God of Heroics: Comicman!

The semi-finals.

Two fights left before the final. The sun had dipped low enough to paint the arena in gold and shadow, the light cutting across the concrete stage at a sharp angle that turned every crack and scorch mark from the day's battles into something that looked almost artistic. Cementoss had repaired the surface again, but even his quirk couldn't erase every trace. The arena remembered what had happened on it.

"SEMI-FINAL MATCH ONE!" Present Mic's voice was raw from hours of screaming and hadn't lost a single decibel. "THE MOMENT WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! THE UNDEFEATED CONTESTANT OF THE ENTIRE SPORTS FESTIVAL! THE MAN WHO WALKED THROUGH TODOROKI'S ICE LIKE IT WAS A WARM BREEZE! FUKIDASHI MANGA!"

Manga walked out.

The crowd noise hit a pitch that vibrated in the chest. He waved. A peace sign emoji in his bubble. Same as before. Same positive vibes that he'd carried since the first event.

"VERSUS! THE CONTROVERSIAL CONTESTANT WHO STEALS HIS OPPONENT’S QUIRKS AND USES IT AGAINST THEM! THE COPYCAT WHO DEMANDS THE SPOTLIGHT! MONOMA NEITO!"

Monoma walked out of the opposite tunnel.

He looked better than he had after the Ida fight. Recovery Girl had healed his cracked ribs, his broken nose, the cuts and bruises. He'd given everything against Ida. And Recovery Girl had taken more to patch him up. He was a bit tired.

They walked to their marks. Ten meters apart.

Manga's bubble shifted. The peace sign disappeared. In its place, a simple smiling face.

He started walking toward Monoma.

"What are you doing?" Present Mic asked nobody in particular.

Manga crossed the center line. Kept walking. His hand came up, extended, palm open.

A handshake.

Monoma stopped.

He looked at Manga's hand. Then at Manga's bubble, the smiling emoji sitting there, warm and unguarded. Then back at the hand.

His eyes narrowed.

The last time someone offered a handshake before a match, it had been him, and he'd used it to steal Shiozaki's quirk. Everyone in the stadium had seen it. Everyone remembered.

Was Manga mocking him? Throwing his own trick back in his face? Setting up some kind of trap?

Monoma walked forward and took his hand. He already knew the answer. A hapless smile bloomed on his face.

He felt it the instant their palms connected. The quirk factor flooding in, warm and alive, the genetic blueprint of Comic copying itself into his body. His throat tingled. He could feel the potential of sounds that didn't exist yet pressing against the inside of his mouth like words waiting to be spoken.

But something else happened too.

"Pin-pin."

Manga spoke the word quietly, just between them, and the onomatopoeia formed in his free hand, small and bright, the sound effect for vitality surging through the body. He pressed it against Monoma's chest.

Energy hit Monoma like a cold glass of water on a hot day. His muscles loosened. The fatigue that had been dragging at his limbs since Recovery Girl's treatment lifted, not completely, but enough. His vision sharpened. His breathing steadied.

Manga had healed his stamina.

Monoma stared at him.

"What are you doing?" His voice was flat. Confused.

"Giving you everything you need to fight me at your best." Manga let go of his hand. The smiling emoji was still there. "Come on, Monoma. What kind of friend would I be if I let you fight me like this?"

Monoma’s smile stayed on his face as he shook his head.

“You’re such an idiot.” Monoma knew he would never do something like that.

He couldn’t afford to. For a person with a quirk like his, he needed every advantage he could get. Especially when he was going in with nothing. He felt the copied Comic quirk humming in his throat. He felt the restored energy in his muscles. He looked at the boy standing in front of him, the boy he'd trained with for months, the boy whose quirk he'd used at the entrance exam, the boy who was now handing him every advantage he could ask for.

And he understood.

Manga wasn't trying to win easily. He wasn't being generous out of pity. He was telling Monoma, in the clearest way possible, that he respected him enough to want his absolute best.

