Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We’re going to need you to start coming into work another hour earlier,” Mrs. Hayaka says, setting the promotion papers down. Saitama stares at his higher-up, watching her blandly sign the forms as she’s just told him the worst news he’s ever heard.

“I usually go to the gym in the morning, so I can’t come in an hour earlier.” Mrs. Hayaka looks up at Saitama, her head not moving with her eyes. She glares at him through her well-trimmed eyebrows as a piece of her tightly-bound black hair falls in front of her face. 

“Then go at night. Please don’t tell me you prioritize muscles over a 5% raise?” Saitama weighs his options, leaning back in his chair, a stiff pillow holding up his back. Sighing, Saitama bends forward, so his forearms are resting on his knees. Saitama’s suit strains against his back, tight, black fabric straining against the shoulders he’s worked on for years. 

“Fine. I’ll come in an hour earlier.” Mrs. Hayaka’s dark eyes don’t move as her lips bend into a smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at six.”

The next day is tiring, and Saitama has no energy to work. As the bald man tiredly inputs meaningless numbers, his mind is only concerned with the workout he’s about to endure. The hours tick by, endless minutes taking their time as they taunt Saitama with each slight movement on the clock. On Saitama’s computer, there’s a tab with the time open, the bald man staring at his as he maps out what he wants to train today. The worker has done the bare minimum of work, comfortable with his new place at the bottom of the best. Hence, he only has meaningless hours to fill. Leaning back in his seat, Saitama watches the worker across from him. What was his name? Sato? He always rides his bike to work. The brown-haired man eagerly fills out his spreadsheets with too much passion for a low-level data-entry worker. 

“Oh, hi, Saitama!” Saitama breaks from his daze to notice the worker across from him has noticed the bald man’s staring. Meeting his glasses-covered eyes, Saitama sends a nod of acknowledgment. Saitama’s eyes leave the brown-haired man’s gaze and notice a small label on his desk. Oh, it’s Satoru. I was close enough. Saitama learning the name of someone he’s been seated across from for two years is the only event of notice throughout the work day. Saitama eagerly leaves the office when the clock hits 17:30, waking up his body from the ten-hour workday.

 Saitama’s blazer leaves his back the second he exits the building, so he carries it in his vacant hand on the way home, letting the spring wind push his white button down against his chest. The walk home is the same as usual, uncomfortable slacks scraping against Saitama’s legs with every movement. When Saitama reaches his apartment, he lets out a giant yawn while scraping for his keys. As his mouth closes and his eyes open, Saitama notices something in his peripheral vision. Whipping his head to the left, Saitama notices a young man standing in front of the neighboring door.

“You must be my new neighbor.” The blonde man quickly meets Saitama’s gaze, his movements perfectly controlled, as if he was a robot. Saitama then notices his bright yellow eyes, the unnatural color being rationalized to colored contact lenses. 

“It seems so. You live in 4E?”

“Yep. I’ve been here for three years. Welcome to the building, dude,” Saitama says, offering a polite smile. Saitama notices how young his neighbor looks; delicate features and large eyes contrast against his evident muscles. The neighbor’s silence leaves an awkward air between the two, so Saitama attempts to start a new conversation.

“Uh- my name’s Saitama. It’s nice to meet you, man.”

“My name is Genos. Can I ask where you train?” Saitama is caught off-guard by the question, noticing that Genos’ eyes are observing his triceps and hands. Feeling flattered by the apparent compliment, Saitama smiles as he tells Genos the name of his gym.

“I go to HERO GAINS a few blocks down, I usually go in the mornings, but I’ll be there at night.”

“How come?”

“I recently got a promotion, meaning I’ve gotta go to work right after I wake up.” Genos’ eyes turn to 4D’s door, the young man inserting his key. “I will see you there, Saitama.” Genos’ door slams before Saitama can ask what that means. Saitama sighs for the eightieth time that day, finding his keys and unlocking his door. 

“Strange dude,” Saitama mutters, entering his apartment. He would stay in his apartment for the next two or three hours, making dinner and catching up on the sappy drama series Saitama's found himself strangely attached to. As the main character confesses her love for her crush to her sister, Saitama’s eyes float toward the clock.

“Holy shit, it’s 21:08? How long have I just been sitting here?” Saitama becomes highly aware of his relaxed body, feeling the plush of his mattress pushing into his half-asleep legs. The gentle ache in his arms from yesterday’s workout has faded, and Saitama feels like shit. The bald man stands up from his comfortable position, feeling his back creak in response, the spine inside it feeling like jelly. Saitama grabs the remote, flips off the television, and walks to his bedroom. After a few minutes, Saitama is armed with his gym bag, wallet, phone, and less energy than four hours ago. I’m not gonna be able to keep up the schedule. 

Seeing HERO GAINS at night feels surreal to Saitama. Bright, yellow lights shined through large windows through twilight. As Saitama walks in, Saitama sees only about twelve people; each caught up in their own regimens. Checking in at the receptionist, Saitama wonders what he’ll do today. I could just do my average thing today. Entering the cardio section, the man notices only two people there. There’s a tall man with short, blue hair on the treadmill, running at what looks to be 14-15kmph. On the other side, there’s a man with spiky black hair and a martial arts outfit on at the rower. Saitama slowly approaches a treadmill, opening his relatively empty bag and placing his water bottle in the holster. This catches the attention of the blue-haired man as he increases his speed to 17kmph. Getting onto the machine, Saitama sets his rate at 20kmph, so he can get his 10km run over with and avoid the weirdly sharp stare of the pale man a few treadmills down. 

 The blue-haired man notices Saitama’s speed, increasing his rate and lowering his incline, wiping his forehead with his towel before fumbling it back onto the handlebar. His hair is now sticking to his face, blue strands attaching to sweating cheeks. Yet, despite his disheveled state, the blue-haired man still tries to make eye contact with Saitama, light-yellow eyes piercing Saitama’s tough skin. It feels like the hatred from the man is louder than Saitama’s shoes on the machine, their loud squeaks overpowered by pure intensity. The bald man does everything in his power to keep his eyes away from who he calls Mr. Pissed-off, focusing on the slow progression of the numbers on the treadmill. Feeling uncomfortable, Saitama raises the speed to 30kmph, feeling his legs gently strain for the first time that day. Mr. Pissed-off catches on instantly, raising his numbers and lifting his shirt over his head. He’s now half-naked, an insanely sweaty chest now also staring at Saitama, trying to grab his attention. 

Trying to avoid the very dense stare of the blue-haired man, Saitama doesn’t notice a new man entering the cardio area. He looks young, his light blonde hair tied into a loose ponytail. He’s wearing an expensive-looking tracksuit and has very sparkly clips in his hair. The blonde guy settles on the treadmill precisely in the middle of Saitama and Mr. Pissed-off. He looks over at the two men on his sides before turning on the treadmill and slamming his thumb into the speed increaser, setting his incline as far up as it goes. Mr. Pissed-off notices this new contender in his weird game. He instantly increases his incline, sweat dripping off his porcelain cheeks. Once the blonde man seems satisfied, he puts his hands behind his back and runs completely normally. Saitama assumes he’s going at least 35kmph, as he’s wearing an incredibly smug grin as sweat slowly forms on his cheeks.

 The blonde man keeps glancing at Saitama while the latter does everything he can to avoid eye contact. This strange situation continues for another twenty minutes, the two over-competitive guys eyeing every move Saitama makes. Even the guy with spiky black hair is now paying attention to the showdown, as he’s now using the StairGod for some weird squat movement. Saitama peers down at the numbers. Good, only one kilometer left. Saitama turns up the speed to 36kmph and finishes the 10th kilometer within the minute, slowing his run down to a jog, then completely stopping after a minute of cooldown. Mr. Pissed-Off and Sir Blonde III both exchange glances, Sir Blonde III turning off his own machine and Mr. Pissed-Off slowing his speed and taking a violent drink of his water. Saitama notices that Mr. Pissed-Off's water bottle has "Sweet Mask" written in an insanely curly font.

