"Class president."
Aizawa drops this like it's just another Tuesday announcement, not a position that could literally determine the social hierarchy of our class for the next three years.
"You need to elect someone to represent Class 1-A in student council meetings, organize class activities, and generally handle the administrative nonsense I don't want to deal with."
He pulls out a box and sets it on his desk. "Anonymous voting. Write down your choice, drop it in the box. Whoever gets the most votes wins. Simple democracy in action."
"What if there's a tie?" Tanaka asks.
"Rock, paper, scissors. I'm not running a second election."
Of course he's not.
"Do we have to vote for someone in our class?" Kishimoto asks.
"Obviously. I'm not explaining to Principal Nezu why you elected All Might as class president."
Fair point.
Aizawa tears up pieces of paper and hands them out. "You have five minutes. Don't overthink it."
I stare at my blank paper, pen hovering uselessly above it. Who the hell am I supposed to vote for? We've known each other for like two weeks. That's barely enough time to figure out who's likely to have a mental breakdown during finals, let alone who should be in charge of representing us.
Around me, everyone else seems to be having the same crisis. Lots of thoughtful staring, occasional glances at potential candidates, general existential dread about the democratic process.
"This is harder than the quirk assessment," Nejire whispers.
"At least that was just about not dying,"
"Who are you thinking?"
"I don't know. You?"
"I don't know either."
Great. Democracy at its finest.
I consider my options. Tanaka's responsible and organized, but kind of intense. Sato's got good leadership instincts but might be too nice to tell people no. Yoshida's confident but in that slightly annoying way that makes you want to vote against him out of spite.
Tamaki's obviously out, dude can barely order lunch without having a panic attack, let alone run class meetings.
Nejire would actually be pretty good at it, but she's got that chaotic energy that might result in our class activities being "let's all learn to juggle" or "field trip to the nearest black hole."
And me? Fuck no. I can barely manage my own life, let alone eight other people's problems.
"Time's up," Aizawa announces. "Drop your votes in the box."
One by one, we file up and deposit our ballots. The whole process feels weirdly formal for something being decided in a high school classroom, but I guess that's UA for you. Even student government is taken seriously here.
Aizawa pulls out the votes and starts counting. His expression gives away absolutely nothing, which is both impressive and terrifying.
"Results," he says finally. "Tanaka, four votes. Sato, three votes. Kishimoto, one vote. Nakamura, one vote."
He looks up from the papers. "Tanaka wins. Congratulations, you're now responsible for the collective stupidity of your classmates."
Tanaka looks like he's not sure whether to be honored or horrified. Probably both.
"What does the class president actually do?" he asks.
"Meetings with student council. Organize study groups if people need them. Handle scheduling for class activities. Basically, be the person I blame when things go wrong."
"That's... reassuring."
"Welcome to leadership. Sato, you're vice president by default. Try not to let the power go to your head."
Sato nods seriously, like being vice president of a nine-person class is equivalent to being elected to actual government office.
"Any questions about this democratic travesty?" Aizawa asks.
"What if we want to hold a vote of no confidence?" Yoshida asks, apparently still bitter about not winning.
"Then you can explain to me why you're wasting class time on political drama instead of learning how to be heroes."
Message received. No coups allowed.
"Good. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's move on to something actually important."
—
"I can't believe you voted for Tanaka," Nejire says as we walk to lunch.
"Who did you vote for?"
"Sato. She seems level-headed."
"Tanaka's level-headed too. Plus he's got that whole 'responsible older brother' vibe."
"I guess. Though now he's gonna stress himself out trying to be perfect."
She's probably right. Tanaka already has that slightly wound-too-tight energy that screams "perfectionist waiting to snap." Being class president is either going to help him channel that productively or turn him into a neurotic mess.
"Think he'll be good at it?" I ask.
"Better than Yoshida would have been."
"Anyone would be better than Yoshida."
"Hey!" Yoshida calls from behind us. "I heard that!"
"Good," I call back. "It was meant for you."
Nejire snorts. "You're terrible."
"I prefer 'honest.'"
We grab our usual table in the cafeteria, joined shortly by Tamaki, who's carrying what looks like an entire seafood buffet on his tray.
"Celebrating the democratic process?" I ask, nodding at his lunch.
