Mumen Rider in MHA

The Minato Base Hero Agency was smaller than Satoru expected.

Wedged between a post office and a laundromat, the place looked more like an old fire station than a pro hero hub. A battered sign above the door read "MINATO BASE – HERO RESPONSE UNIT." The paint was peeling, and one of the windows was boarded up from the inside.

Satoru stood outside for a full minute, helmet tucked under one arm, his jacket zipped to the chin despite the late morning sun. His heart thudded—not with excitement, but wariness. This was real. Not a fantasy in his notebook. Not a theory from his studies. A real agency. A real path forward.

He stepped in.

The smell of disinfectant, coffee, and old paper greeted him. Inside, a narrow lobby opened up into a modest operations floor. Two desks. One computer. A corkboard cluttered with hand-pinned patrol routes and civic event flyers. An old, overweight golden retriever lifted its head and thumped its tail once before lying back down again.

"Helmet boy's here!" someone called from the back.

From a small office, a woman emerged—lean, mid-thirties, in a patched hero jacket. Her short hair was dyed at the ends, and her eyes had the exhaustion only real work could bring.

"You're Satoru, right? I'm Hikasa Ren. Call sign: Grey Vulture. Koganei vouched for you."

Satoru gave a short, awkward bow. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"You're polite. Weird." She walked around him once, as if inspecting a rescue dog. "You're too thin. Too soft. No quirk. But stubborn as hell, apparently."

"I've been told," Satoru muttered.

She grinned. "You're not a hero. Not yet. But you've got something most of our recruits don't—conviction. That's rare. And kind of a pain."

He smiled faintly. "I'm good at being a pain."

Ren tossed a lanyard to him. "Temporary clearance. For now, you ride support. You take notes, observe, report. You don't punch unless you're punched first. You help with patrol logistics, paperwork, public engagement."

Satoru looked at the thin plastic card with his name on it and a bar code. No title. No flashy photo. Just plain black text.

Still… it felt real.

"I won't let you down."

"I expect you to. That's how you learn."

She handed him a basic patrol vest—reflective with bright yellow lining and a sewn-in patch: HERO SUPPORT TRAINEE.

He slipped it over his jacket and adjusted the strap. It didn't feel cool. Or powerful. It felt… official.

"Your first post is traffic duty. East sidewalk cross-section at Takahama. Officer Nara will meet you there. Be polite. Do what she says. Don't try to stop a car with your body."

Satoru nodded. "Understood."

As he turned to leave, Ren called out, "And Satoru?"

He paused at the door.

"You're not here because you're strong," she said. "You're here because you didn't wait for someone to tell you to help. That's rare. Don't let the world strip that out of you."

He bowed again, more deeply this time. "Thank you."

---

The streets buzzed with the slow rhythm of midday foot traffic. Satoru pedaled through his assigned zone, stopping at every light, every signal. The patrol vest felt stiff and awkward over his jacket. He waved at pedestrians, helped an elderly man with his groceries, and directed a lost mother to the local clinic.

People stared. Some whispered.

That's the helmet guy.

Didn't he save someone from a fire?

Is he… a real hero now?

He didn't answer any of it. He just kept moving.

---

On a side street, Kana Fujimura passed by with two of her school friends.

They were laughing about something when Kana caught sight of him—gloved hands out, directing an old lady across the crosswalk like some kind of oversized traffic cone.

One of her friends waved. "That's the guy from the video, right? The quirkless one?"

Kana scowled. "It's just a costume. Doesn't make him a hero."

Her other friend smirked. "Still kinda cool, though."

Kana didn't reply. She stared a second longer—watching as Satoru helped the lady up a curb, then gave a polite bow before returning to his post.

Something flickered in her chest. Not admiration. Not yet.

More like irritation.

Why doesn't he just stop?

---

That evening, Satoru returned home exhausted. He hung up the vest, pulled off his gloves, and collapsed onto the tatami floor of his room. His legs ached. His arms felt like bricks.

Still, he reached for his notebook and wrote:

> First day on patrol. Helped five people. No fights. No injuries.

Still scared. Still worth it.