Saitama walks away from the cardio area, using his shirt to wipe the tiny drops of sweat that have accumulated on his forehead. As he enters the weight room, Saitama instantly feels five or six more pairs of eyes on him, each radiating their own weird competitiveness. The bald man uncomfortably walks over to a barbell, looking for the plates that go along with it. I guess I’m doing my routine in reverse. That’s cool. Saitama wanders past two guys grabbing four 50kg and two 20kg plates, stacking them on each other as he wanders to the barbell. As Saitama gets to the bar, he notices another man on the second barbell. His muscles are intense, ginormous, uncovered torso muscles reflecting the gym's fluorescent light. The man has the word “DARKSHINE” on his shorts, his thighs straining against the poor fabric. Does this guy consume steroids like they’re oxygen?  When Darkshine notices Saitama, he runs over to the plate rack, grabbing a similar set to Saitama, except taking off two 1.5kg plates. Saitama tries to ignore Darkshine, placing his plates on the barbell, the metal rings clanking against each other as more weight is added. 

 Darkshine waits for Saitama to move, black eyes following Saitama as he gets into a squatting position. The squat machine doesn’t support the weight Saitama carries, so he resorts to a traditional approach. Darkshine mimics Saitama’s movements, setting the barbell on his shoulders and keeping a wide grip on the metal bar. Saitama tries to keep his workouts simple, adding variations whenever he feels like it. I’ll do 50 alternating legs, 25 sumo squats, and 25 goblets. As Saitama is about to go down for his first squat, the muscular guy beside him speaks up.

“You forgot the clip, dude.” Saitama glances down at the floor, spotting the two unattached clamps sitting at his feet. Dropping the barbell, Saitama quickly attaches the clamps, securing the weights. 

“Thanks, man.”

“No worries. That’s a lot of weight you’re doing.”

“Ah, this is a little less than my usual. This is my first time working out at night, so I decided to keep it light, haha." Darkshine’s face falls into an annoyed expression, his legs starting to quiver under the weight he’s already carrying. Saitama gets back into position, hooking his left leg onto a nearby bench as he bends his right. The weight pressed Saitama’s foot into the padded floor, and his right leg awakened by the pressure. The set of right-legged squats goes by smoothly, Saitama noticing Darkshine mimicking his movements. Once Saitama’s done, he notices Darkshine’s right leg is quivering roughly, the muscle straining under the pressure. Switching legs, Darkshine’s heavy breath becomes more and more apparent to Saitama. But the dark eyes are still locked on him, no matter how strained the other man looks. 

 The left leg finishes quickly, and half of Saitama’s squats are now finished. Saitama sets the barbell down, squeezing off the clamps and putting his plates back. As Saitama collects his last plate, he locks eyes with the still-observing Darkshine. 

“Thanks for squatting with me, I guess.” The same annoyed look hasn’t left Darkshine’s face, the taller man now clearing off his own barbell.

“What are you doing after this exercise?”

“I’ve still got fifty squats left. I’m gonna do 25 sumos and 25 goblets using those 50kg dumbbells. Darkshine’s mood seems to get worse, the man following Saitama to the dumbbell rack and picking off the other set of 50kgs. The fifty remaining squats are in a similar fashion to the barbells, with Darkshine sweating profusely after each exercise. After the goblet squats are over, Saitama notices that Darkshine is now bench-pressing, his weight much lighter than he had been squatting.

After taking a short break, Saitama refills his water bottle at a water fountain, silently watching the large bottle fill with water. Saitama caps his bottle when he feels another set of eyes on him. These are much sharper than the others. Whipping his head around the room, Saitama can’t find the owner of the intense stare, hoping he’s just feeling the fatigue of a good, light exercise. Saitama walks over to the dumbbell section again, grabbing two 45kg dumbbells and lying down on a nearby exercise mat. The bright blue mat gently molds against Saitama, the bald man deciding on what kind of situps he wants to do. I’ll do a 50/50 thing, so 50 weighted ones, and 50 twists. Before Saitama can start counting, a figure appears on the purple mat next to him. A thin yet athletic guy with pitch-black hair bonded in a weird ponytail-bun mixture. He’s got two scars under his eyes, the dark hue making them almost look purple. 

Lord Goth of Emoshire. “I challenge you, bald man!” Saitama sets down his weights, sitting on his mat to meet face-to-face with the other man. “My name is Speed-O-Sound Sonic, and I challenge you to a sit-up-off!”

“That’s too many hyphenated words.” There goes that sick-ass nickname.  

“Tell me your name, foe.”

“Saitama.”

“Alright, baldy! Whoever can complete more situps in uh- one minute gets the win!” Sonic was sitting cross-legged, his arms now crossed against his chest. His sharp stare informs Saitama that he was watching Saitama at the water fountain.

“No.”

“Are you chickening out?”

“Nope. I just want to get my workout done in a reasonable time.”

“If you’re too slow, you can just tell me.” Sonic now has his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest in confidence.

“If I say I’m too slow, will you leave me alone?” The black-haired man looks back at Saitama, an annoyed expression distorting his features. Saitama takes the unsupplied response as a “yes” and lays down on his mat, gripping his weights and straightening his wrists. Saitama props his knees up, weighted arms at his side. Saitama pushes up from the mat, launching the dumbbells in front of him with a calculated breath. In his peripheral vision, Saitama watches Sonic lie down and make that same motion without the weights and much faster. Sonic continues his situps at his excessively fast rate as Saitama takes his time getting through his first twenty. As Saitama finishes his fifty situps, Sonic practically dies next to him. His hair has been dislodged; wet strands plastered all over the young man’s body. Sonic’s eyes are sunken, his skin has somehow gotten paler, and his lips are as pale as the rest of him. 

“Haha! You’ve only done fifty situps, and I’ve done three hundred!”

“Nice job. Now try and stand up.” Sonic chuckles, pushing up from the mat. As soon as the slimmer man is on his legs, he’s fallen back down onto the mat, his entire body violently quivering as Sonic clutches his stomach. When Saitama finishes his twist-sit-ups, Sonic is lying on the mat next to him, still catching his breath.

“H-hey! Th-that was faster th-han last time,” Sonic pushes out, pushing his torso up as Saitama stretches. 

“Was it? Didn’t notice.” Saitama feels a little smug at his ready position, watching Sonic finally catch his breath and stand up successfully. Saitama finishes his final abdominal stretch, which involves him going into a backbend supported by his toes and fingertips. Sonic mimics this, proudly laughing as he supports himself with one hand as his body contorts into some strange rendition of a backbend. No matter how creepy the position looks, Saitama manages a reassuring nod to Sonic as he stands up and goes to put the dumbbells back. Looking over at the mat, Saitama watches Sonic’s body twist out of its weird position, the black-haired man walking over to the treadmills. Taking another quick glance around the area, Saitama reassures himself that there shouldn’t be more challengers. After a quick survey, Saitama’s eyes drift up to the clock nearby, the minute and hour hands graciously informing Saitama that he’s only been here for 45 minutes. It feels like I’ve been here for weeks. What is it with these people?  

 Push-ups were Saitama’s favorite exercise; not only were there hundreds of variations, but they were quick to get through. Saitama takes a large drink of his water and tucks it back into his gym bag, carrying the light bag with him as he looks for somewhere to do his push-ups. Saitama finds a few more mats in the corner of the gym, setting his bag down and preparing himself. The bald man is still on edge about any other weirdos joining him. Still, he’s content with his comfortable area on the side. Saitama sets his hands on the mat, slowly pushing himself into a stable handstand, ensuring his weight is evenly distributed throughout his body. Saitama doesn’t get through one push-up until he hears a voice nearby. It sounds familiarly robotic, the slight nasal indicating that Saitama’s neighbor has found him. 

“Saitama! Here you are.” Saitama comes down from his handstand, seeing Genos standing in front of him, his eyes practically sparkling.

“That’s amazing! You can do pushups while in a handstand!?”
“Yeah, I guess so. It’s good to see ya.’
“Indeed. I had to fight two people to get to you.”

“WHAT?” Genos’ expression doesn’t change, the young man pointing a stiff hand behind him. A few meters away are two people lying down, crying. One of them is a curly-haired man with a butt chin wearing a prisoner's uniform. The other is an equally large man in a bright red tank top.

“Oh.”

“Apparently, they’re initiating you.”

“What the hell do you mean initiate?”