"Stress eating," he admits quietly. "Voting makes me nervous."
"Why? You didn't even want to be class president."
"What if I accidentally voted for myself? What if I misspelled someone's name? What if—"
"Tamaki," Nejire interrupts gently. "It's fine. The vote's over. Democracy survived."
"Barely," he mutters, stabbing a piece of salmon with more force than necessary.
"Who did you vote for?" I ask.
"Tanaka. He seems... competent."
"Good choice. Though I'm kind of curious who got the single votes for Kishimoto and Nakamura."
"Probably themselves," Nejire suggests. "Self-confidence is important in leadership."
"Or delusion."
"Sometimes those are the same thing."
Fair point.
Mirio appears at our table with his usual nuclear-powered enthusiasm. "Heard you guys elected a class president! How exciting! We did ours yesterday!"
"Who won?" Nejire asks.
"Manaka! She's amazing! Great organizational skills, natural leadership presence, and she can literally keep people in line with her quirk!"
"What's her quirk?" I ask.
"Chains! She can generate chains from her hands! Perfect for crowd control!"
Of course it is. Leave it to Class 1-B to elect someone whose superpower is literally keeping people in check.
"What about your guy?" Mirio asks, gesturing toward our table.
"Tanaka. Air pressure manipulation, very responsible, probably going to stress himself into an early grave trying to do a good job."
"Sounds like leadership material to me!" Mirio grins. "The best leaders are the ones who take the job seriously!"
"Or the ones who don't want it in the first place," Tamaki adds quietly.
"That's very philosophical, Tamaki!" Mirio says. "Though I think you'd make a great leader too!"
Tamaki looks like he'd rather phase through the floor. "Please no."
"Come on! You're thoughtful, strategic, great at analyzing situations—"
"I threw up during the voting because I was nervous about democracy."
"Everyone has different leadership styles!"
Nejire and I exchange a look. Mirio's optimism is genuinely impressive, but sometimes it borders on delusional.
"Anyway," Mirio continues, "Manaka wants to organize inter-class activities! Team building exercises, joint training sessions, maybe a social event!"
"Sounds fun," Nejire says diplomatically.
"Right? It'll be great for building relationships between the classes! Plus, friendly competition always brings out the best in people!"
Or the worst, depending on how competitive people get. But I don't mention that because Mirio looks so excited about the whole thing.
"We should suggest it to Tanaka," I say instead.
"Already on it!" Mirio pulls out his phone. "I'll text Manaka right now! She can reach out to your new president!"
And just like that, our class president's first challenge is handling inter-class politics. Poor bastard doesn't even know what's coming.
—
The rest of lunch passes with Mirio enthusiastically planning joint activities that range from practical ("combat training exercises!") to questionable ("class cookoff!") to potentially dangerous ("quirk-powered obstacle course races!").
By the time we head back to class, I'm half-convinced he's going to accidentally start a war between 1-A and 1-B through sheer enthusiasm.
"Think Tanaka knows what he signed up for?" I ask Nejire as we walk.
"Probably not. But that's half the fun of leadership—learning as you go."
"The other half being stress-induced hair loss."
"You're so cynical."
"I prefer 'realistic.'"
"Same thing, usually."
We slide into our seats just as Aizawa shuffles in, looking somehow even more tired than usual. Which, considering his baseline level of exhaustion, is actually impressive.
"Your new class president has already received three meeting requests from other classes," he announces, dropping a stack of papers on Tanaka's desk. "Congratulations. You've been in office for two hours and you're already drowning in bureaucracy."
Tanaka stares at the papers like they might explode. "What am I supposed to do with these?"
"Figure it out. That's what leadership means."
"But—"
"No buts. You wanted the job, you got the job. Handle it."
Aizawa turns to address the rest of us. "Combat training in ten minutes. Get changed, get to Gym Gamma, try not to die. Your president can deal with his paperwork later."
As we file out to change into our gym clothes, I catch Tanaka still staring at his stack of meeting requests like they're written in ancient hieroglyphics.
"Need help?" I offer.
"I don't even know what half of these are asking for," he admits. "Joint training sessions, inter-class social events, student council orientation meetings..."