He stepped back to his starting position. Rolled his neck. Cracked his knuckles.

"Fukidashi!" His voice rang across the arena, loud and clear. "Don't cry when I win!"

Manga laughed. His bubble filled with a grinning emoji.

"Monoma! I'll be over the moon to see that you came that far!"

In the stands, Class 1-B leaned forward as one.

"Did he just heal Monoma?" Kendo asked.

"He gave him a pin-pin." Kamakiri said. "Stamina recovery."

"Why would he do that?" Komori asked.

"Because he wants a real fight?" Tokage guessed. She would’ve never given an enemy an advantage but whatever.

Tetsutetsu was already crying. "THAT'S WHAT REAL MEN DO!"

"START!!!"

Monoma reached for the copied Comic quirk rising like bile, the first syllable of a word forming on his tongue.

Manga vanished.

He didn't use his quirk. There was no flash, no onomatopoeia, no special effect. He just disappeared. One moment he was at his starting position, ten meters away, and the next he was directly in front of Monoma, close enough that Monoma could see the texture of his speech bubble's surface.

The speed was absurd. It shouldn't have been possible without a mobility quirk. But gravity training had compressed Manga's muscles into something that defied his stat sheet, and when that body pushed off concrete without any weight holding it down, the result was a blur that cameras struggled to catch and regular human eyes couldn't track.

Monoma's word died in his throat.

Manga grabbed his arm.

It was a simple grip, right hand on left wrist, and then his hip turned and his shoulder dropped and Monoma's feet left the ground. A hip toss. Monoma went up, over, and down, his back slamming into the concrete with a crack that echoed across the silent arena.

The air left his lungs.

"WHAT?!" Present Mic screamed. "FUKIDASHI DIDN'T USE HIS QUIRK! HE JUST, DID HE JUST THROW MONOMA WITH HIS BARE HANDS?! THAT WAS PURE SPEED AND TECHNIQUE!"

Monoma hit the concrete and pain exploded through his back. For a full second he couldn't breathe. His vision swam. The restored stamina from the pin-pin was the only reason he stayed conscious instead of blacking out from the impact.

He rolled.

"DOKKAAN!"

The word tore from his throat raw and desperate and the onomatopoeia for a massive explosion materialized above his hand and detonated toward the spot where Manga had been standing. The blast cratered the concrete, sent chunks flying, and filled the air with dust and smoke.

Manga was already gone.

He'd sidestepped the explosion before Monoma had finished the second syllable.

Monoma scrambled to his feet. His back screamed. His eyes darted across the smoke and dust, searching.

"GASHA!"

The sound of shattering glass. The onomatopoeia erupted from his mouth and sprayed outward in a cone of razor-sharp fragments that would shred anything they touched. A wide-area attack, impossible to dodge with a simple sidestep.

Manga ran through it.

He turned his shoulder into the cone and the fragments hit his body and cut his body. Some cut his PE uniform. Most nicked his body. Several thin lines of blood appeared. But the damage was superficial. The gravity-trained density of his body, the muscle and bone compressed under months of double weight, turned what should have been a shredding attack into surface scratches.

He came through the other side of the cone at full speed and his fist connected with Monoma's guard. The impact lifted Monoma off his feet and sent him sliding three meters.

Monoma's arms were shaking. That punch had hit harder than Ida's kicks.

He's not using his quirk. Monoma breathed. Why isn't he using his quirk?

"BOU-BOU!"

Roaring wildfire. The same word Manga had used against Todoroki. Fiery letters erupted from Monoma's mouth and spread across the arena in a wave of orange and red, hot enough to warp the air, bright enough to make the crowd shield their eyes.

Manga ran at the fire.

He didn't go around it. He didn't wait for it to fade. He lowered his head, tucked his arms, and sprinted directly into the flames. The fire licked his skin. His PE uniform smoldered. The heat was hot, a wall of burning air that should have stopped any sane person in their tracks.