“If I tell you,” Genos’ expression becomes serious, “you have to promise to train me.”

“What do you mean, train?” Genos’ expression brightens slightly. Clearly, Saitama has just asked the worst possible question.

“Look at you, Saitama! Your physique is that of a God! If you can train me, I can avenge my family!” Genos’ response is just as unhelpful as if the young man had said nothing. “I’ll inform you later, but please promise!”

“Ah- fine. Whatever. Just tell me what the fuck is going on here.” 

“Well, at night, the gym is full of celebrities and professional athletes. Apparently, they come here because it’s completely unknown, and they pay the gym not to expose them to the public. So, whenever a new member joins the ‘night group,’ they’re hazed until the others like them.”

“Is this a fucking frat? What the hell?”

“I don’t believe so, sir. There are people here like Amai Mask, professional athlete Chōgōkin Kurobikari who’s the inventor of Darkshine Sportswear, and even Olympic athlete Flashy Flash.”

“Is Flashy Flash his actual name?”

“Somewhat? He legally changed it when he turned 23.” Saitama grunts, thinking about his current situation. He gets back into his handstand, doing push-ups as he thinks. Do I really want to do this shit daily for the next who knows how long? 22, 23, 24, 25… Maybe I should find a different gym? There’s a ton in City Y, although they’re a whole lot more expensive. 31, 32, 33, 34… What if I actually become buds with some of them? They’re all celebrities so they could make me super famous if I asked! 39, 40, 41, 42… I’ll come back tomorrow and see what happens. It’s late, anyway. 47, 48, 49, 50.  

 Saitama comes down from his handstand, Genos still avidly watching Saitama. What did he even mean by train? “Hey, can you grab me two 50kg plates? If you can carry ‘em.” Genos shoots up from his seat, running over to the plate stand. Coming back a few moments later, Saitama gets himself into position. The bald man puts his right hand on the ground, tucking his left behind his back. “Thanks. Could you put those on my back?”

“Yes, sensei !”

“Wait- sensei? ” Saitama feels the plates load onto his stable back, the strong man starting his new set of push-ups.

“Yeah. You’ve promised to train me to avenge my family!”

“Oh- right. What happened anyway?” In response, Genos goes on a long tangent about some gang that killed his parents and younger sister and how he was healed by Dr. Kuseno, who specialized in medicine. Genos’ speech continues for a few more minutes, the blonde kid explaining how strong he wants to get and why. His response lasts long enough for Saitama to finish his push-ups, the two stretching together as Genos continues talking about his newfound admiration for Saitama. 

 Saitama and Genos get to their respective homes, Genos’ good-bye bow going insanely low for some guy he just met. When Saitama enters his apartment and sets down his stuff, he now learns that he was only at HERO GAINS for an hour, the walk back home taking up ten minutes of the said hour. This is going to be a really strange week. 

Chapter Text

  47, 48, 49, 50. Saitama sets the barbell down, rolling his shoulders as he loses the 306kg that had been resting on them for the past 50 one-legged squats. Saitama stretches his left leg, preparing it for the same treatment as the right. Unlike two days ago, Saitama hasn’t been pestered by any fiends aching for a weird challenge. Is the hazing already over? Man, celebrities are weird. Saitama gazes around the room, observing the few people exercising around him. Everyone seems to be in their own world, quietly focused on their own workouts, which is entirely unlike HERO GAINS in the day. During the day, when Saitama used to attend, there would be people constantly talking, others taking selfies of their muscles, and people watching cooking shows on the treadmill. Saitama now finally notices the music playing through his headphones, a strong guitar over a fast beat while someone sings about some sad hero or something. 

 Everything is calm, and it’s a new pleasure for Saitama. The bald man finishes his squats, moving over to the platform often used to assist with hip thrusts. Hip thrusts are a new exercise for Saitama to max out, so he’s starting with a calm weight of 350kg to get started. Dropping his bag on the platform and walking over to the weighted plates, Saitama hears a loud commotion from the door. This grabs the attention of everyone working out, breaking the perfect peace established not ten minutes ago. Saitama then notices the color of sandy blonde from his peripheral vision. Turning his head, Saitama watches Genos assess the weight Saitama’s holding. Saitama drops his plates, plucking out his earbuds. 

 “Only four 80kg plates? Are you taking it easy today, master?

 “One, please stop calling me that. Two, I’m about to grab two 15kg plates, make it an even 350kg.”

 “Well- I’m sure the noise at the door is unhelpful. Would you like me to eliminate anyone there?”

 “Uh- no thanks. It’s cool.”

 “I’m going to see what is occurring. Enjoy your light exercise, master.” Saitama hums in response, picking up his plates as Genos walks over to the door. It takes a few minutes and four math equations drawn on the floor for Saitama to get everything set up. The plates are large enough for Saitama to slip under, positioning the bar at his waist as he lifts his hips, picking up the bar with them. Saitama settles his hands on the bar, keeping it steady on his hips. 1, 2, 3, 4, three, two, one, kill shot! 5, 6, 7, 8, nandattenda? Furasutoreshon 9, 10. Saitama stays flexed for a few seconds, noticing the chatter has died throughout the gym. The bald man breathes in and begins his next set, two of ten. In the third set, Saitama hears a consistent, monotone sound from outside of his earbuds. The strong man always finds himself zoning out during exercises, so he opens his eyes to find Genos standing directly next to him. Saitama drops the weight 56/100, plucks out his earbuds once again, and lets Genos speak. 

 “Master! It’s Watchdog!”

 “What?”

 “A famous gym attendee, he’s well-known for his martial arts!” 

 “Oh, cool. Do we say hi or something?”

 “Ah- well, I already did,” Genos admits, his voice slightly quivering.

 “Why do you sound unsure?”

 “I may have challenged him to a fight on your behalf.” Saitama sits up, his stomach crashing against the metal bar. The metal rod crashes into his organs, making Saitama groan in pain.

 “Ow- shit! What do you mean, fight?”

 “I was telling him about your strength, and I guess he interpreted it as a challenge?”

 “What did you say to him?”

 “If I remember correctly, I told him your deadlift, squat, benchpress weights, and speed. I said you’re probably one of the strongest in the gym if my assumptions are close to accurate.”

 “Dude," Saitama sighs, folding his head over his torso, his flexible spine allowing his bald scalp to meet his knees. Saitama rolls the bar off himself, standing up and stretching his back. Genos leads Saitama to a man with white, short hair. He’s wearing a hoodie for City Q, but his blank expression is more interesting. Saitama has always considered himself to have a resting-dead-fish-face, but this man's case was severe. Watchdog looks over to Saitama, dark pupils quickly sizing up his competitor.

 “Hey, Watchdog, right? I’m sorry about Genos over there. I have no intention of fighting you.” Saitama reaches out his hand, hoping the white-haired man will accept the apology and move on. Saitama watches Watchdog meet his hand with his own, noticing that Watchdog's wearing a white glove with dogs on it. Yet, when glove meets flesh, Watchdog’s thumb reaches toward Saitama’s, barely missing as Saitama pushes his thumb away. The attack leaves Saitama speechless, his dial-up brain quietly processing what happened.

 “A fucking thumb war?” Watchdog nods, briefly meeting Saitama’s eyes before returning to the new intense battle between thumbs. A crowd slowly gathers as Saitama barely escapes Watchdog’s thumb, the white finger moving so quickly it blurs Saitama’s vision. When Watchdog’s thumb falls from a failed attack, Saitama aims for the base of Watchdog’s weapon, leaning forward to push his last bit of strength to catch the opposing thumb. The two are now fully leaning over their hands, their foreheads almost touching. Both fighters are now sweating, cold drops dripping down their heated faces. HERO GAINS is in utter silence except for Saitama and Watchdog’s grunts of frustration, the crowd speechless in anticipation. Saitama strikes again, having been on defense for the past few seconds, losing all other feelings in the rest of his fingers. Watchdog catches onto Saitama’s plan of attack, jolting back in defense. Yet, Watchdog’s jolt causes his clothed fingers to slip through Saitama’s numb ones. Watchdog is now standing a few centimeters back, his hand disconnected from Saitama’s.

