Chapter 30
₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐈𝐗
⤷ a very aggressive Jehovah’s Witness.
IT WASN’T LIKE HE’D never thought about it before. Anyone with a quirk and even a vague desire to become a hero probably spent some sleepless night imagining their big move, the thing that would define them, the thing people would whisper about after a fight was over. Oda was no exception. He had thought about it. More than once. He had even figured one out.
And it would kill him.
So that option had been buried, locked away with the same part of himself that understood exactly how fragile his body really was. An ultimate move that left you dead on the pavement wasn’t an ultimate move at all. Which meant, like always, he had to work around the limits.
Meaning he had to get inventive.
“So, what are you thinking?” the clone of Ectoplasm working with him asked, its voice calm and clinical as it observed him from a few steps away.
Oda let out a slow sigh, rolling his shoulders and staring out at the concrete terrain Cementoss had prepared. Platforms rose at uneven angles, walls jutted out at strange heights, and narrow paths twisted through the structure like a testing ground designed to punish sloppy movement.
“Well. I can’t do anything that involves broken up pieces of the ground,” he said finally. “That’s just my usual fighting style and something everyone’s seen and is expecting from me since most have watched the sports festival.”
“I agree,” Ectoplasm nodded, hands folded behind its back. “That was my assessment too. Any ideas for an ultimate move?”
“Not really,” Oda admitted. The honesty tasted bitter, but there was no point pretending otherwise.
“What did you work on during the training camp?” Ectoplasm asked, eyes never leaving him.
“Flying,” Oda replied flatly, almost annoyed with himself. “And it didn’t work. I was also working on stamina at the same time, but that got kinda messed up by the attack. But if I had to say, I think my stamina has gotten better.”
Thanks to the Shimmer in my system, he thought. The drug was still there, still humming quietly beneath the surface of his bloodstream, reinforcing damaged cells and dulling the worst of the strain. He didn’t say that part out loud. No one was supposed to know that, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.
“Well,” Ectoplasm said after a moment, “don’t let my opinions dictate what you decide. However, I think working on using the gravity barrier around your body as an enhancer might be a good place to start.”
“Enhancer?” Oda repeated, eyebrows knitting together as he turned the idea over in his head. “Like how Midoriya can make his limbs stronger?”
Ectoplasm nodded once. “You’re good at using your body as a wrecking ball. But I believe you should think about making it more precise. Punches and kicks rather than full-body attacks. You can also work on your speed that way.”
Oda nodded slowly, the concept beginning to click. “That’s a good idea. Just kicks, though. There’s too much output if my hands are out of my pockets.”
“You should also consider the drawbacks,” Ectoplasm continued. “Your stamina drains more quickly when you use your quirk specifically on yourself, yes? Is there a way to lessen those effects?”
“I’ve been thinking about it since the training camp,” Oda said, voice quieter now. His gaze dropped to his hands, flexing them. “I kept on thinking how nice it would be if there was a way to stop gravity from pressing my bones inwards. That’s what shatters my organs. My bones are strong enough to hold, but my organs aren’t.”
“So something that will hold the strain.”
“A third layer,” Oda murmured, the words coming instinctively.
“Like body armor,” Ectoplasm offered. “That would be a good thing to request from Mr. Power Loader as soon as possible. For right now, let’s focus on your combat skills.”
“Yessir.”
And they got to it.
At first, they started him off against the Ectoplasm clones.
The clones rushed him in pairs and trios, their footsteps echoing against the concrete as they surrounded him. Oda kept his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jumpsuit, shoulders loose, posture almost lazy if you didn’t know better, relying entirely on footwork and the subtle pull and push of gravity around his body.
He learned very quickly that precision mattered more than force.
A poorly timed kick sent strain rattling up his leg and into his hip, the gravity field compressing too hard for too long, and he had to grit his teeth and ride out the sharp flare of pain that followed.
