Riot!" Kirishima announced, his face glowing with a passion that honored his idol, Crimson Riot. Midnight gave a sultry nod of approval. "A tribute! Very masculine!"
"The Rainy Season Hero: Froppy," Tsuyu croaked softly. The name sent a wave of "Cute!" whispers through the class.
"I Can't Stop Twinkling," Aoyama posed, sparkling literally and metaphorically.
"Maybe just 'Navel Laser'?" Midnight suggested, sweat-dropping.
Then, the room went quiet as Sherlock Sheets stood up. He didn't rush to the front; he moved with the unhurried grace of a man who had already seen the end of the conversation. He turned his whiteboard around.
Then, Shoto Todoroki stepped up. He placed his board on the podium without looking at the class. It simply read: "Shoto."
"Using your own name?" Midnight mused. "It's bold, in its own way. It shows you're finally standing as yourself." Sherlock watched Todoroki, noting the lack of a "title." It was a declaration of independence from his father.
Next was Katsuki Bakugo, who slammed his board down with enough force to crack the plastic. "KingofExplodo-Kill!"
"Absolutely not," Midnight deadpaned. After several failed, increasingly violent attempts like 'Lord Explosion Murder,' he was sent back to his seat, fuming.
Izuku Midoriya walked up next. The room went quiet. He had struggled with his identity more than anyone. He turned the board around: "Deku."
"Are you sure, Midoriya-kun?" Uraraka asked, concerned. "That's what Bakugo used to call you to make fun of you."
"I used to hate it," Midoriya said, his voice steady. "But someone told me it sounded like 'I can do it.' This is the name of the hero who doesn't give up." Sherlock tilted his head, impressed. Repurposing a derogatory variable into a source of power. Efficient.
Then it was Momo Yaoyorozu's turn. She walked up with a regal grace, her board held firmly. "The Everything Hero: Creati."
"Sophisticated and grand!" Midnight beamed. "It perfectly encompasses the limitlessness of your Quirk!"
Momo looked toward Sherlock as she stepped down, her eyes asking for his silent critique. Sherlock gave a microscopic nod of approval. It was a name that embraced her responsibility to provide for every situation—a heavy mantle, but one she was built to carry.
Finally, Sherlock stood up. He didn't rush; he moved with the unhurried grace of a man who had already seen the end of the conversation. He turned his whiteboard around.
"The Origami Hero: Paper Magician," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it held a definitive weight.
"Ooh, elegant!" Midnight chirped, leaning in to inspect the board. "It carries a sense of mystery and technical skill. It feels sophisticated, yet approachable. Why 'Magician,' Sheets-kun?"
Sherlock adjusted his glasses, the light reflecting off the lenses. "A magician uses misdirection and hidden mechanics to perform the impossible. My quirk is often viewed as fragile—mere paper. By calling myself a 'Magician,' I remind my opponents that what they see isn't always the reality of the threat. It's a tribute to the legacy of the Pulp Princess, who turned simple sheets into salvation."
"I love it!" Midnight exclaimed, pointing her whip at him. "It's honest, it's sleek, and it has just enough flair to be unforgettable. Approved!"
As Sherlock walked back to his desk, he caught Momo's eye. She was smiling—a small, private look of pride. She knew how much that name cost him. He wasn't just choosing a brand; he was finally accepting the magic he had tried so hard to prove was just math.
● III. LUNCH AND THE LABYRINTH OF CHOICES
The UA cafeteria was a symphony of clattering trays and high-pitched debates. Every table was buried under a mountain of agency pamphlets and digital offer lists. However, Sherlock's usual corner—occupied by the "Quiet Group"—remained a pocket of relative stillness.
Fumikage Tokoyami stared intensely into his bowl of dark miso, his shadow flickering restlessly. Beside him, Mezo Shoji sat like a mountain of stone, his multiple arms neatly tucked to his sides. But today, the table's geometry had changed. Momo Yaoyorozu had joined them, her seat placed naturally next to Sherlock's
The abyss of choice is a heavy burden," Tokoyami murmured, his voice low and gravelly. "I have received an offer from the Hawks. It seems the shadows seek their own in the darkness of the city streets."
"It's a logical fit for Dark Shadow's mobility," Shoji added, one of his mouths forming at the end of a tentacle to speak while he ate. "I've settled on an urban rescue agency in the downtown district. My reach is best utilized in high-density rubble where sensory perception is key. What about you, Yaoyorozu-san?"
Momo looked down at her tablet, her expression thoughtful. "I've accepted an offer from Uwabami. She's a Top Tier hero with a focus on celebrity branding and scouting. I think... I need to learn how to handle the public side of heroics better."