 The room is entirely silent; Watchdog and Saitama are both in shock from the turn of events. Watchdog glances down at his open hand; his fingers relaxed as he turns his palm towards his face. Saitama’s jaw is ajar, his eyebrows raising slightly. People in the crowd start to mutter, now out of whatever time-freeze just happened. Watchdog and Saitama’s eyes finally connect, dead fish to dead fish. Watchdog’s hand falls, plainly landing at his side as his eyes are still glued to Saitama’s. Saitama lets his tense hand fall to his side, stepping into a neutral stance from the fighting position he'd subconsciously walked into. Watchdog and Saitama quickly bow to one another, their heads ducking slightly in respect for their opponent. 

 Now that the two have broken eye contact, Watchdog walks away from the battleground, heading for the weighted punching bag. Saitama moves away, walking over to his unfinished hip thrusts. What number was I at again? 50-something? I’ll just start from 50 and get it over with. The crowd disperses after Saitama leaves, each attendee returning to whatever they had been doing. Saitama is about to put his headphones back in when he hears Genos run up to him. The blonde boy meets Saitama’s pace as he finishes his walk back to the platform he was previously at, Genos deeply bowing as Saitama settles back into his previous position.

 “What’s that for?”

 “I’m sorry, Master! That was a brave fight, but I should’ve never made you battle.”

 “Oh- it’s fine. That guy was cool, anyway. Just don’t ramble about my achievements to everyone here; even I can get a little shy.”

 “Is that why you were so upset about me telling Watchdog?”

 “No, that was sarcastic. But seriously, maybe ask me next time you wanna introduce me to the world’s fastest Thumb Wars player.”

 “He doesn’t thumb-wrestle competitively; he’s actually a world-famous stunt double.”

 “What? A stunt double?”

 “Yes, he’s done stunts for actors like Amai Mask, Darkness Blade, and Smile Man.”

 “Who are any of those people?”

“That is unimportant. What you should know is that you have now made your way in with some of the best.”

 “Is that good?”

 “That’s great, Master! I will try to reach your level of HERO GAINS popularity, as training!” The word “popularity’ struck a small cord in Saitama’s ego, the bald man bashfully scratching his cheek before hip thrusting the average weight of three fully grown men. 

Chapter Text

Just a few more seconds, and I’ll get to work. Saitama shuts his eyes and leans back in his chair, counting what he assumes are seconds. His counting gets to five seconds, then ten, twenty, then Saitama is back into his absent-minded daze. The fog doesn’t last long, as a similar itch in Saitama’s nose awakens his mind. Saitama’s left nostril starts twitching as Saitama eagerly awaits the impending sneeze. Sitting up straight in his chair, Saitama looks around his desk for a tissue, as his suit is new and would be a pain to repair. Spotting a box of tissues on the far right corner of his desk, Saitama bends over to grab a tissue, feeling his breathing get more robust as his body prepares to launch germ-filled snot from his nose. Yet, as a pale hand grabs onto a tissue, the itch fades, Saitama’s face relaxes into its normal state. Oh. Nevermind. As the tissue is already in his palm, Saitama blows his nose to be safe.

 Once the snot issue is settled, Saitama reluctantly looks back at his computer, his eyes darting to the taskbar to find the time. 16:30. Huh. But Saitama’s eyes dart lower, catching the date. It’s been half a week since I’ve been to the gym?! Seriously??

            The rest of the shift was unbearable, as Monster Protocol started right after Saitama realized his schedule malfunction. For the next hour, Saitama was forced to bear through ten consecutive calls with HR concerning the end-of-the-week results. Each meeting was more annoying than the last, with finance demanding a recount of the monthly sales, marketing freaking out over record-low advertisement engagement, and product managers confused about how many CPUs were required for the next three weeks. Data Entry seemed to be the most called collective, instead of those who were actually in charge of production. Monster Protocol occurring at the end of the day is Saitama’s personal omen of bad luck, so the walk home isn’t much better. Mob Psychoooo 100,000,000.966 had gone on hiatus; the pedestrian stop signs lasted 30 seconds longer due to maintenance, and the store had sold out of cabbage. I hope the next sign is a meteor hitting me or something. 

            Yet, the bad luck wasn’t the only odd thing about the walk home. Saitama noticed that Genos hadn’t pestered him on the journey back for a few days. Although the two had only been acquainted for about a week, Genos picked up the habit of meeting Saitama along his walk home, visiting the store with him every other day. Maybe he has a job or something. What kind of job would Genos even get? The idea of Genos working as a car salesman conflicted Saitama for the rest of his walk home. At his door, Saitama remembers that he hasn’t picked up his mail in a few weeks. The bald man looks at the mailbox positioned at the front of his apartment complex, the shiny aluminum reflecting the sunset light. I heard it’s gonna rain tomorrow; maybe I should just pick it up now. 

            Giving in to the threat of rain, Saitama walks down from the second floor, comfortably jogging the few meters to the mailbox. The jogging felt nice on Saitama’s stiff body, a comforting ache washing over his legs as he rifles for his mailbox keys. Pulling out his keys from his pocket, Saitama notices that there’s someone at the mailbox already. Once he gets to the large aluminum box, Saitama sees Genos shuffling through his own mail. 

            “Oh, Genos. Hey!” Genos turns to face Saitama immediately, his grip on his envelopes loosening a bit. 

            “Master Saitama, good evening. I haven’t seen you at HERO GAINS in the past four days. Is something wrong?”

            “Hm? I just forgot to go, I guess. Work has been a lot lately, with these daily quotas and all.” 

            “I understand. I recently found a job myself.”

            “What kind of job?”

            “That’s unimportant. Will you be attending the gym tonight, as it’s Friday?”

            “Yeah, I think so.”

            “That’s good to know, as I want to invite you to something.” Genos takes an envelope from his pile, handing it to Saitama. Grabbing the envelope, Saitama reads the back. The first surprise is that Genos has a last name, Kuseno, and the second is that the letter is from HERO GAINS. 

            “What’s this about? Do you need money to continue your subscription or something?”

            “Ah- no, master. One of the founders, Bang, invited me to work with him in the gym’s dojo.” Saitama remembers the dojo, a small room set at the farthest wall of the gym; the door has been locked shut for almost all the time Saitama’s been there.

            “That sounds cool; you should go!”

            “I would like you to accompany me. It would benefit you, as Bang’s original martial art is also a form of meditation.”

            “Thanks for the offer, but I’m pretty sure you don’t get plus-ones to events like that.”

            “If I can prove your strength, you’d get in with no issue! I will not participate if you refuse to.”

            “What? Why?”

            “If the strongest man cannot be treated as such, then I shall not take his place!” Genos glares down at the envelope in Saitama’s hands. Saitama is half convinced that Genos’ stare will set the item on fire, so the bald man lowers the hand holding the invitation.

            “Ah- fine. If I give it a try, will you let it go?” Genos’ yellow eyes dart up, meeting Saitama’s with a more determined fire. “Yes! I will!”

            A few hours later, Saitama is back in his blue tracksuit and running shoes, walking alongside Genos to the gym. Glancing over, Saitama notices that Genos’ gym attire has upgraded, moving up from a simple black shirt and basketball shorts to designer apparel. On the side of Genos’ pants is “TANK TOP,” written in large, white letters. Saitama had seen those pants in designer stores in the City Y shopping district, all going for crazy amounts. Deciding not to comment on it, Saitama continued his walk to the gym in peace. 

            Saitama rarely went to the gym on Fridays, using the fifth weekday to rest and catch up on any series he needed to catch up on. So, seeing the building slightly more full than the rest of the week was a surprise. Usually, there were about twelve people in the gym at most. Saitama has a short list of familiar faces; today, Saitama noticed about twenty people upon entering, most of them casting anxious glances at the dojo in the corner. Genos approaches the counter with Saitama but receives a different greeting than his teacher. “Go around the back and enter through the rear entrance,” was all Saitama could make out from the receptionist’s hushed tone. Genos nods in response, nudging Saitama as he exits the building. The receptionist looks confused when Saitama calmly follows behind him, checking his bag for his water bottle. 

            The rear entrance is much flashier than Saitama had expected, a kid with bright orange hair and a karate gi on guarding the traditional wooden entrance. Genos steps in with ease, the kid giving Genos a firm nod as he enters the dojo. Saitama, as expected, is stopped by a weak hand. 