When he adjusted—tightening the field only at the moment of impact, releasing it immediately after—the difference was staggering. His heel would connect and the clone would crumple, dissolving into mist almost instantly, the damage so concentrated that there was nothing left for it to recover from.
That became the problem.
The more he refined the technique, the less time the clones lasted.
What had started as drawn-out exchanges turned into brief, brutal bursts of motion. A pivot, a lift, a sharp snap of gravity, and the clone vanished. Another lunged and was gone before it could even complete the movement. Within minutes, entire groups were dissipating before Oda could properly test combinations or stamina, leaving him standing alone.
Ectoplasm watched this happen a few times before raising a hand. “Alright,” the clone said evenly. “That’s enough of that.”
Oda blinked, looking around at the empty space where his opponents had been seconds ago. “What? I was just getting into it.”
“Yes,” Ectoplasm replied, unbothered. “But at this rate, you’re not practicing endurance or control under pressure. You’re just deleting the problem.”
Cementoss, who had been observing from the edge of the gym, stepped forward then, heavy boots thudding against the concrete. “Then we change the problem,” he said simply.
The floor beneath Oda’s feet shifted.
Stone rose up in jagged formations, thick slabs pushing free of the ground as Cementoss reshaped the terrain into a dense field of pillars, walls, and suspended chunks of concrete hovering at varying heights.
“No more clones,” Cementoss continued. “Now you fight something more durable.”
Oda snorted softly but obeyed, sinking his hands deeper into fabric. He took a step forward, then another, lifting off the ground just enough for gravity to cradle him instead of the floor. His movement was awkward at first, a half-hover that forced him to constantly correct his balance, his boots scraping stone as he misjudged distance.
He kicked out at the nearest pillar.
The impact sent a shock through his leg and up into his ribs, the stone cracking but not breaking, fissures spiderwebbing across its surface. Pain flared immediately, sharp and deep, and Oda hissed through his teeth as he drifted back a few inches, forced to reassess.
“Again,” Cementoss said calmly.
So he did.
He adjusted the gravity field, not stronger but narrower, focusing it along the line of his shin and ankle. The next kick landed with a dull, explosive sound, the pillar shattering outward in a spray of rubble that clattered across the gym floor. The recoil still hurt, but less, the strain distributed more evenly this time.
That became the rhythm of the exercise.
Kick, adjust, release.
Leap, twist, stabilize.
Oda practiced launching himself from one floating slab to another, using gravity not just to propel but to brake, learning how to stop himself midair without slamming back into the ground hard enough to rattle his organs. He miscalculated more than once, crashing shoulder-first into stone or landing too heavily on one foot, each mistake sending a warning jolt through his body.
Sweat soaked through his tank top. His breathing grew labored. The familiar metallic taste crept into the back of his throat, subtle at first, then more pronounced as the hours dragged on. Still, he kept going.
He shattered blocks by striking them from below, practicing upward kicks that required him to fight gravity and then weaponize it in the same motion. He practiced lateral movement, darting sideways through the air and clipping the edges of walls to break them apart without ever touching down.
Through it all, his hands stayed in his pockets.
Every movement had to be intentional. Every second of sustained gravity had to be justified.
By the time Cementoss finally called a halt, Oda was hovering unsteadily a few feet off the ground, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths, vision swimming at the edges. He dropped down hard, knees bending to absorb the impact as he staggered forward a step, one hand briefly twitching in his pocket.
He straightened slowly, wincing as the ache in his ribs settled
This wasn’t an ultimate move yet. Not even close.
But it was the foundation of one.
Oda caught the stare before he realized he was even looking up.
His gaze lifted it landed squarely on a familiar shape framed against the jagged skyline of Cementoss’s concrete mountain. Bakugo stood near the edge of one of the highest platforms, boots planted wide, red eyes burning down at him.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Oda was still breathing hard from the last round of training. He stayed where he was, feet on the ground, hands still shoved in his pockets, refusing to shift or straighten just because Bakugo was watching.
