Version A | Boku No Hero Academia Reader Insert

XLVII

A brief announcement, before the chapter:

I will be hosting a Q&A about "Version A!" If you'd like to submit questions, please don't hesitate to comment. 

Also, this book will be coming to a close. A sequel is in the works, and I plan on releasing it after Season Four of the anime puts out more episodes. For my manga readers, I'm sorry that I can't deliver more than the anime gives! 

If you have questions regarding the manga, I'll put them at the end of the Q&A and label them as "Manga Spoilers!" 

Moreover, I will be hosting a raffle, as a little thank you notation for how far we've come! The winner of the drawings (one only) will get to choose from two options: a sketch of their favorite MHA character (manga or anime), or a oneshot of a pairing of their choice (OC, self, character, etc.). I will be posting a list on my account board of those who want to participate in the raffle, and you'll get an extra entry if you share/announce the book on your message board!

Thank you all for supporting me through this wonderful journey, and hopefully you continue to read and enjoy the content I provide. 

Plus Ultra!

:)

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Mental breakdowns weren't fun. They made me question who I was and what I wanted to be. Everything I'd thought before, my aspirations just puffed away like delicate rosebuds in an autumn storm. The premature flowers got torn apart, then violently shoved down some drain, to rot in the sewers, their perfumed aromas harshly contaminated with the stench of garbage. Did I want to become a hero like this? Of course, but at what cost? Did it mean sacrificing my humanity, or ripping away who I was to fit a mold?

What if I didn't fill the mold correctly? If there was a piece missing, would my rosebud not look as pretty as the others when it came into full bloom? Sighing, the jingle of my backpack charms rang in my dorm as I packed my bag, trying to get ready for the day. My hands stopped trying to fit my binder in the case. I didn't feel like going today. Should I just... not?

I groaned in frustration, smacking myself on the arm. Mentally cursing my selfish desire, I finished packing.

What are you thinking? Are you crazy? Do you even want to become a hero anymore?

Of course I do. With a huff, I slung a strap over my shoulder and walked out, smoothing out any stray wrinkles in my uniform. Walking towards the common room, I checked to see if any of the other students were up. I noticed Momo's door was open, cracked open a tiny bit, and Kaminari's room was completely exposed to the outside view. Cruising down the hallway, I turned a corner and nearly bumped into someone whose dorm room was just on the other side. 

"Oh, Todoroki, sorry about that." He glanced my way, eyes not holding malice or resentment, fortunately.

"It's alright. Accidents happen," he said, dismissing the mishap, "I was just on my way to the dining room. Want to come?" I nodded, standing in place while he locked his door, the keys turning with a satisfying click. We briskly walked side-by-side, not speaking even a word to each other for the most part. It wasn't awkward, and the moment held its value -- he wasn't really a talkative type anyways. Though midway through our trip, I piped up to ask him a question.

"Todoroki, how do you deal with nightmares?" I could have sworn his pupils dilated and a trace of fear struck his face for a moment, but I must have been seeing things, as when I blinked, his expression returned to normal. For a second, he looked just like a scared little kid. 

"Well," Shoto began, eyes moving to the side, looking at me, "for things that haven't happened, I just tell myself that it's fake. For things that have, I tell myself it's over. And for things that could possibly happen, I tell myself that it won't, because I will make it so."

"But how do you make it so?" I mumbled, wringing my hands together.

"You have to learn. Learn how to make it better. Personally, I learned with the help of others, like Midoriya. He really helped me to open up to people, especially since I wasn't really a social butterfly. You, as well. I think we're good friends." The corners of my lips curled up a bit, and I let go of the breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Thanks, Todoroki."

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"Uraraka-san already left for her internship, (Y/N). I thought you knew." My eyes widened as I smacked the side of my head. The internships! How could I have forgotten? Well, to be fair, it was kind of hard to think about them when you're sobbing your eyes out in front of your homeroom teacher. Speaking of Aizawa, I don't think I could look at him straight in the eyes again after last night.

I'm making it sound like we have a secret forbidden relationship or something. Pressing my lips together in a thin line, I directed my attention up to the front as class started. I unconsciously ran my fingers along my knuckles, trying to keep my focus up during the lecture. Clenching my jaw, I couldn't do it for long, as my thoughts eventually overtook what little willpower I had left.

Blankly staring at the board, I wondered what agencies I could attend. Gang Orca's, probably. So that was figured out already. But some little bug was still buzzing at the back of my mind. I knew I didn't space out just to figure whose internship program I'd attend. It was more self-directed, I figured that much. 

Finding myself going back to the dream I had, and what the people around me advised me to do, I tried remembering the significance it held. My parents, the newspapers, the pictures, my classmates, what did it all mean? Shamefully, I had to admit that I couldn't decipher what my own brain had come up with. And the guilt stemmed from me not knowing the problem. With the mindset that I had, I longed to become a self-made hero, the first quirkless one. But seeing the dire consequences that laid ahead, I was starting to think otherwise on my methods. 

Training by myself, always testing myself, what wrong is it? Was it because I was driven to improve myself to the point of burning out? The "spot the difference" game was like a puzzle to my simpleton thinking pattern. Maybe my classmates were more successful than me. But how did that explain all the press coming to flock me? The chanting of my name? How did that correlate with the depressing apartment complex I saw?

Was it mine? Somebody else's? The style was unusually simplistic as well -- random, with a bit of everything. It fitted what I liked in a living space, but was too big to be my dorm room. The bedroom was by far the creepiest place, with little to no light, and paranoia just reeking from the atmosphere. Self-consciousness and confusion seeping from the walls, flooding onto the floor. 

Shriveled up flowers that had been stepped on, thrown to the ground mercilessly, in fits of rage. Suddenly, another vision popped into my head. The walls that had been covered with papers had hands, ripping apart the forms blocking out the colorful splashes of paint doused on them. Tens, maybe even twenty pairs of hands set fire, tore, impaled, disintegrated the pages until the walls were left pristine, seemingly untouched by anything. The holes from the tacks were even gone. The afterimage of the shreds floating up into the sky was the only thing I was left with before coming back into reality, my vision returning. 

Oh.