            “Sorry, sir, guests only.” Genos turns around and walks over to the scene with no sign of worry on his face. 

            “He’s my plus one and my Master.”

            “We don’t allow plus-ones.” What the hell is this? A VIP club or something? Saitama grunts in acknowledgment, turning away from the entrance before Genos speaks up again.

            “You invited me because of my strength; Saitama is twenty times stronger than I am.” By this time, the commotion has caught the attention of the few people inside the dojo, judgemental looks being shot through the cold evening. Saitama walks over to Genos, reassuringly placing a hand on his shoulder. 

            “Don’t stress it, Genos. I’ll just go work out as normal.” Saitama leaves before Genos can respond, feeling relieved as he walks toward the front entrance. Walking into the gym, Saitama mentally sifts through his previous workouts and settles that today is dedicated to the shoulders and back. Because today was the first workout in a while, Saitama decided to use the indoor pool located in the gym for stretching. You’re given a complimentary locker when you register, so Saitama heads toward the locker room. It takes a few minutes, but once Saitama finds and opens his locker, he finds a nice pair of blue trunks he’d left a few days after he registered. Changing and signing into the pool goes by quickly, and the bald man finds himself in cold, 3-meter-deep water. Starting with 1,500 meters of butterfly stroke, Saitama lets the cold water collapse under his arms as he pushes through the pool. Keeping his legs fluid, Saitama completes the 1,500 meters within ten minutes and finds himself resting against the pool's edge. Saitama has never preferred swimming, which made him feel slow, but this round felt more awakening than stressful. The pool is also empty, and Saitama appreciates the sweet silence of the room. After doing minute-long 500 meters in freestyle, Saitama pushes himself out of the now comfortable water. Drying himself off and changing into his tracksuit is much more annoying than changing into his trunks, so it takes slightly longer than Saitama would like to admit. Yet, Saitama cannot get rid of the strange feeling that someone is watching him.

            In the powerlifting part of the gym, Saitama grabs two 80-kg dumbbells he found under the “unliftable” section. Once he’s sat down at a free bench, Saitama lifts the weights over his shoulders; the light stress on his shoulders feels nice after a long week. After completing fifty shoulder presses, Saitama stretches his arms out, twisting his wrists so his fingers hold the dumbbells up. Saitama does fifty lateral raises with ease, his arms fluidly going through each motion. Before he can move on to the next exercise, Saitama notices that he isn’t wearing his headphones. Setting the weights down with a loud thud, Saitama reaches over to his bag and pulls out his phone and headphones. Once the music is set up with the band JAM PROJECT playing, Saitama can move on to his next exercise. Forward Static Holds last a few minutes, the bald man challenging himself to hold them up for an extra few seconds. As the exercise is completed, Saitama allows himself a small drink of water before moving on to the following three sets of the same movements. 

            The next area of work, primarily machine-based exercises, and things with the barbell, go by quickly. By the end of the following four sets, Saitama’s forgotten about the whole issue concerning the dojo. As the bald man prepares to finish the day, he’s approached by an old man with short hair. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and white pants and walks with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Good evening, Saitama.”

“Do I know you, old guy?” Saitama’s comment catches the white-haired guy off-guard, and Saitama deems him Earl Mountainhead of Retirement-Home-Land. Earl Mountainhead’s confused expression eventually wears off, the old man clearing his throat and dusting off his shoulder. 

            “Your friend, Genos, says you are his plus one?”

            “Oh, that? You don’t have to take it seriously. We’re just friends.”

            “He claims that you’re his Master.”

            “That was his idea; I’ve just gotten used to it.” Earl Mountainhead maintains eye contact with Saitama as if studying him for any issues. 

            “No matter. You’ve been accepted as your own attendee. Let us go to the dojo.” Earl Mountainhead starts walking to the back, Saitama barely registering the situation before calling for him to stop.

            “I don’t want to go. Thanks for the invite, though.”

            “What do you mean you do not want to attend Bloodwind Dojo?”

            “I just don’t feel like it tonight.” Earl Mountainhead quickly turns to Saitama, a look of pure shock on his wrinkled face. 

            “This is an opportunity that only comes up every three months.”

            “Oh. I’ll see you in three months, then.”

            “Just- would you at least check it out?” The sudden tone shift in the old man catches Saitama by surprise; Mountainhead is seemingly genuinely frustrated. Saitama weighs his options, acknowledging that he’s not perfectly content with his simple workout. 

            “You know what, sure. Just for a few minutes, though.” Earl Mountainhead sighs in relief, turning to walk toward the dojo, with Saitama quietly following after. The dojo is surprisingly large, with clean wooden floors covering the eight-meter-long square room. On top of some of the floor were high-quality tatami mats that were currently occupied by the three other people in the room. Around the room were various pieces of fighting equipment, bo staffs, nunchucks, guandao, and various types of shuriken were all expertly framed along the walls. Along the farthest wall was a large sign that said “Flowing Water, Crushing Rock” in high-quality calligraphy. Saitama couldn’t help but slightly raise his eyebrows in surprise. 

            “This dojo has existed long before the gym, so treat it with respect.” Saitama spots Genos quickly, the young man practicing roundhouse kicks on a large punching bag. Before Saitama can acknowledge the other people in the room, Earl Mountainhead taps his shoulder. 

            “You may call me Bang, and I’d like to spar with you if you don’t mind.” Saitama quietly nods, the challenge catching the attention of the rest of the dojo. As the two walk into the center of the room, Saitama notices that there are more than three people, a few occupants holding swords. Once the area is cleared out appropriately, Bang falls into a fighting stance, waving his hands around his body before positioning them to his left, his palms facing his body. Saitama stepped his right leg back, trying to emanate the karate stance he’d seen a few people do in movies. Saitama pushes his right hand against his torso, rotating his palm to face upwards. His left hand is extended in front of him, holding his hand so his palm faces his body, and the back of his hand faces Bang. 

            “Wait,” a man with a black ponytail and uniform calls from the corner of the room, stepping between Saitama and Bang. Bang relaxes his pose, stepping into his usual stance. Saitama steps his leg forward, relaxing his hands at his sides. “I want to fight Saitama first if you don’t mind.” Bang nods silently to the ponytail guy, who Saitama recognizes from the Stair God, stepping to the wall as he takes his place on the mat. As he gets into his fighting stance, he smiles. “My name is Suiryu. Let’s have fun, Saitama.” Suiryu kicks upward, his left foot barely missing Saitama’s face. Suiryu leaps back, keeping his left leg bent as he balances on his right. Saitama doesn’t budge, his legs feeling glued to the ground. Suiryu attacks him with air, stopping his kicks right before contact. The wind from the kicks has Saitama remember that he’s still wearing headphones, the bald man discarding the items before the fight continues.

            “That was just a warm-up.” The note earns a few grunts of interest from the crowd. Suiryu points to Saitama; his smile still plastered onto his face. “You’re strong, right? I can tell. I’m strong too. Your eyes, they're not after fame or prestige. You’re looking for fun!” In response, Saitama mutters, “I guess,” which earns him another monologue. Suiryu tells Saitama that he picked up martial arts for the tournaments and cash prizes, but also so that he can fight strong people. After a short back-and-forth, Suiryu and Saitama’s fight starts with Saitama promising to entertain Suiryu. Saitama barely dodges a flying kick to the face, noting his opponent is faster than before. Due to the confines of the room, Suiryu attacks Saitama’s torso, keeping his feet positioned toward Saitama’s stomach with each kick. “Use your fists!” Someone calls from the small crowd. The floor is creaking and breaking under the vicious pace of the fight. Once Saitama dodges enough, Suiryu moves his hands from their crossed position, positioning his fists near his face as he charges toward Saitama. Barraged with punches, Saitama carefully avoids each one, finally realizing that this guy is of little match to him. 

The intensity of the fight keeps Saitama’s heart racing, even after he catches Suiryu’s left fist and uses it as leverage to punch his opponent square in the face. Suiryu falls to the ground, crumpling over himself as he twitches his hands to nurse his face. Saitama walks over to his opponent, offering a hand to the fallen man. Suiryu looks up at Saitama, his teeth colored red with blood, and clasps his hand into Saitama’s, trying to use the moment to kick Saitama in the jaw. Saitama blocks the attack, raising his free hand in front of his face. 