She turned her gaze toward Sherlock, who was currently staring at a single grain of rice with the intensity of a man solving a complex theorem. "And you, Sherlock? You have nearly four thousand offers. Specifically, the one from Edgeshot. You haven't clicked 'Accept' yet."
Sherlock exhaled, a long, weary sound. "Edgeshot. The Ninja Hero. The master of the Foldabody technique."
"It's the most efficient data set for you," Momo pressed, her voice urgent but kind. "He manipulates his own molecular density to fold his body into thin, piercing lines. It is the perfect mirror to your paper manipulation. He could teach you the 'whiplash' effect of thin-film physics better than anyone in the Top 10. If you go to him in the future, once your foundation is solidified, you could become untouchable."
Sherlock finally looked up. "You're right, Momo. From a tactical standpoint, Edgeshot is the ultimate endgame. His agency would be the 'Final Boss' of my training. But..."
"But?" Shoji asked, his multiple eyes narrowing in curiosity.
"But Edgeshot teaches how to be a blade," Sherlock said, his voice dropping an octave. "He is about speed, infiltration, and the lethal precision of a needle. Currently, my 'Pulp' is too brittle for that kind of tension. If I try to fold like him now, I'll snap. I don't need to learn how to be a needle yet; I need to learn how to be the anvil. I need to understand the structural integrity that my mother possessed—the kind that allows a single sheet to stop a falling building."
Momo tilted her head, watching him closely. "So you're saying... Edgeshot is the right teacher, but at the wrong time?"
"Exactly," Sherlock replied, his eyes flashing with a sudden, emerald clarity. "In a year, or perhaps after we pass our provisional exams, Edgeshot's agency will be my primary target. But for this first internship, I need someone who knows the 'Sheets' architecture from the ground up. I need someone who understands why my paper fails before I can learn how to make it fly."
Tokoyami nodded slowly. "To build the tower, one must first ensure the foundation does not crumble into the dust of the past."
"So, who are you choosing?" Shoji asked.
"I have someone else in mind," Sherlock replied, his gaze drifting toward the window. "Someone who knows the 'Sheets' architecture better than anyone."
● IV. THE UNCLE'S SHADOW: A DIFFERENT PATH
Evening fell over the UA campus, the sky turning a deep, bruised purple. Sherlock made his way to the faculty lounge, where Aizawa was finishing up a mountain of paperwork.
"Sheets," Aizawa said without looking up. "You're late. Most of the class submitted their choices hours ago. Please tell me you're taking the Edgeshot internship. The faculty worked hard to secure that placement."
Sherlock stood in front of the desk, his expression resolute. "I'm declining Edgeshot, Sensei."
Aizawa stopped writing. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Declining? Edgeshot is the Number Five Hero. His technical skill is unparalleled. From a logical standpoint, that is a massive blunder. Explain."
"I'm going to train with my uncle," Sherlock said. "Thomas Ikaru."
Aizawa went perfectly still. "Thomas? Your mother's older brother? The man who retired from the Hero Public Safety Commission five years ago to live in the mountains?"
"The same," Sherlock nodded. "Thomas was the one who designed my mother's original combat maneuvers. He understands the molecular tension of our specific paper quirk in a way a 'folding' hero like Edgeshot never could. My uncle sent me a message during the festival. He said the 'Pulp' has become steel, but the steel is brittle. He wants to help me temper it."
Aizawa leaned back, his chair creaking. "Thomas was a ghost in the industry. He was a specialist in high-risk infiltration and structural demolition. He's... he's a difficult man, Sherlock. He won't give you the limelight that a Top 10 agency would."
"I don't need the limelight, Sensei," Sherlock said, a faint green spark flickering in his eyes. "I need to be unbreakable. My uncle can teach me how to build a fortress out of a single sheet of paper. Edgeshot would teach me to hide; Thomas will teach me to stand."
Aizawa stared at him for a long minute, looking for any sign of hesitation. He found none. Sherlock Sheets was no longer the boy who wanted to fail his way out of school. He was a man with a blueprint.
"Fine," Aizawa sighed, grabbing a stamp and slamming it onto Sherlock's form. "It's not a bad option, given your specific lineage. But be warned: Thomas Sheets doesn't follow the UA curriculum. If you come back broken, don't blame me for the paperwork."
"I won't be broken," Sherlock said, turning to leave. "I'll be engineered."
As he walked out of the school building, the cool night air hit his face. He pulled out his phone and sent a one-word text to a hidden number.
Accepted.
The Sports Festival was the forge. Now, in the quiet mountains with a man who knew his secrets, the Magician would learn what it truly meant to be a hero.