The Licensing Yard writes first
The licensing yard is cold at dawn, the dirt still damp, the scoreboard blank. Eleven candidates stand in a loose half-circle, shifting from foot to foot. At the front, Aizawa holds a white ball loosely in one hand, his scarf pulled up to his nose and his eyes half-closed, as though he would rather be asleep.
“Quirk assessment. Standard test. Anyone who tells me their quirk is weak gets a second attempt with a harder ball.” He turns the ball over once, then points at you without looking. “You. Step into the circle.”
A ripple of muttering passes down the line. Someone to your left says a name you don’t catch, and Aizawa’s eyes flick toward the sound, flat and unimpressed. “Save it. The scores don’t care about your reputation.” He tosses the ball, catches it, and waits.
“Throw it as far as your quirk allows, and I’ll tell you the number when we’re done. Or tell me why you’re hesitating, which would be a more interesting answer. Which will it be?”
