mbconsonants
New Member
Every morning of the last thirty days, Vasilija has held her backpack on her lap, had her arms clasped in front around its oddly comforting bulk, and fixed her eyes on the checkered red and white in the middle of the Croatian flag patch sewn onto the bag.
Today, it’s her emergency response bag, though she’s known that it would be. Its contents have been meticulously sorted, labeled, and the paper cataloging it all is stapled to page 67 of the Mount Olympus Academy Admissions Regulations packet, itself titled ‘Documentation for Pre-Approved Accommodations (Support Items and Procedures).’ The bag itself is fairly new; while running through one of his makeshift warehouse obstacle courses, Gabe pointed out – like he had no fewer than eight other occasions – that her heavy plastic toolbox of a first aid kit didn’t do her mobility any favors – and by the end of the day, she was scouring the internet for a more practical substitute, with her mentor getting her two little flag patches – one for Croatia, one for Chicago – to christen her new utility bag and wish her good look before she left for Olympus City.
Breathing in… holding… out… holding…
All the while, focusing on the mundane checkerboard pattern, until she began to imagine the day head, as she had many (30, if she had to put a number to it) times before.
Finally, Vasy lets out a slow, easy breath, releasing any lingering tension in her body while concluding the visualization. At this moment, the humming of the cab driver, vague memory of cigarette smoke clinging to the upholstery, and warm sunlight streaming in from the window feel like a frame to her focus. She feels sharp, calm, prepared, and a little fond.
It’s a test. Easy peasy.
It’s late enough that Gabe does that thing he does sometimes, where even though Vasy has told him that she’s had seven years to learn things like the English language, how to read signs, which CTA line goes where, and how to get to 18th Station from wherever she may be… he’s being an obstinate mother hen– (“You are a child in a city of three million people; I recommended you to MOA, so, if it’s my responsibility to get you up to speed on combat training, it’s my responsibility to make sure you get there and back in one piece.”)
(“...– And fuck off, I’m not a hen. I’d be like, a viper mom or something… Just, I don’t know, call your neighbor, let her know that you’re on your way back.”)
And after a handful of hours doing calisthenics and new terrain exercises by the lake, the fraternal reaction is just indignant enough to placate her. With a wry shoulder check, Gabe settles in too, jumping through whatever hoops are involved with decrypting the Hero Commission’s daily newsletters – every once in a while, making a noise of irritation loud enough to be heard underneath the medical respirator.
Vas, in turn, puts in earbuds to call Mrs. Ramos and update her on when she’ll be back and then checks her planner to confirm that there aren’t any assignments she should at least kind of be prioritizing before she gets home.
Another cursory flip through a handful of pages confirms that there are only three months until the MOA entrance exam – namely, the practical – and she’s still got a lot of work to do. While her defenses, positioning, and movement have developed well [from practically nothing] over the past few months, it was like she could feel the complete lack of offensive instinct – offensive will.
Sure, she didn’t need a lot, didn’t have to excel at it, but she had to be capable enough to make what she could do matter.
It feels like when her family moved to America, and finally found doctors – quirk specialists – who could explain why she would be sick or injured so often…but with medical terms. In English. She knows now that, at least by ear, she understood about as much as her parents had, probably even more. And they’d done so much, gone so far, that she had to do something with it. Even as a child, even when the most basic English words relating to health, quirks, and doctor’s visits were still obscure, she had to make what they had done matter.
But she had always been crafty and determined, and thankfully, the English words for stuff from the grocery store were much more mentally accessible – especially when all she needed were the ingredients to školjkice.
Then, armed with the hospital printout and a Tupperware container of cookie stacks wrapped in tinfoil, she went with her dad to the Little Village Library, presenting the librarians with the safely packed treats, shyly requesting help interpreting google translate results, as well as finding any children’s science books they had on quirks, or health in general.
The library became one of her favorite places in the city and remained such as she grew older. It was a place of necessary steps. After all, she couldn’t really afford to be ashamed of learning in front of others – the shame came from freezing up; from confusion she didn’t have the questions or answers to resolve; from not being enough, and then not getting better.