He came through the other side with singed clothes and reddened skin and grabbed Monoma by the collar.

Monoma's eyes went wide. The bou-bou was still active, fire still pouring from the onomatopoeia behind them, and Manga was standing in it with his hand on Monoma's shirt, his bubble displaying nothing but that same calm smiling emoji.

Manga swept his legs.

Monoma hit the ground again. Harder this time. The back of his head bounced off concrete and stars burst across his vision.

"LOOKS LIKE FUKIDASHI DIDN’T COME TO PLAY AROUND FOLKS!" Present Mic said. "HE CAME TO WIN IT NO MATTER WHAT IS THROWN AT HIM. FIRE, GLASS, EXPLOSIONS, IT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING TO HIM APPARENTLY! WILL HE WIN THIS BATTLE ON GUTS ALONE!?"

On the stage, Monoma rolled away from a stomp that cracked the concrete where his chest had been. He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, putting distance between them, his throat burning from the bou-bou.

"ZUDON!"

Heavy impact. The onomatopoeia formed above his hand and he slammed it into the ground. A shockwave erupted outward, cracking the stage in a circle, the concussive force hitting everything within five meters.

Manga jumped. The shockwave passed beneath his feet. He landed on the cracked concrete and was moving again before the dust settled.

"BETO-BETO!"

Adhesive. The sticky onomatopoeia splattered across the ground in Manga's path, a field of glue that would trap anything that touched it.

Manga changed direction. One step to the left, a pivot on his heel, and he was around the adhesive field and closing in from a new angle. Monoma barely got his guard up before a knee drove into his forearms and sent him stumbling.

Monoma's throat was raw. Each word cost more than the last. The copied Comic quirk had the same power as Manga's, but Monoma didn't have the trained vocal cords, the years of conditioning that let Manga use his quirk without destroying himself. Every onomatopoeia was sandpaper on his throat. He could feel the strain building, the muscles tightening, the voice starting to crack at the edges.

He didn't care.

"GOOOOU!"

Powerful rushing wind. The onomatopoeia erupted from his mouth in a scream that tore at his vocal cords, and a wall of compressed air slammed toward Manga at gale force. Chairs in the stands rocked. People grabbed their hats.

Manga planted his feet and hands onto the stage and took the wind head-on. The boy was on all fours as his hands dug into the stage while his feet scraped the concrete. It pushed him back. The gale force hit his body like a truck and his muscles strained to hold position, every fiber fighting against the pressure. His PE uniform flapped violently, the fabric snapping like a flag in a hurricane.

He held.

The wind died. Monoma's voice cracked audibly on the last syllable.

Manga dropped his guard and looked at him across the damaged arena.

Monoma was bent over, hands on his knees, breathing in ragged gasps. His throat was wrecked. The words were getting harder. Each one came out rougher, weaker, the consonants blurring and the vowels straining. He'd used six high-power onomatopoeia in under two minutes and his untrained voice was paying the price Manga's never had to.

Blood flecked his lips when he coughed.

"Use your quirk, Fukidashi." His voice was a rasp. "Stop holding back."

Manga shook his head. The smiling emoji was still there. Patient.

"I’m not holding back," Manga said. His voice was calm and clear and carried across the arena. "I'm showing you something. I’m showing everyone something."

"Showing me what?!"

Manga disappeared again.

This time Monoma saw him coming. Barely. A flicker of movement, a shift in the light, and he threw himself sideways, the space where he'd been standing suddenly occupied by Manga's fist swinging through empty air.

"BAN!"

Gunshot impact. The onomatopoeia fired from Monoma's mouth at point-blank range, a compressed burst of force aimed at Manga's chest from two meters away.

It hit, blasting his uniform apart, revealing his firm abs to the crowd. Which led to some screaming from women in the crowd. And an even louder screaming Tokage.

