"So, I guess this is it," Arx said as they prepared to go their separate ways—his family to find temporary lodging until they could secure housing, Mateo and Alex to the Atlas Academy.
Mateo's chest tightened. Another goodbye. Another person walking away. He'd gotten used to farewells by now, but that didn't make them easier.
"Hope we see you soon," Arx's wife said gently, offering a wave. Her smile was warm, maternal—the kind Mateo hadn't seen directed at him in months.
"Don't get yourself killed, Alex," Arx called after them. "And don't push yourself too hard, Mateo!"
Was he so transparent that everyone felt compelled to warn him against his own tendencies? Mateo's jaw clenched as he forced a wave back to Arx's family. The concern in their voices felt like pity, and pity was the last thing he needed right now. He followed Alex into the Capital, swallowing the bitter taste of another warning he'd probably ignore.
The transition hit him immediately. Where Ashdrift had been dust and desperation, the Capital gleamed with an almost aggressive perfection. Marketing skyscrapers stretched toward the sky like gleaming monuments to prosperity, their digital displays cycling through advertisements for luxury goods and entertainment. Storefronts showcased confections and fast food that made Mateo's stomach twist with want—Nal's sandwich felt like a distant memory, barely enough to quiet the gnawing hunger that had become his constant companion.
But it wasn't just the food that unsettled him. It was the people.
Here, unlike Ashdrift, there was life—but it felt wrong somehow. People walked without the constant tension in their shoulders that Mateo had grown accustomed to. They laughed and talked as if there wasn't a brutal civil war raging at the nation's edges, as if children weren't dying in the dust while their parents searched for clean water. They couldn't see the fighting from their pristine streets, so they didn't feel its weight.
The disconnect made Mateo's skin crawl. How could they be so... unburdened? How could they smile so easily when everything was falling apart just beyond their gleaming walls?
And above them all hovered their symbol of hope.
As they continued walking, the hulking mass in the sky became more distinct. The Atlas Academy. It looked as if someone had carved a gigantic piece from the earth, suspended it in the sky, and built an entire city upon it. The structure defied logic, defied gravity—a testament to power that felt both magnificent and ominous. From the giant "AA" emblazoned on its side, Mateo knew the entire floating structure was the Academy itself.
His brother would have been awestruck. Alec had always talked about the Academy with reverence, describing it in breathless detail from pictures he'd found in old magazines. "Can you imagine, Mateo? Learning to be a hero up there, above everything, where you can see the whole world spread out below you."
Alec would never see it. Would never walk these halls, never learn what it meant to be the hero he'd dreamed of becoming.
But Mateo would. For both of them.
They stopped directly underneath the Academy, and Mateo had to crane his neck back to take it all in. With the sun overhead, AA cast an immense shadow on the ground—a darkness that seemed to swallow the light around them. This was the Academy checkpoint, and it buzzed with organized chaos.
A security station processed applicants in efficient waves, checking documentation and biometric scans before directing them toward the transport zone. Dozens of floating motorcycles waited beyond the checkpoint—matte black, humming softly with contained energy, each bearing the Academy's emblem: Two double A's next to each other.
Many bikes were already ascending with passengers, likely other applicants. Mateo watched them rise, feeling a mix of anticipation and dread. Soon, that would be him.
"Need a ride?" one of the riders called out to Alex. She nodded, tossing him a handful of bills with casual confidence before loading her two duffel bags into compartments meant for luggage. Everything about her movements screamed competence, control—she belonged here in a way that Mateo wasn't sure he did.
He took his place behind her, clutching his single backpack like a lifeline. The contrast wasn't lost on him—her two bags to his one, her easy familiarity with the process while he felt like he was stumbling through someone else's life.
"Ready?" she asked, turning back to flash him a grin that was equal parts excitement and challenge.
Before he could answer, the bike tilted slightly from their weight and began to rise. Mateo's stomach lurched as they left the ground, the familiar sensation of solid earth beneath his feet disappearing. The atmosphere thinned rapidly, his ears popping from the change in pressure until they ached.
Then the vehicle lurched skyward with purpose, G-forces pressing him into the seat as if the world itself was trying to push him back down where he belonged. Wind tore at his clothes during their ascent, whipping through his hair and making his eyes water. Below them, the city fell away, shrinking into a perfect miniature of itself—pristine, orderly, untouched by the chaos that defined the rest of the world.
The Academy loomed larger with each passing second—a floating monolith of white alloy and blue energy shields, its highest towers piercing the clouds like spears thrust into heaven itself. Up close, it was even more imposing than from the ground. The architecture spoke of power, of resources beyond imagination, of a kind of control that could literally rise above the world's problems.
