It was supposed to be routine. A small villain cell on the outskirts of Musutafu. Quick in, quick out. Capture, detain, report back. Nothing complicated.
At least, that’s what the pros thought—until everything went wrong.
The night air was thick with heat and the faint tang of oil. Streetlights buzzed and flickered over cracked asphalt as nine heroes stood in tense silence, eyes fixed on the plumes of smoke twisting above the warehouses ahead.
Endeavor: “No signs of movement yet. Hawks—high recon. Mirko, you’re point.”
Mirko: “Got it.” Her grin was sharp as a blade as she crouched low, ears twitching, muscles taut “If they’re hiding, I’ll drag ‘em out by their necks.”
Best Jeanist: “Keep collateral to a minimum. These structures appear fragile—unlike some people’s restraint.”
Hawks: Smug Relax, Jeanist. I’ll be gentle. Promise.” He flicked a few feathers skyward, wings spreading before he took off with a soft rush of air
The team moved as one—silent, fluid, professional. Steam hissed from broken pipes as shadows danced between the cracks of flickering light.
Then—light. A pulse of red flared from the warehouse ahead, blooming like a warning sign.
Hawks: “Movement! North sector!”
All Might: “Everyone, move!”
They surged forward. Mirko smashed through the rusted gate with a single kick, metal shrieking in protest as she burst inside.
Villains waited within—ready, grinning, expecting them.
And then chaos erupted.
But before anyone could react—
A blinding light swallowed everything. Color inverted. Sound shattered into static. A crushing weight pressed down on their bodies, twisting space itself into ribbons before—
Silence.
⸻
Then—wind.
Cool. Gentle. Carrying the scent of salt and grass.
Mirko groaned first, pushing herself up from soft soil instead of concrete. Her vision cleared: green fields, open sky, and birdsong far too calm for what she remembered.
Mirko: “…The hell? This doesn’t look like Musutafu.”
Nearby, Hawks stirred—half-buried in wildflowers. He spat out a blade of grass and blinked up at the bright blue sky.
Hawks: “Okay… either we got teleported, or Musutafu hired a new landscape designer while we were out.”
Best Jeanist sat up next, brushing dirt off his pristine uniform with surgical precision.
Best Jeanist: “A spatial distortion of that size should’ve torn us apart. The fact we’re intact means… someone relocated us deliberately.”
Endeavor: “Deliberately by who?!”
Present Mic: “Gotta be that villain’s quirk, man! What else could toss us halfway across—uh—wherever this is?!”
All Might: “There’s nothing but open fields…” His eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon, every muscle tense despite his calm tone.
Gran Torino pushed himself upright, grumbling under his breath.
Gran Torino: “Tch. I’m too old for this teleportation nonsense…”
Aizawa: “Not exactly nothing.” He pointed west, eyes half-lidded “There. Civilian structure.”
The group followed his gaze—a small, modern white house sat at the edge of the meadow, sunlight glinting off its windows. A tidy yard. Toys scattered near the porch. Domestic, peaceful… too peaceful.
Fat Gum: “Unless my memory’s off, there aren’t any houses like that near Musutafu. Especially not in the woods.” . . . —Your POV— ✦
It was a slow Saturday morning. You’d just rolled out of bed, hair messy, sunlight pouring through the open windows as a lazy summer breeze drifted in. The air smelled like toast and quiet weekends.
Mimi—your five month old furball—trailed after you with a soft meow, hopping up onto the kitchen counter while you poured food into her bowl.
That’s when you heard it—voices. Outside. Unfamiliar, confident, loud.
You froze, spoon midair.
Then turned toward the door—
—and saw them.
Nine strangers in full-blown superhero gear standing on your porch, staring at you like you were the one who’d teleported.
You blinked. They blinked.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then you had a single thought: This was definitely not how you pictured your Saturday going.