Manga skidded back three meters. His feet left furrows in the cracked concrete. The impact compressed his chest and for a second his breathing hitched.

Then he straightened up. Rolled his shoulders. Kept coming.

Monoma's eyes flickered. Not with fear. With understanding. The pieces were falling into place.

Manga wasn't avoiding his quirk because he couldn't use it. He wasn't holding back because Monoma was weak. He was proving that even without Comic, even without the strongest quirk Monoma had ever seen, he was still faster, stronger, tougher, and smarter than everyone else on this stage.

His quirk was just one addition to him. There was more to Manga Fukidashi than his words.

"You bastard," Monoma laughed. It came out as a wheeze. "You absolutely disgusting bastard. You're making a show out of me."

Manga's emoji shifted to a grinning face.

"Just a little bit. Sorry bro."

"DOKKAAN!"

The second explosion was bigger than the first. Monoma screamed it with everything his ruined throat had left, the word ripping from his mouth in a spray of blood and saliva, the onomatopoeia detonating in a sphere of force that engulfed half the arena. The blast wave hit the stands. People in the first three rows ducked. The cameras shook.

When the smoke cleared, the arena was cratered.

Manga stood at the edge of the crater. His PE uniform was nearly ruined to pieces, thankfully the place where his dignity was stored was still covered. Burns covered his right arm where the edge of the blast had caught him. His left eyebrow was singed. A line of blood ran from a cut on his cheek.

He was smiling.

At the boy standing across from him, bleeding from the throat, half-dead from exhaustion, still fighting.

Manga closed the distance.

This time he didn't disappear. He walked.

Monoma raised his hand. His lips moved.

"Do..." His voice cracked. The word wouldn't form. His throat seized, the muscles spasming, the damage from a dozen unprotected onomatopoeia catching up all at once. He coughed and blood spattered his palm.

He tried again.

"Dok..." Nothing. A rasp. A whisper that couldn't power the quirk.

His voice was gone.

Manga was five meters away. Four. Three.

Monoma dropped his hand. Looked at Manga through the blood and the sweat and the exhaustion. His periwinkle eyes were clear. Tired, beaten, stripped of every weapon he had. But clear.

He balled his fists.

No quirk. No tricks. No borrowed power. Just him. Monoma Neito, the side character, the boy who'd spent his whole life being told his quirk couldn't do anything on its own.

He was going to fight anyway.

Manga's bubble shifted with pride.

They clashed.

Monoma swung first. A right hook that was slower than it should have been, the exhaustion dragging at his arms, but aimed true. Manga slipped it, the punch grazing his bubble, and answered with a body shot that lurched Monoma forward.

Monoma threw a jab. Manga caught it on his palm and returned a straight right that snapped Monoma's head back. Blood flew. Monoma stumbled but didn't fall. He came back with a combination, left-right-left, all three punches sloppy and desperate and thrown with the kind of heart that couldn't be taught by any teacher.

One of them landed. A left hook that caught Manga on the jaw. Hard enough to turn his bubble sideways.

In the stands, Class 1-B erupted.

“GIVE IT YOUR ALL, MONOMA!!!” Tetsutetsu shouted.

“He’s way scarier than I thought he would be.” Yanagi pointed out.

“I know right?” Komori nodded. 

“To think he could be so manly. I thought he was just a quirky pretty boy who could dwerk good.” Tokage clicked her tongue.

Manga took the hit. Let it land. Felt the impact ring through his jaw and down his neck. He could feel the heart behind it, even if the power was lacking.

Then he stepped inside Monoma's guard, wrapped both arms around his waist, lifted him off the ground, and drove him into the concrete.

A double-leg takedown. Monoma's back hit the stage and the last of his breath left his body. Manga was on top of him, one hand pinning his shoulder, his weight keeping Monoma flat.