And Vasy still frequents the library – she’ll meet with Science Olympiad partners there, going over the answers to released practice tests or making flashcards; scour the internet for new journal articles about quirk science; complete activities in her workbook on the admissions and acceptance requirements for private hero academies; find recipes (albeit, kind of lousy healthy ones, now) she liked in cookbooks and copy them to try out every once in a while.
Because she can do work and take notes anywhere, but, as she sits on the train, bumpy and noisy as it always is, trying to simultaneously watch clips and jot down observations of combat analysis from old licensing exams, she finds herself missing the controlled environment of the library, but there are few situations that her stubborn commitment to the pursuit of knowledge can’t block out.
“Hm, well, you have been nervous about non-defensive combat response, recently.”
At first, Vas jolts because she hadn’t expected commentary period, but then she processes what Gabe just said, and, pausing the grainy video on her phone, she huffs out a sigh in acknowledgment. It says a lot of things: that she’s tired; she trusts him to train her well enough to demonstrate what she can do and earn a spot at MOA; she’s nervous about the things she won’t be able to dodge or outsmart; she feels a little nauseous thinking about what happens if she gets injured, cornered, and panics; she wishes the written test could be the part 2, as a treat.
Gabe’s eyes shift from her, down to the notes she’d been writing, then back up, before continuing, “Do you study things to cope? Like, how people do puzzles or draw stuff–”
“–Or get more snake tattoos?” Even tired, Vas was a little pleased with herself for that one and attempted to hold back her grin – to little success.
Now, she has never seen her mentor without either his hero mask or civilian respirator on, but she does feel a little ping of victory (vindication of her humor!) whenever she earns a new small sliver of expression from him (in this case, presumably vexation and a little bit of sheepishness, if the red flush to his ears was anything to go by).
Hiding any shame with an eye roll, he answers back, “Damn, maybe I should be worried about your morals if you’re out here disrespecting your elders like this.” The corner of his eyes crinkle, but the statement does give Vasilija pause, and after a beat, her eyes widen in delayed comprehension and concern.
Before she begins what is likely to be a very genuine and respectful apology, he interjects, “You absolutely may not apologize for that – that was a remarkably subtle blow that brought my ego to my knees.” Gabe emphasizes this by pantomiming being doubled over, before sitting back up with a well-meaning shrug. “You may not need as much work on your attack as you think.”
“...and, if you ever meet someone with multiple tattoos for their hero thing – not even like, a family quirk or commemorating important occasions, just costume/naming conventions hero thing – you may absolutely make fun of them for it.”
Vasilija allows this mirthful grin to take up residence on her face, giggling as she secures her notebook away in her backpack, and slides her phone into her pocket. She pauses afterward, thinking back to a few moments ago, and answering Gabe’s initial question, “I do like studying things. Tests, too.” She looks down at her hands, tracing the stitching on her gloves, just for something to look at. “I was extremely shy when we first moved here – um, kids aren’t always the kindest to each other, and it felt like, just…it was hard, to be proud of all of the effort I was putting in when I let people say my name wrong, or talk over me all the time.”
“Science Olympiad actually helped a lot.” She fidgeted a little in her seat – particularly in the way she would when she was explaining something, and had to try to keep the hand gestures at a minimum. “That’s the, um, the thing I do where you can learn more about certain topics you like, and go to tournaments to compete against other schools. Most events are with partners, and…the same thing that’s important to you is important to them, too. You have to respect the dedication and effort the other person has for the subject – if you know what the answer to a question is, they want to hear it, and cooperating like that is only beneficial to you both, and to the team as a whole.”
Gabe makes the admission easier by fixing his eyes on one of the posters on the train while she speaks. Only cutting in once she’s paused, asking, “It’s easier to speak up now?”
