The U.A. staff meeting was teetering between order and entropy—Midnight had finally retrieved her flash drive from Michi’s sticky hands, Nezu was casually suggesting a revamp of dorm security protocol (again), and Present Mic was… humming the Pokémon theme for no reason.
Aizawa rubbed the bridge of his nose. Potato lay dramatically under the coffee table with a stolen sock. Whiskers dozed like a queen on her stolen bassinet throne.
The door slammed open and Eri exploded into the room, eyes wide, face glowing, an envelope clutched in her small hands like it contained the secrets of the universe.
“I WON!” she shouted again, panting, cheeks red. “I WON THE DRAWING! I WON THE—THE THING!”
Silver, halfway down the hallway with Sayuri on her hip, blinked. “Eri? Sweetheart, what did you—”
“FOUR TICKETS. WWE JAPAN.”
Everyone in the room froze.
Nezu choked on his tea. “Oh my.”
Mic sprang up so fast he knocked over a chair. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”
Eri beamed. “They did a contest at school! I put all our names in! I wrote an essay about strength and how families fight with heart! And I WON. Four tickets! Four seats. Ringside!”
She dramatically slapped the envelope on the table like a top-level mission scroll.
Silver covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Oh no.”
Eri pointed like a general assigning troops. “Dad’s coming. Mom’s coming. Uncle Mic’s coming. Aunt Nemuri’s babysitting.”
Midnight raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did I just get voluntold?”
Eri nodded. “You like Kai and Michi. They like you. You can teach them how to escape sleeper holds.”
Midnight blinked. “Well. That’s not incorrect.”
Aizawa groaned faintly. “...Please don’t teach them that.”
Potato barked once—no one knew if it was support or warning.
Mic grabbed the envelope, stared at the tickets, and let out a warrior’s scream of joy. “YOUNG LADY, YOU HAVE MADE ME PROUD!”
Eri smirked, radiant. “We’re gonna see slams.”
Silver gave her a hug. “We’re gonna see heart. You earned this, baby.”
Aizawa gave a tiny, rare smile. “You really did.”
Fire shot from the stage.
And the Aizawa family—tired, chaotic, wildly mismatched in outfits—sat ringside as professional wrestling’s finest made their entrance.
Eri had a homemade cape with “Heart Slammer” painted on it.
Silver brought noise-canceling headphones for Sayuri, who rode in a soft carrier strapped to her chest like a general strapped to a tank.
Aizawa wore… a black hoodie and deep skepticism.
The announcer screamed: “WELCOME TO WWE JAPAN!”
Sayuri farted loud enough to rattle the cup holders.
Aizawa: “I think the baby needs… medical attention.”
Silver (grinning): “She’s just enthusiastic.”
Eri stood on her seat and screamed, “BODY SLAMMMM!”
And then it happened—one of the wrestlers, a snarling heel with a villain persona, pointed at their row.
“You! Little girl!” he bellowed, breaking the fourth wall. “You think you’re tough?!”
Mic stood. “OH NO HE DIDN’T.”
Silver handed Sayuri to Aizawa. “Hold this, I’m about to throw a shoe.”
The wrestler cracked his neck. “You and your baby army—no match for THE RECKONER!”
The kind that echoed in surround sound.
The entire section went quiet.
Then erupted in screams of laughter.
Aizawa held the baby aloft. “Final move: Gas Bomb.”
Eri beamed like she'd won a championship.
Mic declared them “Tag Team Champions of My Heart.”
Back at home, Midnight cracked her knuckles.
“I’ve trained with elite heroes. I’ve subdued villains with pheromones and acrobatics,” she told herself. “I can handle two toddlers.”
Michi, in a paper crown, declared herself “General Marshmallow.”
Kai, shirtless with marker-abs, shouted “I AM FLAME LIZARD” and leapt from furniture.
Midnight tried a bedtime story. Kai turned the book into a weapon. Michi used jellybeans as currency and bribed Potato into licking Midnight's arm.
“Why is it warm in here?” she muttered.
Michi whispered, “It’s her aura.”
Potato barked in agreement.
By 9:45 p.m., Midnight was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by plastic dinosaurs, stickers on her face.
When the door opened at midnight, and the rest of the family returned—
Midnight didn’t even lift her head.
“Your children. Are wizards of chaos.”
Silver kissed her cheek. “You survived. You’re family now.”
Aizawa handed her a travel-sized bottle of sake. “Thank you for your service.”
The kitchen was almost calm.
Silver flipped pancakes with one hand, cradling Sayuri in the crook of her arm. Eri was scribbling in her WWE journal, reliving every glorious moment. Kai and Michi were playing under the table with Potato, building a wrestling ring out of shoelaces and couch cushions.
Aizawa sipped his coffee—extra strong, triple dose—and finally sighed. “Peace.”
Mic’s voice exploded from the hallway.
“Y’ALL MIGHT WANNA CHECK THE NET.”
Silver blinked. “Is that a threat or a suggestion?”
Mic slid in, phone raised. “SUGGESTION. IT’S THE BABY. SHE’S FAMOUS.”
A clip began to roll: shaky cam footage from the WWE crowd, just as “The Reckoner” pointed at Eri.
“You think you’re tough?!”
Cue zoom on tiny Eri’s determined face.
Cue Aizawa lifting Sayuri like the Lion King.
Cue a perfectly timed, thunderous fart.
Captioned: “AND THE BABY SAID NOPE.”
One with slow motion, the fart reverbing like an explosion.
One remixed to dramatic orchestral music.
One with anime battle effects: Sayuri’s eyes glowing, the words “QUIRK: STINK BOMB” flashing across the screen.
And the last—oh gods—the last one labeled her as SATURN, THE GAS TITAN.
Silver was howling with laughter, tears streaming. “She has a fan page?!”
Mic spun the phone. “Over 2.6 million views in twelve hours. They’re selling baby onesies that say ‘Silent But Violent.’”
Aizawa deadpanned. “I’m retiring.”
Kai popped up. “Does Sayuri have a Quirk?!”
Michi whispered reverently, “She’s the chosen one.”
Whiskers glared from the windowsill like this entire bloodline was beneath her.
Sayuri, oblivious to her growing fame, released another bubble of triumph.
Mic solemnly raised his mug. “To Saturn. Ruler of Rings. Breaker of Wind.”
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