“I don’t want to stain the floor,” Saitama admits, forcefully pulling Suiryu up to a standing position.

“I get it.” Suiryu walks to the western wall, grabs a complimentary water, and presses the small bottle to his nose. A guy with red hair and white roots approaches Saitama, wearing the same clothes Bang wears. 

“Let me fight him next, Bang,” says the guy to Bang, to which Bang nods with a hint of interest in his eye. “I’m Garou, and I don’t do that pussy karate shit. I’m well-versed in Muay Thai.” From the corner of the room, Bang mutters something incomprehensible. Garou seems to pick up on Bang’s words, giving the old man the middle finger before turning back to Saitama. Garou cracks his knuckles, bending his head toward his left shoulder. The fight with Garou is interesting; the red-haired man uses a variety of styles in an attempt to deflect Saitama’s energy back toward him. His hands occasionally moved as Bang had, Garou quickly correcting his movements whenever he could.

 Garou was not as fast as Suiryu, but his force was definitely something to be noted, the young man barely making a sound whenever he landed from a jump. Saitama’s opponent had aimed more for Saitama’s pressure points, using his flattened hands to try and press Saitama’s neck. This fight lasted longer than Suiryu’s, as any attempt Saitama made at getting close to Garou was instantly deflected. For a Muay Thai master, Garou used his hands a lot, his style mimicking what Saitama had seen of Kung Fu more than anything. The fight ends with a quick jab to the side of Garou’s neck. Garou fell to the ground, unconscious, before Bang took him away from Saitama. 

Bang finally took his position in front of Saitama again, but Saitama felt a slight pain in his hand. Putting his left hand in front of his face, Saitama notices a small paper cut on his small finger, reddening the skin around it. 

“I can’t fight you.”

“What,” Bang replies, his expression slightly softening.

“I have a paper cut; I can't fight with a paper cut.”

“I-I’m sure it’ll be fine, Saitama.”

“Nah, man. I take these things seriously.” Bang’s expression is dumbfounded; Saitama swears he saw another wrinkle appear on his face. Looking around him, Bang puts his arms down and sighs.

“Really?”

“You’ll be back in three months, right? I’ll just fight you then!” Saitama walks away from Bang toward the dojo exit, picking up his bag and headphones on the way out. 

            On the way home, Saitama felt himself being followed by someone; the feeling of eyes staring into his back made him shiver. As he approaches his apartment, Saitama is finally confronted face-to-face with his stalker. The guy following him has a weird snakeskin suit and a thin face. 

            “Fight me, Saitama!” The guy was out after a single punch to the face. 

Chapter Text

It’s been about three weeks since Saitama received his promotion. The days wavered from lasting a lifetime to being over in a blink, each taking its toll on Saitama’s peace. Yet, despite the stress and annoyances, one constant remained the same. Ms. Hiyori lives in the apartment below. Ms. Hiyori was a short, older woman who’s been alone for the three years Saitama’s known her.

“Thank you so much for the help, Saitama! My arms aren’t what they used to be.”

“It’s not a problem, Ms. Hiyori,” Saitama says, putting the final potted plant in his arms. Ms. Hiyori had gotten the clear to start a small garden on the roof of the building and asked Saitama for help lifting the plants she’d received from friends. The warm spring afternoon now has the strong scent of fertilizer and herbs. Placing the plant near the railing of the building, Saitama looks out at the small view around him. Spring had brought faint new life to the leafless trees, tiny buds appearing along each branch. A contented sigh flows from Ms. Hiyori as she pats the soil of a sakurasou sapling. Their collective work was done for the moment, eight potted plants now quietly resting in the sun. Saitama scrapes any dirt from his hands, letting tiny specs fall onto the floor. Looking down at his hands, seeing the callouses layered over soft skin, a gentle glow of warmth grows in Saitama’s chest. He liked helping Ms. Hiyori, whether with groceries or any weird craft she’d set her mind on.

“Ah, I can’t wait for my grandson to see this. He’s around your age, you know.” Ms. Hiyori briefly captures Saitama’s attention. She’s talked about her grandson once or twice, occasionally bragging that he’s gotten quite rich lately. What was his name? Ryuu? I think so. Saitama nods quietly in response, focusing back on his hands to clear any dirt that’s stained his palms. “He’s actually going to be here in a few minutes, as I thought this would need an extra hand,” Ms. Hiyori says, gently touching her cheek in concern. Unsure of whether he should feel bad or not, Saitama replies with a simple “ah,” and gives up trying to dry-clean his hands.

“Well, maybe my little Ryuu will be fine with just tea and fruit. He does have a vegetarian friend, apparently. In fact, he’s got quite a lot of friends. Apparently, they all follow him like disciples,” Ms. Hiyori chuckles. The mention of disciples brings Saitama’s focus to Genos. The younger man had been leaving his place much earlier, his deafening alarm now waking Saitama up an hour too early. Even on weekends, Genos has been getting up at obnoxious times and leaving only ten minutes after. It was weird.

“There he is,” Ms. Hiyori exclaims, walking towards the steps to greet her grandson. Peering over the side of the roof, Saitama watches Ms. Hiyori talk to her grandson from inside his car. A few moments later, she backs away from the door, and he steps out, oversized, obvious sunglasses and a mask covering his face. The weird disguise looks off-putting in contrast to his tank-top-covered torso and the large muscles filling it out. He lowers his mask to kiss his grandmother on the cheek, and Saitama decides that that’s his cue to leave them alone. Walking down the stair to his apartment, Saitama hears vague parts from the conversation below. “Oh, Saitama! Have you met my grandson,” Saitama hears Ms. Hiyori ask.

Turning toward her, he quietly shakes his head with the full intention of leaving. Yet, Ryuu doesn’t let him leave, asking his grandmother about Saitama. “Oh, well, he helped me with my garden today. He’s been helping with lifting large items and groceries for a while now.” Ryuu hums in disappointment, starting to walk up the stairs toward Saitama.

“So, how do you know my grandmother?”

“We were neighbors until I moved to the third floor.”

“Why’d you move to the third floor? Did she pay for it?”

“I got this room with my own money, as my room had sprung a massive leak and caved in the roof.” Ryuu isn’t satisfied, leaning over Saitama to use his height for intimidation.

“I know I’m famous and all, but if you want to fight, you fight with me.” Ryuu looks closer at Saitama’s face, and his eyes widen slightly. “Hey, I know you. You’re from HERO GAINS.”

“Oh, yeah, I got there at night.”

“Ahh, now I get it. You’re trying to prove you’re stronger by picking on my family. I can’t let you do that, dude. We’re fighting tonight. Meet me in the gym at 20:00.” Ryuu sighs, placing his sunglasses back on his nose and pulling up his mask. The taller man walks down the stairs, muttering something about his disciples and grandmother. Ms. Hiyori and her grandson enter her apartment, leaving Saitama confused in front of his door.

The rest of the day passed slowly; Saitama lounged around while he watched any shows that were on. A drama called Sweet Mask plays in the background, with the blue-haired main character complaining that he is a monster because of his acne. While ignoring the show, Saitama quietly plays on his device, making sure not to press the buttons so hard they break. Once level 56 is complete, Saitama directs his eyes to the clock, noticing that it’s 19:59. Wanting to return to the game, Saitama attempts to ignore the time, but the thought eats at him. If I don’t, he’s gonna keep pestering me. Sighing, the bald man stands up from his futon, sets the Gameboy down, and walks to his closet. His tattered blue tracksuit hangs in front of him like it was asking him, “what the hell are you doing.”

Saitama only packed the essentials, a water bottle, his keys, and his phone. The amount fit into his available pockets, leaving his gym bag behind. Walking to the gym was somewhat enjoyable. The pleasant afternoon has faded into a peaceful twilight, the sun taking its time as it thoroughly dips behind the horizon. Saitama found himself silently clinging to the thought that Tanktop Guy, as Saitama designated him, would just forget about the fight and leave him alone. After the dojo incident, more people have been giving Saitama casual greetings, and the receptionists don’t awkwardly stare at his head as much. Yet, these greetings were accompanied by more people watching him and trying to one-up him.