Vas nods her assent warmly. “It is. And once I can set my perspective to be on, you know, like, for tests, or projects, or emergencies, I don’t get nervous as easily. I’ll think of everything that might happen, picture it in my head, step by step, and it reminds me that whatever situation I’m in, it’s not usually so different from something I’ve experienced before, and even then, I know what I can do, I’ve worked hard for every bit of knowledge I possess, and when the time comes, what does being scared or quiet do for me or the people around me, you know?”
The morning’s events pass much as Vasilija expects them to.
Being as early as she is, the crowd awaiting the opening of the doors isn’t too large, and she is able to overhear little bits and pieces of people’s quirks, what they’re excited about, what they’ve heard, and so on.
Once the doors do open, like the smooth flow of a wide river, the crowd gets pulled into the school, being handed tickets by volunteers at the side of each ornate cavernous doorway.
Exam Ticket
Examinee: 67
Test Location: Battle Center 1
When she presents her bag at the security checkpoint, they think she just packed…a lot of clothes? For the practical? However, upon presenting her paperwork, it doesn’t take long for the officers manning the terminal set up to cross-reference the forms with the inventory and the bag itself, though given that she’s the only one at the terminal for any significant amount of time, it does confirm a lingering suspicion that maybe MOA doesn’t make it particularly clear that quirk-relevant support items are permittable with regards to the entrance exam.
In fact, the only other person to acknowledge this specific checkpoint is a boy holding a water bottle in each hand and peering around the corner in surprise and nervous apprehension. “Oh man, do I have to fill something out to bring my water–” but before he can question himself too much, one of the volunteers shoos him along the line of signs to whichever testing location he might be assigned to. It’s then not long after that her emergency response bag is approved, tagged with her examinee number, and arranged to be available for the practical.
After being guided through a path of halls and signs, Vasy finds herself seated in preparation for the written test – clock in front of the room, proctors making their rounds, and someone with a quirk that made their sneeze sound like a kazoo? Either way, after the first 4 times, it's hard to distinguish a kazoo sneeze from a runny nose sniff anyways.
The dense test packet is placed in front of them, instructions are announced, and she bubbles in her name when called to do so:
First Name: V A S I L I J A
Last Name: S A K I C
And then the timer starts, and it’s a test – as challenging and engaging as any other, though, as she diligently and thoughtfully tears through the contents of the assessment, she acknowledges that she was quite well prepared.
With eight minutes to spare after going back to solidify all of her answers, she doodles things like her mom’s slippers and the design on the packet label of the hotel coffee; a construction vest and a long stretch of skinny highway waving along the piece of scrap paper; a snake with a snake tattoo on it.
Watching the clock tick down to zero, she felt calm, and most importantly, if there was a time to well and truly show other people what she knew and how it could help, it would be during the practical.
Once everybody returned dressed in whatever athletic wear they either arrived wearing or brought with them, the large mass of their group awaited entry into the testing facilities for the practical.
Everybody seems to be gossipping or fidgeting, Vasilija innately more of the latter, though more so because they are lying in wait than because nerves are actually getting to her. She checks to make sure her gloves are fastened, shoes are tied, and all her clothes feel comfortable (plain shorts, and a short-sleeved shirt, with cutouts at the shoulders – as Gabe had pointed out, she could reasonably use her quirk in defense, and would need a point of contact to do so).
As a final act of preparation, she grabs her bag from where it has been resting on the ground, and fastens it securely around her chest, before discretely retrieving a small vial from the strap pocket.
She takes a moment to eye all of the little inhabitants within the plastic tube, regarding them as she says, “U redu, prijatelji moji. Kunem se, dat ću sve od sebe da te ostavim na miru. Hvala vam.”
Concluding her promise to try not to bother the flies, her eyes flick up and meet those of a girl with so much hair and what she could guess is a prominent wolf mutation quirk. She, like Vasilija herself, doesn’t seem to be clustered in a group like many others, however, there is a chance that she’s put out by the vial of flies.
They’re standing close enough that Vasy can wave the tube gently, mouthing, “It’s for good luck?” probably unconvincingly, before slipping it back into her pocket, and awkwardly moving to get final stretches in and hide the slight wave of shyness.