Bakugo didn’t say anything.
And Oda met the look evenly.
If Bakugo was expecting him to flinch, to look away, or to bristle, he didn’t get the satisfaction. Oda just stared back, expression flat, dark eyes unreadable, body still except for the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
After a moment, Bakugo clicked his tongue, “Tch,” and with that he turned on his heel.
𓏵
BY THE TIME TRAINING wrapped for the day, Oda’s muscles felt like they were vibrating under his skin, a low, persistent hum of exhaustion that followed him as he moved. He left Gym Gamma with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, boots echoing softly as he made his way through the quieter corridors of the school.
The main academic halls slowly gave way to the more industrial stretch of UA, the air changing as he crossed into the support course wing, the smell of oil, metal, and overheated machinery replacing chalk dust and cleaning chemicals.
The closer he got to Mr. Power Loader’s lab, the louder everything became.
When he pushed the door open, the scene inside hit him all at once.
Hatsume Mei was darting from workbench to workbench, pink hair bouncing wildly as she rattled off half-finished thoughts to no one in particular, arms full of tools she absolutely did not need all at the same time.
Sparks flew from one corner of the room where something was being welded, and a half-disassembled piece of support gear lay in the middle of the floor like it had been abandoned mid-explosion. Mr. Power Loader stood near the center of it all, arms crossed, trying and failing to impose any sense of order.
Iida, Midoriya, and Uraraka were clustered off to the side near a cleared worktable, each of them looking mildly overwhelmed but polite enough not to say anything about it. All three turned when Oda stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft metallic click.
“Looks like a circus in here.” Oda glanced around wearily, eyes tracking Hatsume as she skidded past him and nearly tripped over a power cable.
“Yeah, it may as well be.” Midoriya said with a nervous chuckle, “What are you here for, Edogawa?”
Oda shrugged, the movement subtle, his black bangs slipping further into his face until he had to tilt his head slightly to see past them. “I was looking to maybe add some armor to my costume.”
“Planning to redesign?” Iida asked, posture straightening automatically, glasses catching the overhead light as he adjusted them.
“No. Just something to go under the base.” Oda replied easily. “Something to take the strain off my insides. I’m thinking a third layer of reinforcement might help a lot.”
Midoriya’s expression softened with immediate understanding, his own hands instinctively curling as if he could feel the ache in his arms just thinking about it. “Yeah, I was gonna do the same with my arms. Seeing as, if I do too much more damage to them, I might not be able to use them at all.”
“At least it wouldn’t kill you.” Oda commented, mostly joking.
“Oh, I guess my issue seems a little less dire than yours.” Midoriya said regretfully, shoulders drooping as his gaze dropped to the floor.
“It’s fine. Not your fault.” Oda scoffed, a smirk tugging briefly at his mouth to defuse the moment. “Besides, you gave me an idea on how to expand my range of motion.”
“Oh yeah? How?” Uraraka asked, curiosity lighting up her face as she leaned forward slightly.
“I’m trying to use my gravity barriers to enhance physical attacks. I’ve done it before, it’s just not a style that I’m that good at yet.” Oda replied, voice thoughtful now, eyes unfocusing slightly as he replayed recent training in his head.
“Puts more strain on you, right?” Midoriya asked.
“Yeah, that’s what the armor’s for, though.” Oda nodded. “Anyway, I got the idea from your quirk, and, well, Mr. Ectoplasm.”
“Huh.” Midoriya blinked, surprised, his freckles standing out as his brows lifted.
Oda made a face, catching the look. “What?”
“Nothing it’s just… well, I kinda got the idea for Full Cowling from watching you at the sports festival.” Midoriya said nervously, eyes dropping again as if embarrassed by the admission.
“Oh. For real?”
“Yeah. I wanted to be able to move around as fast as you did in your fight against Kacchan. It was really impressive.” Midoriya smiled gently, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt.