Mateo's stomach twisted with a mixture of awe and anxiety. Somewhere in that gleaming fortress, his future awaited. The question was whether he was strong enough to claim it, or whether it would crush him like it had probably crushed countless others who thought they deserved to be here.
Their bike touched down on a landing pad connected to a glass-walled corridor that offered a dizzying view of the world far below. Mateo stepped off unsteadily, his legs feeling like water after the flight. His heart was still racing, whether from the altitude or the reality of where he was, he couldn't tell.
"This is where we split paths, Mateo!" Alex grinned and delivered another of her signature back slaps—this one hard enough to make him stumble forward a step.
"What do you mean? I thought we were doing this together." The words came out smaller than he'd intended, carrying a note of confusion that made him feel young and unprepared.
She furrowed her brow, looking at him like he'd said something particularly naive. "You didn't really think we could be some sort of team, right? Everyone's a rival here. We have to fight for our individual spots."
The casual way she said it. . .Of course. Of course it would be like that. Why had he expected anything different? This wasn't some story where friendship conquered all—this was the real world, where everyone was fighting for the same limited opportunities.
"Right, right," he muttered, hating how defeated he sounded.
Alex bounded through the massive double doors that marked the Academy entrance, her confidence undimmed by the transition. She moved like she owned the place already, like she'd been born for this moment. Watching her go, Mateo felt the familiar sting of inadequacy—the sense that everyone else had received instructions for life that he'd somehow missed.
He sighed and followed her path, joining the stream of a thousand other applicants flowing inside. The interior of the Academy was as overwhelming as its exterior—soaring ceilings, gleaming surfaces, and an atmosphere of barely contained energy.
Through the organized chaos, Mateo was directed to one of hundreds of interview offices by staff members who moved with military precision. The waiting area stretched out before him like a test of endurance—hundreds of chairs arranged in neat rows, filled with applicants who all seemed more prepared than he.
He waited as seventy people ahead of him completed their interviews, each lasting about five minutes.
By the time his turn came, his feet ached from standing and shifting his weight. His palms were slick with sweat, and he'd run through the same conversation in his head so many times that the words had lost all meaning. What would he say? How would he explain himself? How could he possibly convince them that he belonged here when he wasn't even sure of it himself?
"Mateo Mendoza?" The voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.
He stepped forward, his legs feeling unsteady. "That's me."
The staff member gestured toward a door marked with a simple number: 847. "Right this way."
He entered the office, closing the door behind him with hands that trembled slightly. Instantly, the clamor outside vanished—the room was soundproof, creating an almost oppressive quiet that made his heartbeat sound thunderous in his ears.
His interview was about to begin.
A young man with silvery hair cascading to his shoulders looked up at him from behind a sleek desk. He was studying Mateo through gold-rimmed glasses, and those eyes seemed to peer into his very soul, probing for secrets he wasn't sure he wanted to share. There was something unsettling about the interviewer's presence—not just his obvious intelligence, but the way he seemed to occupy space, as if reality bent slightly around him.
Then he smiled, and somehow that was worse than if he'd remained stern.
"Sit. We have a lot to discuss."
Mateo lowered himself into the chair across from the desk, hyperaware of every movement, every breath. The interviewer radiated a kind of casual authority that made the room feel smaller, made Mateo feel exposed.
"What's your name?" The white-haired man asked as he lifted a pen, ready to write. Despite the calm Mateo had hoped to project, he could feel himself twitching unconsciously, his fingers trembling against his thighs.
"Mateo Mendoza, Sir." The words came out steady enough, though his voice sounded strange in the soundproofed space.
"Quirk?" The interviewer's pen was poised, waiting.
Quirk. Of course they'd want to know about his quirk. The thing he'd spent months trying to forget, trying to push down, trying to pretend didn't exist. The thing that had almost Brett, that had erupted from his grief and rage like something alien and uncontrollable.
Words died in his throat. He opened his mouth, closed it, feeling like a fish gasping for air.
The white-haired man raised an eyebrow beneath his gold-rimmed glasses, the gesture somehow elegant and intimidating at once. "You do have a quirk, right? If not, I'll have to direct you to the recruitment office where you'll join the special-armed unit. You have to have a quirk before you can, you know, be a hero."
The casual way he said it felt like mockery. But Eliza Atlas had announced that anyone, even without a quirk, could become a hero at Atlas Academy now. Had that been a lie? Were they just looking for more bodies, more cannon fodder for their war?
Mateo looked at his trembling fist, imagining himself in fatigues, carrying a gun instead of using whatever twisted gift lived beneath his skin. He could still go through training, still end up in the war zones, still have a chance to hunt down villains.