Apparently, they have a good moment before the practical well and truly begins – Vasy measures the size of this moment by taking notice each time her breath count is interrupted by another outburst from a nearby cluster of applicants. The only preparations they seem to be entertaining are bitterly throwing barbs about an applicant she could only hope to identify as, “Someone’s Son,” and so with a deep breath and repressed rolling of her eyes, she respositions to a more sparse end of the space they’ve been given to occupy and focuses in once more.
And then the announcement begins.
Today, it’s her emergency response bag, though she’s known that it would be. Its contents have been meticulously sorted, labeled, and the paper cataloging it all is stapled to page 67 of the Mount Olympus Academy Admissions Regulations packet, itself titled ‘Documentation for Pre-Approved Accommodations (Support Items and Procedures).’ The bag itself is fairly new; while running through one of his makeshift warehouse obstacle courses, Gabe pointed out – like he had no fewer than eight other occasions – that her heavy plastic toolbox of a first aid kit didn’t do her mobility any favors – and by the end of the day, she was scouring the internet for a more practical substitute, with her mentor getting her two little flag patches – one for Croatia, one for Chicago – to christen her new utility bag and wish her good look before she left for Olympus City.
Breathing in… holding… out… holding…
All the while, focusing on the mundane checkerboard pattern, until she began to imagine the day head, as she had many (30, if she had to put a number to it) times before.
The doors of MOA, with their school crest cast in navy and gold – locked, until 7:00 AM.
Applicants – loud and quiet, eye-catching and simple, kind and not – all crowded around the marble steps.
A security checkpoint, likely just inside the entrance.
Noble hallways with signs to the testing area.
Rows of tables and chairs, proctors, a big clock near the front.
Probably someone with a runny nose, or the shrill ping of a watch timer.
And turning pages.
Multiple choice, short answer, and one extended response; flipping to read what they are and knowing how much time each portion needs.
Checking answers twice; drawing little doodles afterwards, if scratch work is allowed.
More hallways, more signs.
Her red bag clipped around her chest; gloves on; shoes tied; vial and swab for the flies easily accessible.
And more applicants.
Listening, watching, talking.
Other people – the smart ones – looking for ways to maximize their strengths and defend their weaknesses.
An announcement.
An environment.
And a mad dash.
Assessing threats and challenges.
Robots. Simulated terrain. Earthquakes. Three strikes and you’re out. Obstacles and buildings. Collapsing bridges. Underground tunnels. Skyscraper roofs. Wristbands. More clocks. Storms. Hostages.
Endless potential for outmanuvering, using the setting for one’s benefit.
Fighting. Whatever it was. Fighting to help. Fighting off an injury, until the end of the practical. Fighting like her parents only somewhat knew she had been training to do. Fighting to make the most of a couple of minutes.
And then, the end.
Another announcement. Shaking hands. Maybe even taking away a few scrapes or bruises.
Exiting the combat space.
Walking back through the school.
Back outside.
Applicants – loud and quiet, eye-catching and simple, kind and not – all crowded around the marble steps.
A security checkpoint, likely just inside the entrance.
Noble hallways with signs to the testing area.
Rows of tables and chairs, proctors, a big clock near the front.
Probably someone with a runny nose, or the shrill ping of a watch timer.
And turning pages.
Multiple choice, short answer, and one extended response; flipping to read what they are and knowing how much time each portion needs.
Checking answers twice; drawing little doodles afterwards, if scratch work is allowed.
More hallways, more signs.
Her red bag clipped around her chest; gloves on; shoes tied; vial and swab for the flies easily accessible.
And more applicants.
Listening, watching, talking.
Other people – the smart ones – looking for ways to maximize their strengths and defend their weaknesses.
An announcement.
An environment.
And a mad dash.
Assessing threats and challenges.
Robots. Simulated terrain. Earthquakes. Three strikes and you’re out. Obstacles and buildings. Collapsing bridges. Underground tunnels. Skyscraper roofs. Wristbands. More clocks. Storms. Hostages.