Oda blinked, genuinely caught off guard. He’d always assumed the attention from the sports festival came with resentment or rivalry, pressure and expectations he never asked for. He hadn’t really stopped to consider that, for some of them, it had been inspiration instead. The thought sat strangely warm in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
“Sorry about that you guys.” Power Loader turned back to them once he’d finally corralled Hatsume into staying in one place. “What were you in for?”
Iida went first, standing straighter than strictly necessary as he explained his request while Power Loader listened and scribbled notes. Uraraka followed after him, her voice softer but animated, describing adjustments she wanted that would help with balance. Midoriya went last out of the three, rambling slightly as he always did when he was nervous or excited.
Each of them left one by one, paperwork in hand, expressions a mixture of relief and determination as they stepped back out into the hallway.
Oda lingered.
He stayed where he was, leaning subtly against a worktable with his arms crossed, eyes tracking the movement of Hatsume as she zipped past again before vanishing behind a stack of crates.
He rolled the ideas around in his head slowly, carefully, weighing risks the way he always did, because with his quirk there was never the luxury of impulsiveness. Every improvement had to justify the strain it would put on his body.
Eventually, Power Loader turned toward him, the heavy lenses of his helmet catching the overhead lights.
“And for the Sports Festival champion?” Mr. Power Loader turned to him.
Oda straightened slightly at that, not out of pride but out of habit, the title still feeling strange. “Um… I was thinking some sort of iron body armor to go under my suit.” Oda told him.
“If it’s going to be tight fit, then I need your measurement.” Power Loader said, already reaching for a tablet, and Oda nodded in agreement, mentally bracing himself for the inevitable fitting process.
“Iron soles for my boots might be good too…” Oda added as he glanced around the shop, his gaze drifting across shelves stacked with half-finished gear and bins full of raw materials. His eyes caught on a shallow metal bowl sitting near the edge of a workbench, filled with small, dull-gray spheres that clinked softly as the building vibrated.
Metal marbles.
The sight of them tugged something loose in his chest.
A memory surfaced without warning, sharp and vivid, of sitting cross-legged on a cracked concrete floor as a child, his father crouched across from him with a lazy smile and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. They’d played marbles for hours, Oda sweating with concentration while his father barely pretended not to cheat, using his quirk to guide each marble with impossible precision. Oda had always lost. Always. But he’d laughed anyway, because the game had never really been about winning.
The memory shifted, overlapping with another, more recent image: Mr. Aizawa during the practical exam, casually producing caltrops from his gear.
Oda reached out and picked up one of the metal marbles, feeling its weight settle into his palm. He rolled it between his fingers, then tossed it lightly from one hand to the other, eyes narrowing with thought.
“Can we add simple support items to our costumes? Even if they’re something that’d have to be produced in mass?” he asked.
“That’s what the support is here for.” Power Loader said without hesitation. “Why, what were you thinking?”
Oda’s lips quirked up, not quite a smile but close enough to count.
“It might be time to increase my arsenal.”
𓏵
THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE the support course wing was quieter than the labs themselves, the hum of machinery fading behind Oda as he pushed through the doors and started the long walk back toward the dorms. The light here was softer, the late afternoon sun filtering in through high windows and stretching long shadows across the floor. His boots echoed faintly with each step, a steady rhythm that helped keep his thoughts from spiraling too far ahead of him.
He was halfway down the corridor when he saw Bakugo coming from the opposite direction.
For a split second, Oda assumed they would just pass each other.
Bakugo’s shoulders were squared, hands shoved deep into his pockets, gaze fixed forward like the rest of the world didn’t exist. He looked tired though, posture rigid, jaw tight, the slightest of dark circles under his eyes. Oda clocked all of it automatically, he always assessed people without meaning to.
They passed on opposite sides of the hall.
Bakugo didn’t stop.
Oda took another step.
Then Bakugo spoke anyway.
