He stood with his hands in his pockets, his capture weapon loose around his neck, eyes scanning the twenty students arrayed before him.

As Bakugo’s palms sparked and Kirishima’s skin took on a jagged, stone-like quality, a low, sub-audible whine began to permeate the air. It wasn’t from them.

The sky directly over the training ground shimmered, like heat haze over asphalt, but tinged with violet and gold. The whine escalated to a deafening tear.

The shimmer collapsed inward, then erupted outward in a silent, violent rush. A vortex of distorted light and gravity opened like a maw above them. The concrete under their feet groaned, then shattered upward.

The entire class, along with chunks of rubble and Aizawa himself, was ripped from the training ground and sucked into the swirling, color-drenched tunnel. There was a sensation of being stretched, compressed, and spun all at once—a nauseating second of impossible physics.

Something tapped gently against his shoe. A small, segmented creature with a yellow body and bright eyes was giving his sneaker weak, curious headbutts.

A Butterfree, its wings a delicate powder blue, fluttered down to land on Ochaco’s outstretched, floating hand. A Purrloin emerged from the tall grass and wound itself, purring, around Aizawa’s boot. A Nickit, snickering softly, began to trot in a wide, watchful circle around a seething Bakugo. More shapes moved in the grass: a Persian’s sleek form, a Loudred’s distinctive silhouette, all approaching with calm, open curiosity.