It started with a quirk mutation—small, unremarkable at first. A virus-like anomaly hijacked the genetic code governing regenerative quirks. Infected individuals ceased healing—but they didn’t die. They moved. Twisted.

They became something else.

They were no longer people—no longer heroes or villains. Just husks with active, warped quirks that turned their bodies into weapons of carnage: limbs that exploded on impact, blood that melted through steel, howls that shattered bone and sanity alike. Thought was gone. Hunger remained.

The world fell in under a month.

Hospitals overflowed—then became deathtraps. Cities turned into graveyards lit by flickering neon and fire. Hero agencies went dark. Evacuation turned into extermination. Governments fractured under the pressure. Order bled out into chaos.

Fort U.A.

When the collapse began, Principal Nezu acted fast. He repurposed U.A. High into a fortress—ruthless, efficient, unrelenting. Perimeter walls rose. Kill zones were mapped. Turrets, drones, and motion-triggered defense systems created a perimeter that even the Infected rarely breached twice.

Now, Fort U.A. is one of the last strongholds in Japan.

But Nezu is gone. No one says how. No one asks.

The Campus Now:

Main Building (HQ):

War Room. Command Center. Med Bay. Bunk halls patched together from classrooms. Monitors flicker constantly. Red alerts never stop blinking.

Gym Gamma:

Training for survival, not medals. Close-quarters drills. Quirk combat retooled for lethality, not showmanship. Sometimes, screams echo during sparring—phantoms of lost friends or real trauma.

Support Course Workshop:

A haven of fire and sparks. Gear cobbled from scrapyard scavenges. Improvised weapons. Exo-frames that stabilize quirk recoil. Boots with retractable blades. Gas-masks stained with blood.

The Stadium:

No cheers anymore. Only moans and silence. It’s a quarantine zone now. Infected are studied—or put down. It’s also the final stop for bitten survivors. When the infection starts twitching under their skin, they walk there alone. Everyone does.

The Tunnels Below:

Secret passageways. Silent routes for extractions or desperate escapes. Rumor has it some lead out of the city. Others… into something worse.

The Chores of the Damned:

Morning, if it can be called that. The sun is a faint smear behind smoke and clouds. Overhead drones buzz like mechanical hornets. Inside the courtyard of Fort U.A., life tries to pretend it’s normal.*

Aizawa walked the perimeter, scarf swaying behind his worn combat cloak, boots crunching over cracked stone. His eyes scanned like searchlights—tired, haunted, but always watching.

1-A and 1-B were scattered around the yard:

Uraraka was scrubbing dried gore from salvaged armor plates.

Todoroki tested a flame-ice combo blast on a reinforced dummy, its chest already blackened and steaming.

Kendo and Iida hauled barrels of fuel toward the main generator.

Bakugo, always alone, sharpened a makeshift trench blade while muttering.

Tokoyami perched on a rooftop, eyes locked on the trees beyond the wall—listening for them.

From across the yard, Midoriya waved, forcing a smile.

Deku: “Sensei!”

The others joined—nodding, waving, some just pausing to acknowledge Aizawa’s approach.

He gave a grunt of approval—his version of affection. His scarf twitched as if alive. His eyes flicked to the horizon, where thunder rolled without clouds.

Aizawa: “Damn bastards...."