“That shit back there, with All For One…”
The words were a verbal speed bump that made Oda halt before he’d consciously decided to. He didn’t turn right away. He just stood there, hands still in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way that was more defensive than casual.
Oda exhaled slowly through his nose and turned to face him. Bakugo was glaring at the wall now, not at him, like if he made eye contact he’d either punch something or say something he didn’t want to say.
“What about it?” Oda asked, tone flat.
Bakugo’s eyes snapped to him. “Don’t play dumb.”
Oda raised an eyebrow, doing it anyway. “Play dumb about what?”
The ash blond stepped closer, “He said something,” Bakugo pressed. “Right before shit went sideways. He looked right at you like he recognized you.”
Oda’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“He talked a lot,” Oda said after a beat. “I’m sure you noticed.”
Bakugo scoffed. “Don’t give me that crap. I know the difference between villain monologuing and someone hitting a nerve.” His eyes burned into Oda’s face now, sharp and unyielding. “He said, ‘you’re one of his.’ What the hell was he talking about?”
Oda’s stomach twisted, slow and unpleasant, but his expression didn’t change. Years of practice kicked in automatically, walls sliding into place without conscious effort.
“It was nothing,” Oda said. “You’re reading into it.”
Bakugo laughed once, harsh and humorless. “Bullshit.”
The black haired boy felt fear spark, hot and sudden. He need Bakugo to let this go. Immediately. The thought of Bakugo figuring it out, of peeling back layers he’d spent his entire life keeping sealed, made his skin crawl.
But Bakugo scowled. “You don’t flinch. You don’t panic. You’re so sound minded it’s annoying. So don’t stand there and tell me it was nothing.”
Oda’s eyes darkened. “It was nothing.”
“You think I’m stupid?” Bakugo leaned forward slightly. “That I didn’t notice how you panicked? Or how your face—”
“Drop it,” Oda snapped. Bakugo blinked, more surprised than offended, and that only made Oda angrier. “Seriously,” He continued, heat creeping into his voice despite himself. “Piss off, Bakugo. Whatever All For One said was bullshit. And if it wasn’t then it’s not like it’s your business.”
Bakugo’s hands flexed at his sides. “You were right there with me,” he shot back. “We got dragged into that mess together. That makes it my business.”
“No,” Oda said immediately. “It doesn’t.”
The words came out colder than he intended, final and unyielding.
Bakugo stared at him, searching his face like he was looking for cracks, for something to grab onto, and when he didn’t find it, frustration twisted his expression into something almost raw.
Oda stepped back, putting space between them, his shoulders squaring now, posture defensive in a different way. “So just let it go.”
The blond’s teeth clenched. For a moment, Oda thought he might actually swing, consequences be damned. Instead, Bakugo scoffed and turned away sharply.
“Fine,” he growled. “Don’t tell me. See if I care.”
He stomped off down the hall, boots heavy against the floor, shoulders tense with unspent fury.
Only once he was gone did Oda let himself exhale properly.
𓏵
THAT NIGHT, ODA LAID flat on his back in the narrow dorm bed, staring up at the ceiling without really seeing it. The room was dark except for the soft glow of the LED strips he’d installed along the upper corners, a muted wash of light that kept the shadows from becoming too deep without being bright enough to feel invasive. It was the kind of lighting that let him stay alert without letting his thoughts spiral too far into the dark.
He wasn’t sleeping.
He wasn’t even pretending to.
The idea of letting himself drift off without medication felt reckless in a way that went beyond ordinary teenage stubbornness. It wasn’t just about nightmares or waking up disoriented. It was about the very real possibility that if his body startled awake at the wrong moment, if instinct kicked in before logic had time to catch up, the gravity around him could spike without warning.
He didn’t need to imagine the outcome too vividly. Cracked walls. Bent steel. A dorm full of students jolted awake by a building that groaned like it was coming apart at the seams. Best case scenario, he’d get restrained and written up. Worst case scenario, he’d seriously hurt someone.
