Rooftop Run

The fluorescent lights of the Musutafu Police Precinct hummed overhead as the patrol assignment board flickered to life. Pro Heroes and sidekicks crowded around it, but Class 1-A’s provisional license holders stood at the back, a nervous cluster of polyester uniforms and too-bright eyes. Izuku Midoriya clutched his notebook, pen poised, already cataloguing the names. Then he saw it: his own name, slotted next to Bakugo Katsuki’s, under the 10 PM to 2 AM shift. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bakugo growled from behind him. Izuku didn’t flinch. He’d learned to recognize the tone that meant Bakugo was annoyed, but not yet explosive. “It’s just a patrol,” Izuku said, keeping his voice steady. “We’ve done this before.” “In a simulator. With fake villains. Not real streets, Deku.” Bakugo’s fists crackled with tiny, warning sparks. Their assigned pro, a weary-eyed hero named Gunhead, gave them a curt nod. “Rooftop route. You two stick together, stay on comms, and follow my lead. First sign of trouble, you call it in. Got it?” The night air hit them like a wall of damp concrete—cold, thick with the smell of exhaust and rain-washed asphalt. The first jump was always the hardest. Izuku’s legs coiled, One For All flickering through his muscles, and he launched himself across the gap. Bakugo was already airborne, his palms flashing with controlled bursts that sent him arcing ahead. They landed in near-synchronization on the next rooftop, a silent thunder of boots on gravel. For thirty minutes, that’s all it was: a rooftop run. No words, just the rhythm of leaps and landings, the distant wail of sirens, the occasional flicker of neon from the streets below. Izuku’s pen worked in silence, scribbling observations—light traffic on 3rd, a suspicious van idling near an alley, the way Bakugo’s explosions stayed tight and precise, barely louder than a whisper. He was good at this. Too good to admit he cared. “Stop writing and pay attention,” Bakugo snapped, landing beside him on a low warehouse rooftop. “You’re gonna trip and crack your skull.” “I’m paying attention,” Izuku said, tucking the notebook away. “Did you see the van? It’s been circling the block for the past ten minutes.” Bakugo’s eyes narrowed. He turned, scanning the street below. “Yeah. I saw it. Keep moving.” They didn’t speak again until they reached the precinct’s designated checkpoint—a rooftop helipad bathed in harsh floodlights. Bakugo landed first, crossing his arms. Izuku touched down a second later, breathing hard. “You’re slow,” Bakugo said, but there was no bite in it. Just fact. “You’re loud,” Izuku replied, and the corner of Bakugo’s mouth twitched—almost a smirk. Gunhead’s voice crackled over the comms. “Good work, you two. Check in at the east side in twenty. Something’s off tonight. Keep your eyes open.” Izuku’s heart hammered. The quirk-theft ring—he’d read the reports, seen the pattern of victims stripped of their abilities in back alleys and parking garages. It was real. And it was happening in their territory tonight. “You feel it too, don’t you?” Izuku asked, quiet. Bakugo didn’t answer. He just flexed his fingers, sparks dancing in his palm, and turned toward the next rooftop. “Stay close, nerd. And don’t hold me back.” Izuku smiled into the dark and followed.