That was what he wanted, after all. To avenge his brother. But then Alec's voice echoed in his memory, soft and full of impossible hope: "I want to be a hero. I want to save people."
He had to realize his late brother's dream. He had to be a hero like Alec had wanted to be. Not just another soldier with a gun on a battlefield, but something more. Something better.
"I have a quirk." The admission felt like ripping something out of his chest.
The white-haired man nodded, making a note. "So, what is it? Talk quickly—there are about 200 people behind you."
Mateo paused, his mind racing. Was it still worth it? Could he really go through with this? But he was already on the path, already committed. He clenched his fists so tightly he could feel his nails digging into his palms, threatening to draw blood.
"It's called Slime. I can generate slime from my skin."
The interviewer's nose crinkled slightly. Amusement? Disgust? His other features remained perfectly composed, giving nothing away.
"You do realize we're looking for combat-specific quirks, right?" The question was delivered with the kind of casual dismissal that made Mateo's face burn. "Are you sure your 'Slime' quirk will be valuable in battle?"
Mateo's mind flashed to that horrible moment when the slime had erupted uncontrollably from his arm, drowning and crushing Brett under its weight. He could see the possibilities—the ways it could be used as a weapon, a tool, a means of control. But he wasn't sure he could control it, wasn't sure he wanted to rely on something that felt so alien, so wrong.
It would be his last resort. It had to be.
"Yes. It will be valuable." The lie came easier than he'd expected.
"The tests will see if you're right." The man's response carried the weight of certainty, as if he could already see Mateo's future failures. There was something unsettling about his presence, as if he blurred at the edges when you tried to focus on all his features at once. "I only have one more question for you, since we don't have time for an extensive interview. The 'crisis' at the edge of the country has everyone in a hurry these days. Are you ready?"
Mateo nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically. He wanted out of this room, away from those probing eyes that seemed to see too much.
"Why do you want to be a hero, Mateo?"
The question he'd been preparing for. The answer came without hesitation: "Because I want to save people."
"Wrong." The white-haired man's voice cut through the air like a blade. "If you're going to lie, you can leave."
Mateo's heart skipped. "I'm not lying." The defensive edge in his voice betrayed him, making him sound exactly like he was lying. "My brother died because there were no heroes to save him during an explosion. I want to be the kind of hero that's there when people actually need them."
"If that were true, you wouldn't need to add details to make it more believable." The interviewer leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying Mateo's discomfort. "My brother died because there were no heroes to save him during an explosion. I want to be the kind of hero that's there when people actually need them." His voice took on a mocking quality as he repeated Mateo's rehearsed words back to him.
"You're still lying." He shook his head, silver hair falling across his face like liquid mercury. "I have a quirk that can tell when people are lying. So why don't you come clean?"
His eyes narrowed, and suddenly the room felt dangerous. "Or are you some kind of spy? Is that why you're lying?"
Mateo's heart hammered against his ribs. "No—"
"Then tell me." The interviewer rested his back against his chair, the picture of relaxed authority. "Why do you want to be a hero?"
Mateo steadied himself, taking a breath that felt like swallowing glass. The truth. He had to tell the truth, even if it damned him.
"Because my brother wanted to be a hero. I want to fulfill his dream."
The white-haired man's eyebrow rose slightly. "That's a half-truth. What's the whole thing?"
Mateo stared, feeling exposed, flayed open. Another breath, deeper this time. If this was the end, at least it would be honest.
"I want to avenge my brother. He was killed by a villain. So I want to be a hero to kill every villain alive."
The words hung in the air between them. Mateo waited for the rejection, for the dismissal, for the confirmation that he didn't belong here.
Instead, the white-haired man smiled—not mockingly this time, but with something that might have been satisfaction. "Revenge is a powerful motivator. Though it's not the most heroic personality trait."
He pulled a paper from his drawer and stamped it with decisive authority. "You're in. Let's see if you can actually make it through the trials to be a real hero."
Mateo stared at the stamped paper, dumbfounded. After all that, after baring his darkest motivations, he was... accepted?
He gave a small bow as he moved toward the door, still processing what had just happened.
"And Mateo?" The interviewer's voice stopped him at the threshold.
"Yes, sir?"
"I don't have a lie detection quirk."
'Ha'. He thought.
He'd been played, manipulated, dissected with nothing more than psychological skill and careful observation. The man had read him like an open book, had known exactly how to extract the truth without any supernatural ability at all.
Mateo sighed, the sound carrying months of exhaustion and defeat. He'd been tricked, exposed, reduced to his basest motivations. But somehow, impossibly, it didn't matter.
He was going to do what he set out to do.