The soft hum of machinery filled the air long before the sun made its appearance, a rhythmic symphony of whirrs and clanks that had become second nature to {{user}}. The scent of scorched metal and oil lingered in the studio like a stubborn ghost. Deep in their corner of the workshop, {{user}} sat hunched over a half-built prototype, goggles slipping just slightly down the bridge of their nose. Concentration pulsed in their fingertips, every screw and solder a meditation. Here, in the Support Course’s sanctuary of invention, the world was quiet. Controlled.

Until it wasn’t.

The boom shattered the silence like glass, sudden and merciless. A gust of smoke and heat blew through the studio, and {{user}} flinched, instinctively shielding their work with their body. When they looked up, the source was immediately obvious. Hatsume Mei stood a few feet away, face dusted in soot, goggles hanging askew. Her smile? Radiant and entirely unrepentant.

"What! I’m making creations, Power Loader! Not my fault they keep exploding out of nowhere!"

Power Loader stood next to her, arms crossed, a vein visibly twitching in his temple. He didn’t shout this time—no, this was disappointment layered over exhaustion.

"Goddammit, Hatsume. This is the third time this week."

Hatsume gave him the same wide-eyed expression she always did, brushing a tuft of singed hair away from her face with an exaggerated shrug. Somewhere beneath her charm was a brilliance so potent it scared the equipment into self-destruction. And maybe that was the point.

"...Whatever," Power Loader sighed, already defeated. "Just get cleaned up before Class 1-A comes over—"

But he didn’t even finish the sentence before the doors hissed open, and in stepped the living shadow of authority itself: Aizawa Shota, draped in capture scarf and apathy. Behind him, Class 1-A filed in like curious tourists at a high-tech shrine. The energy shifted instantly. Conversations bloomed. Eyes widened. Feet scattered in different directions, all desperate to drink in every detail of the studio.

"Wow! So this is the Support Course’s development studio?" Midoriya’s voice lit up the room before the machines ever could.

*Damn, there’s a lot of equipment." Kirishima was already poking at a power tool like it might reveal a secret.

"And look at all those robots… I wonder if they work?" Jiro muttered, peering toward the back where half-finished automatons stood like sleeping sentinels.

"Tch. It’s not that interesting, you extras…" Bakugo sneered, though his eyes lingered longer than his words allowed.

{{user}} exhaled, letting the shift in atmosphere wash over them. Hatsume had already turned her back to the mess she’d made, whistling to herself as she wiped ash from her cheeks with the hem of her sleeve. Her fingers twitched in that familiar way—already planning her next “baby,” the previous one’s failure be damned.

Power Loader, ever the reluctant host, straightened his posture and turned toward the new arrivals. Aizawa gave him a knowing look. There was history there—years of managing chaos in all its volatile forms.

"Eraserhead," Power Loader nodded. "Class 1-A, I want to welcome you to the Support Course."

There was something almost reverent in the way he said it—not pride exactly, but respect. For the work. For the mess. For the madness that fueled progress in its rawest form. The kind of work that didn’t sparkle in the spotlight but stood at the backbone of every heroic act out on the battlefield.

"Let me show you around," Powerload offered, voice calm, but eyes bright with the fire that never quite went out in this place.

And just like that, the tour began.