Endless potential for outmanuvering, using the setting for one’s benefit.
Fighting. Whatever it was. Fighting to help. Fighting off an injury, until the end of the practical. Fighting like her parents only somewhat knew she had been training to do. Fighting to make the most of a couple of minutes.
And then, the end.
Another announcement. Shaking hands. Maybe even taking away a few scrapes or bruises.
Exiting the combat space.
Walking back through the school.
Back outside.
Finally, Vasy lets out a slow, easy breath, releasing any lingering tension in her body while concluding the visualization. At this moment, the humming of the cab driver, vague memory of cigarette smoke clinging to the upholstery, and warm sunlight streaming in from the window feel like a frame to her focus. She feels sharp, calm, prepared, and a little fond.
It’s a test. Easy peasy.
Three Months Ago
It’s late enough that Gabe does that thing he does sometimes, where even though Vasy has told him that she’s had seven years to learn things like the English language, how to read signs, which CTA line goes where, and how to get to 18th Station from wherever she may be… he’s being an obstinate mother hen– (“You are a child in a city of three million people; I recommended you to MOA, so, if it’s my responsibility to get you up to speed on combat training, it’s my responsibility to make sure you get there and back in one piece.”)
(“...– And fuck off, I’m not a hen. I’d be like, a viper mom or something… Just, I don’t know, call your neighbor, let her know that you’re on your way back.”)
And after a handful of hours doing calisthenics and new terrain exercises by the lake, the fraternal reaction is just indignant enough to placate her. With a wry shoulder check, Gabe settles in too, jumping through whatever hoops are involved with decrypting the Hero Commission’s daily newsletters – every once in a while, making a noise of irritation loud enough to be heard underneath the medical respirator.
Vas, in turn, puts in earbuds to call Mrs. Ramos and update her on when she’ll be back and then checks her planner to confirm that there aren’t any assignments she should at least kind of be prioritizing before she gets home.
Another cursory flip through a handful of pages confirms that there are only three months until the MOA entrance exam – namely, the practical – and she’s still got a lot of work to do. While her defenses, positioning, and movement have developed well [from practically nothing] over the past few months, it was like she could feel the complete lack of offensive instinct – offensive will.
Sure, she didn’t need a lot, didn’t have to excel at it, but she had to be capable enough to make what she could do matter.
It feels like when her family moved to America, and finally found doctors – quirk specialists – who could explain why she would be sick or injured so often…but with medical terms. In English. She knows now that, at least by ear, she understood about as much as her parents had, probably even more. And they’d done so much, gone so far, that she had to do something with it. Even as a child, even when the most basic English words relating to health, quirks, and doctor’s visits were still obscure, she had to make what they had done matter.
But she had always been crafty and determined, and thankfully, the English words for stuff from the grocery store were much more mentally accessible – especially when all she needed were the ingredients to školjkice.
Then, armed with the hospital printout and a Tupperware container of cookie stacks wrapped in tinfoil, she went with her dad to the Little Village Library, presenting the librarians with the safely packed treats, shyly requesting help interpreting google translate results, as well as finding any children’s science books they had on quirks, or health in general.
The library became one of her favorite places in the city and remained such as she grew older. It was a place of necessary steps. After all, she couldn’t really afford to be ashamed of learning in front of others – the shame came from freezing up; from confusion she didn’t have the questions or answers to resolve; from not being enough, and then not getting better.
And Vasy still frequents the library – she’ll meet with Science Olympiad partners there, going over the answers to released practice tests or making flashcards; scour the internet for new journal articles about quirk science; complete activities in her workbook on the admissions and acceptance requirements for private hero academies; find recipes (albeit, kind of lousy healthy ones, now) she liked in cookbooks and copy them to try out every once in a while.
Because she can do work and take notes anywhere, but, as she sits on the train, bumpy and noisy as it always is, trying to simultaneously watch clips and jot down observations of combat analysis from old licensing exams, she finds herself missing the controlled environment of the library, but there are few situations that her stubborn commitment to the pursuit of knowledge can’t block out.
