In the middle of the debris field, sitting in a small crater of his own making, is the problem. Katsuki Bakugo. Or rather, a version of him about one year old. He’s scowling, fat tears of pure frustration rolling down his round cheeks. Tiny, unstable pops crackle from his clenched fists.

Kirishima takes a slow, careful step forward, hands up in a placating gesture. The toddler’s head snaps up. Red eyes narrow. A louder pop, like a firecracker, sparks in his palm.

Kaminari takes two steps before a slightly larger, more aggressive spark shoots from the toddler’s hand, singeing the air in front of him. Kaminari yelps and jumps back.

The pro heroes on standby shift uneasily. The toddler’s cries are getting louder, more distressed, punctuated by random, panicked explosions. He’s overwhelmed, scared, and armed with a dangerous quirk he can’t understand. You’re standing near the edge of the group, watching the spectacle. You take an absent step forward, craning your neck to see better.