"Start with the student council thing. That's probably mandatory. The rest you can figure out as you go."
"What if I mess up?"
"Then you'll learn from it and do better next time. That's how leadership works."
He looks at me skeptically. "You sound like you know what you're talking about."
"I don't. But I'm good at pretending."
"That's... surprisingly honest."
"I have my moments."
As we head to combat training, I can't help but feel a little bad for Tanaka. Dude's about to learn that being class president at UA isn't just about organizing study groups—it's about managing personalities, handling politics, and somehow keeping nine teenage superhumans from killing each other during group projects.
Good luck with that, man.
At least it's not my problem.
—-
We make it exactly halfway through combat training before Aizawa calls us back to the classroom. Which is never a good sign. Emergency classroom meetings at UA usually mean either someone's in serious trouble or we're about to be thrown into something terrifying.
"Sit," Aizawa says, his tone suggesting this isn't optional.
We sit.
"In two weeks, UA will be hosting its annual Sports Festival."
The classroom explodes. Nejire actually squeals—like, literally squeals—and starts bouncing in her seat. Tamaki goes pale and looks like he might pass out. Everyone else is somewhere between excited and terrified.
"Quiet," Aizawa says, and we immediately shut up. "The Sports Festival is the biggest event in the hero course calendar. It's broadcast live across Japan. Pro heroes, agency scouts, and industry leaders will all be watching."
He pulls up footage on the classroom screen—previous festivals, students competing in various events, massive crowds cheering.
"This is your chance to show the world what you're capable of," he continues. "Or to embarrass yourselves on national television. Either way, it'll be educational."
"What kind of events?" Tanaka asks, because of course our class president wants details.
"That's classified until the day of the festival. Tradition. What I can tell you is that you'll be tested on combat ability, strategic thinking, physical prowess, and teamwork."
"All the hero course students compete?"
"All students. Every department. Hero Course, Support Course, General Studies, Business Course. Everyone gets a shot."
That catches my attention. In the manga, some of the most interesting moments came from students in other departments proving they belonged in the hero course.
"Is it true that students can transfer departments based on their performance?" Kishimoto asks.
Aizawa nods. "Top performers from other departments can transfer into the hero course. Similarly, hero course students who perform poorly might find themselves... relocated."
The room goes dead silent. The threat is clear: don't screw this up, or you might not be in the hero course much longer.
"Two weeks," Aizawa continues. "That's how long you have to prepare. Use the time wisely. Train hard, but don't burn yourselves out. The festival will test you in ways you probably haven't considered."
He straightens up from the desk. "Questions?"
"What happens if we lose?" Yoshida asks.
"You learn from failure and do better next time. Assuming there is a next time."
Encouraging as always.
"How many people will be watching?" Nejire asks.
"Millions. The festival is one of the most-watched events on Japanese television."
Tamaki makes a small whimpering sound.
"Any other questions?" Aizawa looks around the room. "No? Good. You're dismissed. Go train, go study, go have existential crises about performing in front of the entire country. I don't care what you do, just be ready."
As we pack up our things, the energy in the room is electric. Everyone's talking about training plans, strategies, what the events might be.
"Two weeks," Nejire says, turning to me and Tamaki. "That's not very long."
"Long enough to work ourselves into the ground trying to prepare," I reply.
"Or long enough to get actually ready," Tamaki adds quietly, "if we train smart."
"Look at you being optimistic," I tease.
"I'm not optimistic. I'm terrified. But if I'm going to be terrified anyway, I might as well be prepared."
Fair point.
"We should train together," Nejire says suddenly. "Some of the events might be team-based. It would be good to know how our quirks work together."
"You want to team up?" I ask.
"Obviously. You think I'm going into this alone? Tamaki?"
"I... wouldn't mind working together," Tamaki admits. "If that's allowed."
"Even if it's not officially allowed, knowing how to coordinate could be useful," I say, remembering the cavalry battle from the manga. "Could give us an edge."
"Exactly!" Nejire beams. "We've got two weeks to figure out how to use our quirks as a unit. It'll be great!"
Her enthusiasm is infectious, even when I'm trying to stay realistic about our chances. Maybe she's right. Maybe this won't be a complete disaster.
Maybe.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days to get ready for the most important event of our UA careers so far.