“Hm, well, you have been nervous about non-defensive combat response, recently.”
At first, Vas jolts because she hadn’t expected commentary period, but then she processes what Gabe just said, and, pausing the grainy video on her phone, she huffs out a sigh in acknowledgment. It says a lot of things: that she’s tired; she trusts him to train her well enough to demonstrate what she can do and earn a spot at MOA; she’s nervous about the things she won’t be able to dodge or outsmart; she feels a little nauseous thinking about what happens if she gets injured, cornered, and panics; she wishes the written test could be the part 2, as a treat.
Gabe’s eyes shift from her, down to the notes she’d been writing, then back up, before continuing, “Do you study things to cope? Like, how people do puzzles or draw stuff–”
“–Or get more snake tattoos?” Even tired, Vas was a little pleased with herself for that one and attempted to hold back her grin – to little success.
Now, she has never seen her mentor without either his hero mask or civilian respirator on, but she does feel a little ping of victory (vindication of her humor!) whenever she earns a new small sliver of expression from him (in this case, presumably vexation and a little bit of sheepishness, if the red flush to his ears was anything to go by).
Hiding any shame with an eye roll, he answers back, “Damn, maybe I should be worried about your morals if you’re out here disrespecting your elders like this.” The corner of his eyes crinkle, but the statement does give Vasilija pause, and after a beat, her eyes widen in delayed comprehension and concern.
Before she begins what is likely to be a very genuine and respectful apology, he interjects, “You absolutely may not apologize for that – that was a remarkably subtle blow that brought my ego to my knees.” Gabe emphasizes this by pantomiming being doubled over, before sitting back up with a well-meaning shrug. “You may not need as much work on your attack as you think.”
“...and, if you ever meet someone with multiple tattoos for their hero thing – not even like, a family quirk or commemorating important occasions, just costume/naming conventions hero thing – you may absolutely make fun of them for it.”
Vasilija allows this mirthful grin to take up residence on her face, giggling as she secures her notebook away in her backpack, and slides her phone into her pocket. She pauses afterward, thinking back to a few moments ago, and answering Gabe’s initial question, “I do like studying things. Tests, too.” She looks down at her hands, tracing the stitching on her gloves, just for something to look at. “I was extremely shy when we first moved here – um, kids aren’t always the kindest to each other, and it felt like, just…it was hard, to be proud of all of the effort I was putting in when I let people say my name wrong, or talk over me all the time.”
“Science Olympiad actually helped a lot.” She fidgeted a little in her seat – particularly in the way she would when she was explaining something, and had to try to keep the hand gestures at a minimum. “That’s the, um, the thing I do where you can learn more about certain topics you like, and go to tournaments to compete against other schools. Most events are with partners, and…the same thing that’s important to you is important to them, too. You have to respect the dedication and effort the other person has for the subject – if you know what the answer to a question is, they want to hear it, and cooperating like that is only beneficial to you both, and to the team as a whole.”
Gabe makes the admission easier by fixing his eyes on one of the posters on the train while she speaks. Only cutting in once she’s paused, asking, “It’s easier to speak up now?”
Vas nods her assent warmly. “It is. And once I can set my perspective to be on, you know, like, for tests, or projects, or emergencies, I don’t get nervous as easily. I’ll think of everything that might happen, picture it in my head, step by step, and it reminds me that whatever situation I’m in, it’s not usually so different from something I’ve experienced before, and even then, I know what I can do, I’ve worked hard for every bit of knowledge I possess, and when the time comes, what does being scared or quiet do for me or the people around me, you know?”
Present Day
The morning’s events pass much as Vasilija expects them to.
Being as early as she is, the crowd awaiting the opening of the doors isn’t too large, and she is able to overhear little bits and pieces of people’s quirks, what they’re excited about, what they’ve heard, and so on.
