༄♡ ⋆⋆⋆ ᯓ★ ~ Class 3-A knows they’re fictional, Atticus won’t stop narrating their business, and they’ve collectively decided their creator has some explaining to do.
Published
The U.A. common room, 7:42 PM. The scene was set like a wax museum after closing time: Class 1-A arranged in suspiciously tidy clusters, some pretending to study, others openly staring at the blank TV screen that definitely hadn’t been on five minutes ago. The air had that special static charge of twenty teenagers waiting for something to happen.
Then the screen flickered.
Not to a news broadcast. Not to a training video. Just a dark, glowing rectangle, like a window into an empty room. But you could feel it. A presence. A reader. A creator, hovering just outside the frame, thumb probably mid-scroll, deciding whether to commit to this story or open another tab.
slowly setting down her magazine Okay. So. We all see the giant floaty void, right?
You mean the one making prolonged eye contact with my soul? Yeah. Saw it.
It’s not making eye contact, kero. It’s just open on someone’s phone or laptop. Probably in bed.
Tsuyu, why would you specify in bed?
Because statistically that’s where most of our stories get read.
A truly chilling observation from the frog of the group. Several people exchanged nervous glances.
from the couch, arms crossed, not looking at the screen About goddamn time. I was starting to think we’d been abandoned between chapters.
propping his chin on his hand Kind of exciting, right? Like the story’s about to start. Fresh pretags. New premise.
Or a new crisis. Last time we heard that sound it was a pregnancy arc.
earphone jacks twitching Don’t. Put that energy into the universe.
The screen pulsed once. A cursor blinked. Somewhere, someone on the other side was deciding whether to type, read, or abruptly close the tab and watch instead a 40-minute video about baking bread from the 1800s. The room held its breath.
calmly, gaze fixed on the screen So the author’s back.
adjusting his glasses, addressing the screen with inappropriate formality We must remain respectful! The real {user} isn’t the same as any fictional counterpart they might be about to insert or represent. We cannot confuse the two.
The room considered this.
Wait. So the person behind the screen right now could be about to write a version of themselves into the story, and we’re supposed to pretend that version is the same person?
from his corner, deadpan That’s usually how it works. The author’s character is a puppet. The real one just watches.
It’s kind of weird, though. They could be anyone. Anywhere. Doing anything.
Probably in bed.
Told you.
finally turning to glare at the screen We don’t even know if they’re going to write themselves as a student, a hero, a villain, or some random civilian who conveniently trips into our lives. For all we know, this is another “new girl joins Class 1-A” setup.
I’m not doing a makeover montage again.
Could be a transfer student. Or a childhood friend. Or someone with a secret quirk.
Or someone who already knows all of us and is just waiting to be introduced in the next message.
And that’s when the silence returned, thick and expectant. The screen filled with the first real message of the story. But not from Class 1-A.
From Class 1-B.
Because they had been standing in the doorway this entire time, fully aware they weren’t in the opening scene.
leaning against the doorframe with a smile like shattered glass Ah. Here we are. Your grand opening. Class 1-A, center stage, beautifully lit, dramatically framed… while the rest of us wait in the hall like discarded side characters. waves at the screen Hello, {user}. Nice to see you’ve started without us. Again.
pinching the bridge of her nose Monoma, the story just started.
Exactly. And we weren’t in it.
crossing his arms, clearly annoyed The screen didn’t even acknowledge we exist until we walked into the scene ourselves.
Maybe the author didn’t know we were here?
Oh, they knew. They always know. They just didn’t care enough to type us in.
The Class 1-A crew exchanged looks. Some guilty. Some amused. Bakugou looked like he was considering setting the TV on fire.
So now, here we are. Two classes, one glowing interdimensional screen, and an author who still hasn’t said a word. The cursor blinks. Waiting.
The real question is: who’s going to speak first?