Chapter Text
Salt.
That was the first thing Nagisa Shoita noticed. Not light, not sound, not pain. Just salt—coating the inside of his mouth like seawater that had lingered too long. It stung at the back of his throat, sharp and acrid, mixed with the faint copper tang of something metallic. His tongue felt thick. Dry. His lips were chapped. There was a low sound in his ears, like static, like—
No. Waves. That was it. The low, constant push and pull of ocean surf.
Nagisa opened his eyes.
The sky above him was painfully bright, a blue that stretched out wide, for all to see. There weren't any clouds, just the beating down of the sun. He squinted against it, lifting a hand to shade his face, fingers trembling slightly from the effort. The warmth of the sun on his skin was real. The ache in his limbs was real. The coarse grains of sand pressed into the side of his cheek were definitely real.
But none of this made sense.
He was on a beach. A real one, with warm sand, seaweed clumps and the distant calls of gulls. The breeze was warm and a little too strong, carrying the smell of brine and damp wood. The tide had reached just far enough to soak the cuffs of his jeans.
He sat up slowly, gritting his teeth against the dizziness that rolled through him. His body wasn't injured—just stiff, like he'd been unconscious for hours. Maybe longer.
The last thing he remembered was... he remembered going home from school, but after that it was fuzzy, a swirling sensation?
Okay. This is a problem, he thought calmly, not letting it reach his expression.
What would Koro-sensei say?
A voice echoed in his mind, bright and familiar and absurdly chipper.
"When faced with a complicated problem, Nagisa—what do we do?"
Nagisa swallowed against the dryness in his throat.
"You cut it into pieces, sir."
That lesson had always stayed with him. The memory of Koro-sensei saddened him but he couldn't let that distract him. He has to figure out where he is and get home. He had plans with Karma coming up as well as school.
His pockets were mostly empty. No wallet. His jacket was gone, though his T-shirt and jeans were dry enough to suggest he hadn't been submerged. The only thing he had left was his phone.
It sat nearby, half-buried in the sand, the screen cracked but still working. He picked it up and pressed the button.
The lock screen lit up. The date read April 11th.
The date was correct...
Just to be sure he looked towards the sky. The moon, the supposedly permanent crescent was full?
He turned off the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket.
There was no signal, no service, and the moon was full?
He took a breath. Then another. His heart was steady.
He climbed the slope that edged the beach, the soles of his shoes slipping slightly on the loose sand. Beyond it, a cracked concrete path, a sleepy stretch of coastal road, and rows of unfamiliar buildings—mostly glass and steel, sleek and angular. Modern, but not impossible.
He walked.
There was a quiet stillness to the place, like a city just waking up from sleep. The air smelled clean but tinged with fuel, sunscreen, and distant seaweed rot. Cars passed occasionally—different models, unfamiliar emblems. Sleeker.
Eventually, he passed a small convenience store. A man stepped out just as Nagisa walked past. Their eyes met briefly.
The man's skin was green. Not olive-toned. Not sickly. Green. Pale and glinting faintly in the sun, like scales. And gills fluttered at the sides of his neck.
Nagisa didn't slow down.
He didn't stare. Didn't flinch. He just kept walking.
That has to be a costume, it's a costume, definitely a costume.
The man called after him. "Hey, miss!"
Nagisa paused. He turned, offering a neutral smile, already used to this.
"I'm not a—never mind. Yes?"
The man jogged a few steps closer, then looked him over with the kind of vague curiosity people reserved for lost tourists. "You looked kinda confused. You okay? Need directions?"
"Actually, yeah," Nagisa said smoothly. "Would you happen to know where the nearest shopping centre is?"
The man nodded and pointed. "East, two blocks. Big plaza with a digital billboard. You can't miss it."
"Thank you."
"You visiting? You don't really look like you're from around here," the man added.
"Visiting family," Nagisa replied, letting his smile relax just enough to be believable. "First time in this area. I'm still getting used to it."
"Got it. Well, enjoy your day, miss."
Nagisa only nodded this time. It wasn't worth correcting.
The plaza looked ordinary. Children chased each other through fountains. A few teens sat on benches talking. Vendors sold food in paper trays, a rotating takoyaki stand playing cheerful music at a low volume.
It would've felt peaceful, even pretty.
But Nagisa saw everything.
A woman with lavender skin and four arms casually carried a stack of shopping bags. A boy with bird-like talons for feet adjusted the strap of his backpack as he walked into a bookstore. A teenager floated three metres off the ground, reading a map, completely unbothered.
Not a costume. Not a costume. Definitely not a costume!
What is happening? There are mutations? Superpowers? Am I dead?
Trying to calm down, Nagisa sat on a bench near a fake cherry blossom tree and pretended to tie his shoelace. His fingers brushed against something beside him—an abandoned newspaper.
It was damp at the edges, crinkled from the wind. The print was bold and sharp.
YEAR: 2X39.
The article titles hit like small stones:
NO. 3 HERO MIRKO DISMANTLES VILLAIN CELL
LEAGUE OF VILLAINS ACTIVITY INCREASES—PRO HEROES DEPLOYED
UA HIGH OPENS APPLICATIONS FOR WORK-STUDY PROGRAM
UA. Heroes. Villains.
The words spiralled around him, half-unreal.
Nagisa looked up at the sky. To make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
And stopped.
The moon hung faint and silver in the daylight sky. Just like he checked earlier, it was nearly full.
This wasn't just another country. It wasn't a simulation.
This was a different world.
He sat back on the bench, newspaper still in hand. His eyes stayed on the people walking by, blending in effortlessly with wings and horns and glowing eyes.
Nagisa's breath left him in a long, quiet stream.
He has to blend in, adapt, most importantly he has to find a way home.
Without running into trouble.