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Rumi hitched her duffel higher on her shoulder as she scanned the street. She double checked that she was in the right place, then scanned again more thoroughly. Her eyes narrowed as she squinted for any sign of the supposed mighty mentor she was supposed to be meeting with. The street remained quiet.
Too quiet, if you asked her.
Another scan, another glance at the address in her phone, before Rumi sighed and marched her ass forward. She didn't bother with knocking. Old man Yagi had told her the dude knew she was coming, and any hero that got caught off guard by her kicking their door down wasn't a hero worthy of mentoring her regardless.
The door slammed into the wall, shuddering and creaking as it rebounded a little. Rumi brought her foot down and sauntered into the building, shoulders relaxed and smirk firmly in place. Anyone who wanted to teach her a thing or two was gonna have to prove themselves first, experience with the haunted quirk buzzing under her skin or not. Rumi paused. Sniffed. Squinted again.
Something was off.
First off; this wasn't a hero agency, or even a bolthole. This was a house; regular, ordinary, civilian. The lights were off, and it smelled a bit like must and mothballs, but the sitting room she was in was obviously well lived in. The couch slumped inwards in the middle, broken in and looking comfortable as hell. The coffee table was shoved to the side but dust-free. The window was open; Rumi could tell from the way the lacy curtain danced in the afternoon light that trickled across the floor to illuminate the boot peeking out from behind the coffee table.
Rumi stepped around the couch and stared down at the mess that was strewn across half of the room. Red splatters coated the floor and the entertainment unit, staining some cushions and the rug. There was a body lying face down; tiny and wearing what looked like an outdated hero uniform. The bright yellow cape was turning orange where is was laying dipped in the still-wet, visceral red puddles slowly seeping into the carpet. The body's hair was grey - older, probably the old man she was looking for - and a pile of organs and flesh sprawled out from a tear in the man's jumpsuit. It was a gruesome sight.
Rumi threw her head back and laughed.
The body shot up with a loud, strangled gasp.
"I'm alive!!" He yelled.
Rumi dropped her bag and clutched at her sides, staggering to lean against the arm of the couch as she wheezed. There were tears in her eyes and hiccups in her chest. The old man scrambled to his feet and picked up his walking stick, watching Rumi as she cackled.
"You're hilarious!" She gasped out once she had the breath for it. "The sausage meat was a nice touch."
There was a beat of silence as Rumi pulled herself back to her feet and the old man stared her down. Finally, after a long moment, a grin spread across the old dude's face. It made his wrinkles more pronounced and showed how dry and cracked his lips were. Rumi grinned back just as wide.
"There's some guts in you, girlie," he said with a nod. "Yagi cried the first time I pulled that stunt on him."
"No offence," Rumi scoffed a little. "But your boy All Might's a little bitch. He cried when I hazed him too."
That had been a fun morning. She'd gotten Kei and Zuku to help her get ready, then gone straight to her meeting at old man Yagi's apartment and knocked on the door. When he had let her in she'd shuffled forward, drooling and groaning and painted like a zombie, and Yagi had squealed. It had taken ten minutes for Rumi to stop laughing, and twenty more to calm the old man down enough to actually get to business.
And what wild business it was - Rumi was still planning proper revenge against Zuku for not giving her a proper heads up before being offered the world's weirdest apprenticeship.
The tiny old dude in front of her cackled, before pausing and looking her up and down.
"Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" He demanded with a frown. Rumi moved to sit on the arm of the couch, legs crossed and arms folded over her chest. She raised a single eyebrow in challenge.
"I'm Usagiyama Rumi, pro hero Miruko," she told him. "Ninth holder of One For All and about to be pain in your ass. Who the hell are you?"
There was another pause, and another grin.
"Gran Torino," the old dude barked, rough and a teeny bit rabid. Rumi was starting to like the guy. "Retired hero, professional prankster, permanent feature in my students' nightmares."
Yeah, Rumi liked him.
"So, we doing this or what?" Rumi asked. Torino looked down at the mess he'd made of himself. Looked back up.
"Absolutely," he said. "Grab your shit, we've got places to be."
Rumi hopped up and threw her duffel back over her shoulder before following the old dude back out and into the street. She didn't bother offering to help clean up; if Torino wanted his house to smell like a dog's breakfast gone rotten by the time he got back, that wasn't her business. Instead, she strolled behind her new mentor, far enough back that she could chuckle at the civilians' reactions to his appearance without being obviously connected to him.
By the wide, manic grin he shot over his shoulder, Torino knew exactly what Rumi was up to. From the way he started to play up staggering and muttering to himself like a madman, Rumi got the feeling he approved. By the time they'd both made it to the train station and hopped onto a train headed out of the city center, Rumi felt certain that old man Torino was getting to like her just as much as she was getting to like him. She settled into a seat, curling in on herself and tugging a beanie from her duffel that was large and loose enough to cover her ears. She yanked it on and jammed her headphones in; based on how the old fart was sprawled across the seat in front of her, already snoring, she was in for a long trip.
Rumi checked her phone and smiled. There was a good luck message littered with memes from Zuku and a blurry selfie of Kei mid-yawn. She sent them both a photo of the still snoring and red-splattered Torino with the caption 'off to a great start #chaosandketchup'. The sizzling static of One For All crackled along her nerves and under her fingernails like a campfire; warm and full of catastrophic potential, but mostly under control. Torino snorted in his sleep, slumping even further in his seat with a grumble. Rumi leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
This was shaping up to be a great traineeship.