Monoma tried to push him off. His arms were empty. The muscles that had been running on adrenaline and pin-pin energy and sheer will finally hit the wall that the body couldn't argue with. He pushed and nothing happened. His arms dropped to the concrete like dead weight.

He was done.

But he didn't tap. Didn't say "I give up." He lay there on the cracked concrete, staring up at Manga's speech bubble, breathing in short, ragged gasps, and he smiled.

Small and tired and genuine.

"You're a freak," he whispered. His voice was barely there. "You know that, right?"

Manga couldn’t help but throw his head back and laugh.

Midnight stepped forward. "Monoma is unable to continue! Fukidashi wins!"

The crowd roared at the amazing battle. They'd watched a boy walk through fire and explosions and razor shards and gale-force winds, and they'd watched his opponent destroy his own throat trying to stop him, and at the end of it they'd watched two boys who clearly respected each other punch it out with bare fists on broken concrete.

It wasn't the most powerful fight of the day. But it might have been the most exciting.

Manga stood up. Looked down at Monoma, still lying on the cracked stage, still smiling at the sky.

He held out his hand.

Monoma looked at it. The same hand that had offered a handshake before the match. The same hand that had given him pin-pin. The same hand that had just pinned him to the ground.

He took it.

Manga pulled him to his feet. Monoma wobbled, steadied himself, and stood on his own. His PE uniform was destroyed. His throat was a ruin. His body had been thrown, punched, and wrestled into the concrete more times than he could count.

He was standing.

The two of them looked at each other. 

Monoma's smile widened.

They raised their hands at the same time.

The clap echoed.

Palm to palm, fingers touching for a single instant, the sound of two hands meeting rang across the arena with a sharpness that cut through forty thousand people's noise like a bell. It wasn't loud because of volume. It was loud because of what it meant.

The crowd heard it. The class heard it. The commentators heard it.

They held the clasp for one second. Then they let go and turned toward the exit tunnel, walking side by side, Monoma limping slightly, Manga's arm hovering near his shoulder in case he needed support.

They disappeared into the tunnel together.

Present Mic was quiet for a full five seconds. Then he exhaled into the mic.

"I, uh... I don't know what to say, folks. That was something special."

"Two students from the same class who clearly have a deep mutual respect," Aizawa said. His voice was softer than it had been all day. "Fukidashi chose not to use his quirk. He wanted to prove that his strength goes beyond his natural abilities. And Monoma gave him everything he had in return. That's the kind of friendship that produces great heroes."

"THE SEMI-FINALS' FIRST MATCH GOES TO FUKIDASHI MANGA! HE ADVANCES TO THE FINAL WITHOUT USING HIS QUIRK A SINGLE TIME! AND I STILL DON'T FULLY BELIEVE WHAT I JUST WATCHED!"

In the medical station beneath the arena, Recovery Girl kissed them both. Monoma's throat, raw and bleeding internally from the unprotected strain of using Comic without vocal conditioning, took the longest. The healing drained what little stamina he had left and he sagged against the wall, eyes half-closed.

Manga sat next to him. His burns and cuts closed under Recovery Girl's quirk in seconds, the minor damage from the fight barely costing him any stamina.

"You're insane." Monoma croaked. His voice was coming back, slowly, the healing knitting his vocal cords back together. "Fighting without your quirk. Against your own quirk."

"Had to show them."

"Show them what?"

Manga's bubble displayed a flexing arm emoji.

Monoma stared at it. Then he started laughing. It sounded like gravel in a blender, but it was laughing.

"You're an absolute madman, Fukidashi."

"Takes one to know one."

Monoma leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, beaten, and his throat felt like he'd swallowed broken glass. He'd lost in the semi-finals of the U.A. Sports Festival in front of the entire country.

He was smiling.

Because the boy next to him, the strongest person he'd ever met, had looked him in the eye before the fight and said: Give me everything you've got.

And Monoma had.

Every last thing.

Next time, he’ll force that friendly bastard to use his quirk.

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