Trash and Treasure

The lunch bell's shrill yanked me out of my training plans. I shoved my notebook into my bag, ready to bolt, but as I stepped into the hallway, I slammed into what felt like a brick wall.

Bakugo. Of course. He loomed over me, arms crossed, that perpetual scowl dialed up to eleven. I'd seen him pissed in snippets of Izuku's memories, but this? This was a whole new level.

"Well, look who decided to show up," he sneered. "Thought you might have kicked the bucket after that sludge villain attack, Deku."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. The memory of that villain, the suffocating slime, the sheer terror... it all came rushing back. But I pushed it down, forced myself to meet Bakugo's glare head-on.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it takes a little more than that to keep me down."

Bakugo's eyes narrowed. He leaned in close, his breath hot on my face. "I told you Deku. You're still just a quirkless loser. A nobody."

Anger flared in my chest, hot and bright. My fists clenched at my sides. It would be so easy to lash out, to let my temper take control. But now was not the time nor place. Couldn't jeopardize my chance at UA. 

So I forced myself to take a breath, to unclench my fists. "You're wrong, Bakugo," I said, my voice steady, unwavering. "I'm not a nobody. And I'm not going to let you or anyone else tell me what I can't do."

Bakugo barked out a harsh laugh. "Oh, please. You think surviving one villain attack makes you a hero? You're delusional."

I met his gaze, refusing to back down. "No, it doesn't make me a hero. But it does make me someone who doesn't give up. Someone who keeps fighting, no matter what."

For a heartbeat, Bakugo looked taken aback. Like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. But then his scowl was back, deeper than ever.

"Keep fighting, huh? We'll see about that. Sooner or later, you'll realize the truth, Deku. You're nothing. And you'll always be nothing."

With that, he shoved past me, his shoulder slamming into mine as he stalked down the hallway. I watched him go, my heart pounding, my blood buzzing in my veins. 

What an asshole. 

(After School)

After spending most of the afternoon classes scouring the internet for dojos that could teach me the martial arts I needed, I finally found one that seemed perfect. It was right on the coastline, a bit of a trek from home, but it had everything – Systema, Capoeira, Wing Chun, and more.

The walk there was longer than I expected, the salty breeze whipping through my hair as I followed the winding path along the shore. But when I finally arrived at my destination, I stopped dead in my tracks.

"You've got to be kidding me..."

This wasn't the pristine, postcard-perfect beach I'd imagined. No, this was a wasteland, a scar on the landscape. Mountains of trash stretched as far as I could see – rusted appliances leaking god-knows-what, broken furniture with springs jutting out like broken bones, plastic containers and unidentifiable junk piled high.

And the smell... it was more than just the stink of old metal. There was a sickly sweet undertone, the reek of decay and neglect. This wasn't just a dirty beach. It was a graveyard of forgotten things.

Anger surged through me. Who could do something like this? It wasn't just littering, it was a deliberate desecration. Dragging all this crap out here, turning a place of natural beauty into a landfill... it made my blood boil.

But then, as I stood there seething, a thought struck me. This place, as disgusting as it was... it was perfect.

Those heaps of trash? They weren't just obstacles. They were weights. Uneven, awkward, challenging weights that would force my body to adapt in ways no gym equipment ever could.

The whole beach was one giant obstacle course, laid out by the uncaring hand of human waste. My mind raced with the possibilities – sprinting up those sandy inclines with car parts in my hands, weaving through the broken glass and jagged metal, lifting rusted machinery until my muscles screamed...

Cleaning this place up would be the workout of a lifetime. And with every piece of junk I hauled away, I wouldn't just be getting stronger. I'd be doing something good. Something meaningful.

Wasn't that what being a hero was all about? Not just having flashy powers, but making a difference? Stepping up to make the world a little bit better, even if no one else would?

The setting sun painted the sky in vivid streaks of orange and purple, a breathtaking contrast to the less-than-scenic landscape before me. It was a reminder that there was beauty to be found everywhere, even in the most unlikely places. You just had to be willing to look for it, to put in the work to bring it to the surface.

With a final glance at the beach, I turned and headed towards the dojo. It wasn't far, just a little further down the coastline, but as I approached, I felt a flicker of confusion.

This wasn't the sleek, modern building I'd been expecting. No, this was... a house. A fairly nondescript one at that, with weathered siding and a slightly overgrown yard. If it wasn't for the small, unassuming sign that read "Coastal Martial Arts" near the front door, I might have thought I was in the wrong place.

But as I stood there, staring at this unassuming little building, something clicked. This wasn't some flashy, commercial dojo, the kind that cared more about looking good than actually teaching. No, this place, with its humble appearance and out-of-the-way location... this was a place for serious training. For people who cared more about the art than the appearance.

I liked this place already.

The door opened before I could even knock, revealing a man who looked to be in his late fifties. He was lean and wiry, with salt-and-pepper hair and keen, dark eyes that seemed to see right through me.

"Izuku Midoriya?" he asked, his voice soft but authoritative.

I blinked, surprised. "Y-yes, that's me. How did you...?"

He smiled, a small, enigmatic thing. "I've been expecting you. Come in, we have much to discuss."

I followed the old man into the house, my mind buzzing with questions. As we stepped into what seemed to be a combination living room and training area, I couldn't help but blurt out, "Okay, how the hell did you know my name? I'm pretty sure I didn't mention it when I contacted the dojo."