Entering HERO GAINS, Saitama notices a pair of eyes on him instantly. This person didn’t want to remain a mystery, so he quickly sauntered up to Saitama’s back, tapping his shoulder. He wore a shirt similar to Tanktop Guy, but this one was covered with a weird tiger pattern. His hair and eyebrows are also tiger-patterned, and Saitama can’t help but wonder if his beard would grow out tiger-patterned. Tiger, he calls himself, points a giant index finger toward Saitama’s face. “I’d back out of this fight if I were you. Tanktop Master will pummel you into the ground!” Tiger’s face then lights up, and he grins, his eyes flicking behind Saitama’s head towards the back wall. “You were the one that wrecked the dojo floor, weren’t you.”

“Oh, I guess? Can I go now?”

“I can’t believe they let you back in. You paid ‘em off with Master’s grandma’s money, I bet.”

“If you let me go check in, I’ll let you know.” Tiger scoffs at the remark, shoving Saitama’s shoulder and walking away. Walking up to the table, the receptionist cringes as she looks t Saitama’s profile on HERO GAINS’ database.

“You haven’t paid for this month. Would you like to do it now?”

“Oh- uh, sure.” Saitama pats his pockets for his wallet and regrets packing light. Sighing for the eighth time that night, Saitama excuses himself and leaves the gym. Tiger tries to stop him again with a slightly taller version of himself, except with black hair. So, the bald man ends that issue by simply ignoring them on his way out. Saitama takes his time walking back, staring blankly at the road ahead. Entering his apartment and getting his wallet went smoothly. Upon exiting the apartment, Saitama watches Genos leave his room just a half-second after. Genos’ eyes light up upon seeing his Master eagerly starting a conversation.

“You’re fighting someone?”

“I think? I didn’t even agree to it.”

“Who is it?”

“One of his goons called him Tanktop Master.” Genos looks away from Saitama, closing his eyes and stopping. Saitama turns toward Genos and stops walking, wondering if Genos has just died.

Genos opens his eyes, catches up to Saitama, and nods. “You’ll win.”

“Huh. Okay.” The two enter the gym, Saitama spending an extra minute at the front desk paying for the next month’s membership. Before Saitama can walk to the weight room unnoticed, a girl and a doctor in tank tops usher Saitama and Genos to a far corner. Yet, they hadn’t left the weight room. Instead, Genos and Saitama are greeted by Tanktop Master and ten others in similar-looking apparel. They all varied in weight and size, a guy with “VEGETARIAN” on his shirt seeming to be in second place to his leader. Tanktop Master is sitting on a bench, the barbell in front of him loaded with two 45kg plates and one 10kg plate on each side. Overall, about 200kg of weight. Tanktop Master notices his “competitor” a few moments later, postponing his conversation about the uselessness of stretching with a disciple wearing an Al-Dente tank top. The tall man stands from his bench, wearing a stoic look of absolute pride.

“So, Saitama, what kind of fight shall we have?”

“I dunno. I thought you were organizing this thing.” Tanktop Master knits his eyebrows together, clearly displeased by Saitama’s answer. But, the tall man turns his attention to Genos, who is quietly observing. 

“Genos. Are TANKS not sponsoring you? It’s disrespectful to go against your sponsors in battle.” The platinum-haired boy’s expression doesn’t change. 

“I’m not solely sponsored by you. Plus, I was his disciple before I was your advertisement.” The exchange is confusing; Tanktop Master is now much more annoyed than a few minutes ago. Tanktop Master walks past Genos and Saitama, heading toward a different area of the gym. The wrestling studio was much smaller than the other rooms, with a single arena in the center of the room. Around it are a bunch of punching bags and strength measures. The walls are cracked with paint, the cracks occasionally covered by oddly sentimental photos of people getting K.O’d. Tanktop Master walks toward one of the measuring games, a small punching bag with a counter above it. Saitama follows quietly, unsure of how this fight will actually happen. 

Tanktop Master punches the small bag, making a loud thud upon impact. The game shakes, and the numbers at the top start climbing from 200. Cheering from the crowd continues until the number reaches its maximum of 955, blinking a few times in celebration. Tanktop Master roars excitedly, his back cracking as he attempts to stretch it. All eyes then switch to Saitama, eagerly awaiting his attempt. Crowds were now much more common in the gym, but the feeling of twenty-four eyes targeting you still ran a chill down Saitama’s spine. The bald man approaches the game, awkwardly shaking out his left hand. Saitama figures it’s best to use his non-dominant hand before he gets another fine for property damage. Winding up, Saitama calmly punches the small bag, watching the machine violently rock with force. Before the numbers can climb, the machine sputters down, the counter blinking 4–-, the last three digits unknown. The bag then falls from the steel clamp it had been fixed on; the fabric had torn from the violent movement and force. “Ah fuck.”

The Tank-Topper Army falls quiet, a few coughs making their way from the back. Turning around, Saitama awkwardly bows his head, chuckling as he straightens his posture. Tanktop Master glares at his opponent, a hand coming up to rub at his chin. “Fine, we’ll just have to fight like real men,” Tanktop Master concludes. Saitama accepts his fate and walks to the ring, trying to recollect any wrestling knowledge he may have. 

“Uh, Master Saitama,” Genos starts, landing a hand on Saitama’s shoulder. Saitama turns to look at his disciple, seeing his hand pointing toward the army of tank tops walking in the opposite direction. “Oh.” They follow behind the tank tops, their bright hues standing out against the standard apparel in the gym. The group arrives back in the weight room, the leader standing proudly in front of the pull-up bar. 

“We’ll be competing over pull-ups. This is very common in the army.” Are you sure that’s the common form of fighting in the army? Despite the flawed logic, this is admittedly better than poorly trying to wrestle Tanktop Master. Saitama uses the supplied stool to hang onto the bar, and Tanktop Master follows shortly after. The disciple with VEGETARIAN on his shirt announces the rules. The challenge was who could do the most pull-ups within two minutes; the one with the most complete pull-ups would win. Before the game can start, Genos gets into a short argument with the vegetarian, explaining that it is proper for a third party to judge. Saitama quietly waits for the new referee to arrive. Tanktop Master drops from his bar during the wait. Genos and Vegetarian arrive shortly after with a blonde guy in flannel. The two called him “king,” and Saitama swears that the guy was about to piss himself. King positions himself before the two competitors, tucking his gaming console in his hoodie. Saitama’s competitor adjusts himself on the bar, his hands shaking as he finds a good position.

Vegetarian starts the timer under the heavy watch of Genos, and the two start the race. Saitama promises to keep his average pace and lose the fight; winning could only bring more misfortune. The first fifty go by quickly, Saitama even raising his legs to make sure they don’t fall asleep. Another fifty passes with ease, the excitement finally getting to Saitama as he wonders what score his competitor is at. Turning his head mid-pull-up, Saitama doesn’t see his competitor beside him. Turning back, Saitama crushes another twelve and releases the bar, noticing it’s slightly dented now. On the floor, Saitama now sees his competitor clinging onto one of his disciples, his breaths heavy. The vegetarian’s timer goes off, and he shuts off the bell immediately. 

“I think the bald guy won,” King spurts, his voice slightly quivering. Tanktop Master steadily regains his balance, coughing. 

“I wasn’t prepared. I demand another competition.” The Tank-Toppers shout in agreement, causing an unnecessary amount of eyes to dart toward the commotion. 

“Ah- fine. One more. I haven’t had dinner yet.” Tanktop Master grunts in response, charging off to the next thing he’s thought of. The tall man leads the group to the indoor soccer field next door to the gym. Inside, several of Tanktop’s lackeys bring out large shotputs. Tanktop Master picks up one of the balls, his hand slightly dipping under the weight. 

“This is a 60x30 meter field, and we’re going to throw these and see who tosses it the farthest. The idea actually seems interesting to Saitama, a small fire igniting itself in the bald man’s chest. Close to the long edge of the field, the competitors sit with three shotputs each. The lightest was 16kg, the middle was 18kg, and the heaviest was 20kg. In Saitama’s hands, the balls felt light, the bald man casually tossing and catching them. “Alright, Saitama, let’s play.” 