So he stayed awake.
His legs ached in that deep, miserable way that came from overuse rather than injury, muscles sore and heavy. Every time he shifted, the ache flared just enough to remind him that getting up and pacing wasn’t an option tonight. Lying still was the only thing that didn’t make the pain spike.
To keep himself occupied, he rolled one of the metal marbles between his fingers.
Power Loader had let him take a handful, nothing fancy, just smooth spheres of dense metal that caught the light faintly when they moved. Oda liked their weight. They were solid in a way that felt reassuring, small enough to disappear into his palm but heavy enough that he could feel exactly where they were at all times.
He tossed one straight up above his chest, letting it hover for a split second as his quirk caught it, then lowered it gently back into his hand. Again. And again.
It was easy.
That was the part he liked the most.
Floating the marbles took almost no effort compared to what he’d been doing earlier that day. There was no strain in his chest, no sharp pressure against his ribs, no warning tremor that told him he was pushing too far. Just a clean, controlled manipulation of gravity on something small and manageable.
He experimented with it absentmindedly, letting two marbles orbit each other slowly above his palm, then sending one drifting toward the ceiling before calling it back down. The motion was smooth, precise, and calming in a way he hadn’t expected.
It reminded him why he liked physical work better than mental work when he was exhausted.
Homework sat untouched on the small desk across the room, textbooks stacked neatly, notebooks open to half-finished pages filled with equations and notes that blurred together when he tried to focus on them earlier.
He’d stared at the words for a solid twenty minutes before realizing he hadn’t absorbed a single sentence. His brain just didn’t have the bandwidth tonight. Thinking felt like wading through mud. Moving, on the other hand, even something as small as guiding a marble through the air, felt intuitive and grounding.
He let one of the marbles drift lazily above his face and watched it spin.
And then, uninvited, Bakugo’s voice crept back into his head.
What the hell was he talking about?
Oda’s jaw tightened.
He flicked the marble a little harder than necessary, sending it arcing toward the far side of the room before catching it midair and pulling it back. The motion cost him almost nothing physically, but the tension in his chest didn’t ease.
He hated that Bakugo had noticed.
Hated that the explosion idiot, of all people, had clocked that moment with All For One and refused to let it go. Oda had spent his entire life making sure people didn’t ask the right questions, didn’t connect the wrong dots, didn’t look at him long enough to see past the surface. He’d been good at it.
And Bakugo, stubborn, loud, infuriating Bakugo, had barreled straight through that like it was nothing.
He really needs to drop it, Oda thought grimly.
Because if Bakugo didn’t drop it, if he started digging, if he pushed this in front of the wrong people, it wouldn’t matter how careful Oda had been up to this point. It wouldn’t matter that All For One keeping quiet was in his own self-interest. It wouldn’t matter that Ranpo had agreed to cover for him. Attention was dangerous all on its own.
Bakugo asking questions was dangerous.
The thought of losing UA made Oda’s chest tighten. He hadn’t realized how much the place mattered to him until the idea of it being taken away became real. The dorms. The training. Kaminari’s idiotic laughter echoing down the halls. Kirishima’s easy sincerity. Even the irritation of class and homework and early mornings.
It was temporary, he knew that. Everything about his life always was. But he’d wanted this temporary thing more than he wanted to admit.
He rolled onto his side, knees drawn slightly toward his chest, and let the marbles settle into a slow orbit near his hands, their quiet movement a small anchor in the dark.
Just a few more months, he told himself, like a mantra. Just get through this. Don’t sleep. Don’t slip up. Don’t let Bakugo ruin it.
Stress buzzed under his skin, restless and sharp, but exhaustion weighed him down just as heavily. He stayed there, wide awake, body aching, mind refusing to slow, guiding metal spheres through the air with careful precision while the rest of the dorm slept.
If staying awake was the price of keeping everything from falling apart, then he’d pay it.