The old man chuckled, settling himself down on one of the well-worn tatami mats. "Ah, straight to the point. I like that." He gestured for me to sit as well.

As I sat, he leaned forward, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Would you believe me if I said I had a dream about you?"

I blinked, not sure if he was serious. "A dream? Like, a prophetic dream?"

He maintained a straight face for about two seconds before bursting into laughter. "No, no, nothing so dramatic." He pointed at my backpack, which I'd set down beside me. "It's written on your bag, kid."

I looked down, and sure enough, there was my name, 'Izuku Midoriya', clearly printed on the tag of my backpack. I felt my cheeks heat up. "Oh. Right. I forgot about that."

The old man grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Mystery solved. I'm not a psychic, just observant."

I couldn't help but laugh at myself. Here I was, thinking there was some grand, mystical reason he knew my name, when the answer was literally right in front of me. In my defense, crazier shit has happened to me in a week.

"So," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble, "what brings you to my dojo, young man?"

"I want to learn martial arts. As many as I can. I saw online that you teach a lot of different styles here..."

He raised a bushy eyebrow. "Is that so? And why do you want to learn?"

"To get stronger," I said immediately. "To be able to defend myself and others."

He studied me, his dark eyes seeming to see right through me. "A noble goal. But there are many ways to get stronger. Why martial arts specifically?"

I hesitated. The real reason - to master the Tandava, to become a hero - stuck in my throat. It sounded too grand, too unbelievable.

"I... I just think they're cool," I said lamely. "The discipline, the skill..."

He snorted. "Kid, if you're here because you think martial arts are 'cool', you're in the wrong place. This isn't a movie. It's hard work, sweat, pain. It's a lifelong commitment."

His words stung, but he was right. I was giving him the PR answer, the surface reason.

I took a deep breath, met his gaze squarely. "The truth is... I need to get stronger. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. I have this power inside me, this potential, but I don't know how to use it. I'm afraid of it. Afraid of myself."

The words poured out of me, more honest than I'd been with anyone, even myself. "But I can't let that fear control me. Because I made a promise. To myself, to someone who believed in me. A promise to become a hero."

My voice dropped to a whisper. "Martial arts... they're not just about fighting. They're about discipline, control, mastery of yourself. That's what I need. That's why I'm here."

Silence followed my words. The old man stared at me, his expression unreadable. I stared back, heart pounding, hoping he wouldn't laugh, wouldn't dismiss me.

Finally, he spoke. "A promise to become a hero, huh?" A slow smile spread across his face. "Now that's a reason I can respect."

He stood up, muscles fluid under his worn clothes. "Alright, kid. You've convinced me. I'll teach you."

Relief, gratitude, excitement - they all surged through me. I scrambled to my feet, bowed deeply. "Thank you, sensei. I won't let you down."

His chuckle was a dry rasp. "Don't thank me yet. Like I said, this won't be easy. I'm going to push you to your limits and beyond."

I straightened, met his eyes with a fire in my own. "I'm ready. Whatever it takes."

He grinned, fierce and approving. "Good. Then let's begin. Follow me."

The moon was just starting to rise from the horizon when we arrived at Takoba Municipal Beach Park. Or, as I was starting to think of it, Takoba Municipal Junkyard.

The old man, who had finally introduced himself as Sensei Kuro, led me to a particularly dense pile of trash. With a swift kick, he dislodged a rusted refrigerator, sending it tumbling to the sand in front of me.

"Punch it," he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

I blinked. "Punch the fridge?"

"Did I stutter?" He crossed his arms, looking at me expectantly.

I shrugged. If this was his idea of training, who was I to argue? I squared up to the fridge, fists raised.

"Not like that," Sensei Kuro barked. "Your stance is off. Feet shoulder-width apart, one slightly in front of the other. Bend your knees, lower your center of gravity."

I slightly adjusted my position, feeling the difference immediately. More stable, more grounded.

"Better. Now, when you punch, don't just use your arm. Twist your hips, drive from your legs. Your whole body is the weapon, not just your fist."

I nodded, focused. Drew back my arm, channeling my strength, and let loose.

Bam! My fist connected with the rusty metal, sending a jolt up my arm. But the fridge barely moved.

Sensei Kuro shook his head. "Again. Harder. Faster."

I set my jaw. Drew back, punched again. And again. Each impact reverberated through my bones, but I didn't stop.

Quick combo coming up. My old boxing instincts took over. Jab, cross, hook. One, two, three.

But something was off. My speed, my reach... they weren't what I was used to. This body, Izuku's body, it moved differently. Slower, more limited.

Frustration welled up. I needed to be better, stronger. I needed-

On the third consecutive punch, a small flash of green light.I pulled back, staring. There, on the fridge, a small black mark. Scorch mark.

Sensei Kuro stepped forward, eyes intent. Traced the mark with a finger, then turned to me.

"Well now," he murmured. "Isn't that interesting."

I looked down at my fist, still tingling from the impact. The Tandava... was that it? The first flicker of its power?

A slow grin spread across my face. Maybe this body had its limits. But it also had potential. Potential I was just starting to tap into.

"Again," I said, raising my fists. "I'm just getting started."