Once the doors do open, like the smooth flow of a wide river, the crowd gets pulled into the school, being handed tickets by volunteers at the side of each ornate cavernous doorway.
Exam Ticket
Examinee: 67
Test Location: Battle Center 1
When she presents her bag at the security checkpoint, they think she just packed…a lot of clothes? For the practical? However, upon presenting her paperwork, it doesn’t take long for the officers manning the terminal set up to cross-reference the forms with the inventory and the bag itself, though given that she’s the only one at the terminal for any significant amount of time, it does confirm a lingering suspicion that maybe MOA doesn’t make it particularly clear that quirk-relevant support items are permittable with regards to the entrance exam.
In fact, the only other person to acknowledge this specific checkpoint is a boy holding a water bottle in each hand and peering around the corner in surprise and nervous apprehension. “Oh man, do I have to fill something out to bring my water–” but before he can question himself too much, one of the volunteers shoos him along the line of signs to whichever testing location he might be assigned to. It’s then not long after that her emergency response bag is approved, tagged with her examinee number, and arranged to be available for the practical.
After being guided through a path of halls and signs, Vasy finds herself seated in preparation for the written test – clock in front of the room, proctors making their rounds, and someone with a quirk that made their sneeze sound like a kazoo? Either way, after the first 4 times, it's hard to distinguish a kazoo sneeze from a runny nose sniff anyways.
The dense test packet is placed in front of them, instructions are announced, and she bubbles in her name when called to do so:
First Name: V A S I L I J A
Last Name: S A K I C
And then the timer starts, and it’s a test – as challenging and engaging as any other, though, as she diligently and thoughtfully tears through the contents of the assessment, she acknowledges that she was quite well prepared.
With eight minutes to spare after going back to solidify all of her answers, she doodles things like her mom’s slippers and the design on the packet label of the hotel coffee; a construction vest and a long stretch of skinny highway waving along the piece of scrap paper; a snake with a snake tattoo on it.
Watching the clock tick down to zero, she felt calm, and most importantly, if there was a time to well and truly show other people what she knew and how it could help, it would be during the practical.
Once everybody returned dressed in whatever athletic wear they either arrived wearing or brought with them, the large mass of their group awaited entry into the testing facilities for the practical.
Everybody seems to be gossipping or fidgeting, Vasilija innately more of the latter, though more so because they are lying in wait than because nerves are actually getting to her. She checks to make sure her gloves are fastened, shoes are tied, and all her clothes feel comfortable (plain shorts, and a short-sleeved shirt, with cutouts at the shoulders – as Gabe had pointed out, she could reasonably use her quirk in defense, and would need a point of contact to do so).
As a final act of preparation, she grabs her bag from where it has been resting on the ground, and fastens it securely around her chest, before discretely retrieving a small vial from the strap pocket.
She takes a moment to eye all of the little inhabitants within the plastic tube, regarding them as she says, “U redu, prijatelji moji. Kunem se, dat ću sve od sebe da te ostavim na miru. Hvala vam.”
(Okay, my friends. I swear, I will do my best to leave you in peace. Thank you.)
Concluding her promise to try not to bother the flies, her eyes flick up and meet those of a girl with so much hair and what she could guess is a prominent wolf mutation quirk. She, like Vasilija herself, doesn’t seem to be clustered in a group like many others, however, there is a chance that she’s put out by the vial of flies.
They’re standing close enough that Vasy can wave the tube gently, mouthing, “It’s for good luck?” probably unconvincingly, before slipping it back into her pocket, and awkwardly moving to get final stretches in and hide the slight wave of shyness.
Apparently, they have a good moment before the practical well and truly begins – Vasy measures the size of this moment by taking notice each time her breath count is interrupted by another outburst from a nearby cluster of applicants. The only preparations they seem to be entertaining are bitterly throwing barbs about an applicant she could only hope to identify as, “Someone’s Son,” and so with a deep breath and repressed rolling of her eyes, she respositions to a more sparse end of the space they’ve been given to occupy and focuses in once more.
And then the announcement begins.
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