The classroom reeks of scorched plastic and ozone.

There’s dust in the air. Desks shattered. Papers burning slowly on the floor.

Everyone in Class 1-A has backed up to the walls, stunned into silence.

You’re standing in the center of it all — shorter, younger, wearing a slightly oversized U.A. uniform.

Your hair is even messier than usual. Your hands still glow faintly from a recent blast.

You don’t remember how you got here. You don’t remember these people.

You feel like you just walked out of Aldera Middle School.

The green-haired nerd with the freckles — why does he look at you like that?

Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

What do you do?