maybe | hitoshi shinsou x reader

~chapter 7~

Turns out, the sports festival is insane.

There're thousands of people in the stadium seats, cheering wildly and being uncomfortably interested in seeing you and your classmates struggle through obstacle courses. Or race. Or fight to the death. You're still not sure what this whole thing is about.

And apparently Present Mic is the commentator. He even gets his own little microphone and everything. Which seems really pointless, but whatever. You've got more important things to worry about.

Like the fact that there are probably hundreds of representatives from hero agencies in the stands who're going to get an eyeful of you face-planting, or something equally embarrassing.

You were already stressed when you thought it was going to be a smaller, much more manageable event where you'd get to showcase your quirks in new and interesting ways and everyone would be friends—but no. It's definitely not that. It's shaping up to be more of a blood bath, and that is way worse than what you were prepared for. Now you're not just stressed, you're two steps away from a panic attack.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

God, you hope your internal freak-out isn't going to end up on live TV.

After the cheers for class 1A peter out they call for 1B, and then everyone has to wait for all the courses to be called out one by one. The cheers that accompany every class's entrance get dimmer and dimmer with each one that's ushered out. It's probably really disheartening, and you feel kind of bad for them,but none of them were exactly...encouraging when you spoke to them last.

Everyone congregates in one big teenage mass at the foot of a tall stage, risen so far above it towers over even Shouji's head. No one strays very far from their own classes, so theoretically it should be pretty easy to...

Shifting up on your tiptoes, you scan the crowd of Gen. Ed. kids, hoping to catch a glimpse of—

Yup. Floof is here, dismal as ever. His posture's relaxed and his hands are in his pockets, but the tension in the line of his shoulders is clear as day.

Your attention is torn from him at the sound of a whip cracking the air.

Standing on the stage is a scantily-clad woman. She's a hero, you're pretty sure, or she just makes poor style decisions. Sudden whispers break out amongst the students and spectators, but they're cut off when the hero—who's apparently called Midnight—begins her spiel.

"Now for the athlete's oath," she calls out, accenting her words with another whip crack. "Your student representative is...

"From class 1A, Bakugou Katsuki!"

What?

Like, the violent guy who only sees other human beings as obstacles? He's the student representative?

Everyone is just as surprised as you, apparently. Murmurs of dissent and displeasure and general what-the-heck-ness arise from anyone who's ever spoken to Bakugou, and a few who've just passed him in the halls.

Bakugou just lethargically makes his way onstage, shoulders thrown back like he hasn't just been given an honor that some people would commit minor felonies for. No biggie and all that.

It leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

It also makes you extremely wary of what's to come.