The game decided that each player would throw all his weights consecutively to ensure nobody tried to cheat. Tanktop Master insisted he go first, immediately grabbing his 16kg shotput. About 30 meters away stood Genos and Tank Top Black Hole, anticipating Tanktop Master’s move. Tanktop Master tucks the shotput in the crook of his neck, holding the ball with his right hand. Spinning around once, Tanktop Master jumps as he tosses his shotput through the field. Once the ball lands, the tank-topped crowd cheers in excitement. Genos and Black Hole run over to measure the throw, and they conclude with 20.01 meters. Tanktop master smiles widely, giving a giant thumbs-up to his supporters. 

Tanktop Master then picks up the following weight, 18kg. Assuming the same position as before, Tanktop Master prepares himself for the throw. A large crack screams from his back as the ball launches from his hand. The field is silent when the ball lands, marking a significantly shorter distance than its lighter counterpart. Tanktop Master unwinds his position, his back popping again at the movement. This time, it seems to hurt the tall man as he quickly lets a hand ghost over his lower back. Tanktop Master rolls back his shoulders, letting out a few more unsatisfying pops. One of the Tank-Toppers sucks in a loud breath through his teeth, several others beside him cringing at the sight. Tanktop Master whips his head toward them, his thick eyebrows furrowed. 

“I’m fine. Be quiet, all of you.” 

“No offense, sir, but I thought you broke a bone with that sound. Do you need, like- an ice pack or somethin’,” a Tank-Topper chirps, the girl next to him nodding in agreement. Their leader fully faces them, wearing a reasonably disappointed expression. Tanktop Master then turns his back to the group, straightening his back and setting his hands heroically at his hips. His back muscles flex, defined muscles poking from the large arm holes in the shirt. 

“The Tanktop is the source of strength if I can bring out even more potential of the Tanktop; if I become a man who is worthy of the Tanktop, then I can defeat even a few tight muscles.”* The Tank-Toppers gasp in awe, a few clutching their hearts through large pecs. One of the members breaks into tears, wiping his eyes as he tells his master, “you can do this, sir!” A few more wishes of luck pop up from the small crowd as Tanktop Master grabs his final shotput. Preparing himself, Tanktop Master ceremoniously twirls as he steps forward to launch the ball. The weight propels from his hands, soaring elegantly through the air as it passes the other two. Once it lands, Saitama’s certain that Tanktop Master has just broken a world record. 

“Uh, sir?” Tanktop Master turns around triumphantly, his eyes practically glittering. 

“What do you need, Tanktop Hatter?”

“You uh- stepped over the line.” Tanktop Master’s eyes dart down to his feet, the crowd noticing that he’d stepped beyond the agreed boundary. The yellow line drawn to mark the launch point was a few paces behind him. Chuckling as he smiles, Tanktop Master steps behind the line as Black Hole brings his weight back to him. “Not an issue. I’ll just throw it again.” 

Tanktop Master resumes his previous position, just a few steps behind the line. As he’s about the extend his arm from his shoulder, Tanktop Master’s arm drops completely. The tall man’s back pops again as he falls to the ground, clutching his arm. Saitama is completely dumbfounded as Tanktop’s group runs over to assist him. When Tanktop Doctor assesses the damage, it is settled that Tanktop Master has thrown out his back and dislocated his right shoulder. These injuries would not be critical but would leave the leader in a relatively pained state for a few days. Just like that, the challenge ends. Before Saitama could even try. Tanktop Master is helped out of the stadium, and Saitama is left standing there in complete loss. Genos walks over to his master, picking up one of the leftover shotputs. 

“Well, this means you’ve won, Master.”

“Ah- yeah, I guess.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing. It’s fine.” Saitama bends down and picks up the heaviest weight. Unsure of the proper technique, Saitama throws it normally, bringing his arm back and slightly tilting his hips as he tosses the ball. Before it can land, Saitama picks up the remaining one and joins Genos in placing them back. 

The rest of the night is slow, Saitama casually completing a short arm and shoulder workout. About two hours after his arrival, Saitama leaves, picking up his items and walking home with Genos. 

(The next day, people would find a 20kg shotput about thirty-two meters from a yellow line drawn in the fake grass.)

Chapter Text

Lunch is definitively the best part of the day. At A-Rank tech, workers of a certain prestige were allowed to buy lunch with the company’s money. HRs would spend their entire hour at super fancy restaurants eating with people of a similar rank from A-Rank’s sister companies. The ranks below, however, would spend the break pooling money together to order food for themselves. As the clock hits noon, four or five people jump from their seats, walking to the coffee station to decide who is paying. At the counter currently is the usual group. A shorter guy with headphones and sunglasses, the one who drew lightning on his cheeks, someone with a frog-patterned tie, and a few others are discussing today’s meal. 

 Satoru stands up from his desk, quietly walking over. Saitama pitied Satoru, Satoru’s coworkers constantly goading him into paying crazy amounts of the bill, chipping away ten or twelve percent of the weekly check on the food. Others follow, such as the British guy and his close friend who always wore hoodies under his blazer. Eventually, one of the HR’s assistants, Iaian, ends up going around the floor taking a vote on the meal. After a few people, Iaian approaches Saitama, passing him the paper with the options listed. Saitama marks off the first option, as he never really cared about what he had for lunch. Passing the page and pen to Iaian’s available hand, Saitama is left alone. Food usually takes about 25 minutes to arrive, so Saitama allows himself to recline at his desk, his head dangerously close to his phone.

 Misfortune struck, and Saitama’s phone starts blaring next to his ear; the ringtone is the one customized for the sister company, B-Lizzard. Saitama picks up the phone. 

“A-Rank Tech, this is Saitama.”

“Hello! I am calling on behalf of B-Lizzard’s president; she would like to schedule a meeting with you.”

“Oh, when?”

“Preferably now.” Saitama looks at the room around him, everyone fussing over the page. Apparently, there had been equal numbers for every option. 

“Uh- you sure? That sounds a little urgent.”

“Can you come?” Shutting his eyes, Saitama ponders his options. A: Don’t go and get mauled by HR, or B: Go and spend his lunch break probably getting mauled by B-Lizzard’s president. “She would like to invite you to lunch at the restaurant Pig God’s Altar.” This news startles Saitama’s eyes open. Pig God’s Alter was the highest-rated restaurant in the city, scoring record reviews from every person who’s ever eaten there. The food covered every decade of the country’s history with perfect accuracy, their options ranging from nostalgic and warm to new and adventurous dishes. 

 “I can go. When?”

 “She’d like you to arrive within ten minutes.” Saitama stands from his chair, grabbing his blazer from the back of his chair. 

  “I’ll be there, thanks.” The other line clicks off, leaving Saitama with ten minutes to get to the other side of the city. As he is faster than any elevator or car in afternoon traffic, Saitama opts to walk there. Putting on the blazer and shutting off his computer, Saitama starts his journey. He’s out of the building within forty-five seconds, the five levels of stairs being his first training source when he started working out. Once he is outside, Saitama starts heading left toward the classier side of the city. If the streetlights weren’t still under repair, Saitama probably would’ve made it to the uptown area within six minutes. The lights added about two and a half minutes to his journey, having to weave his way through motorcycles and angry drivers. 

 The day’s weather was nice, just cool enough that the blazer wasn’t an issue to Saitama. Early signs of spring displayed themselves on city flora, apartments now having plants on the balconies and railings. The traffic wasn’t awful, either. Roads weren’t backed up to kingdom come, and some uptown avenues had functional lights, as they were more pedestrian-friendly. High-end stores were the real nuisance, with large lines blocking the sidewalk outside the designer stores and video game premieres. 

 Despite the issues, Saitama arrives at Pig God’s Altar eventually. Pig God’s Altar is a tall, modern building with large, fake candles at the front. The inside is much different. The air is thick and fragrant with hundred of spices and smells. Fake candles dimly light the building in chandeliers. The large windows that led outside were heavily tinted, letting little natural light intrude the restaurant. Although it was noon, it felt late in the evening inside the restaurant. There was smooth, traditional music in the background, softly flowing through the muted chatter and sound of dishes clanking. Saitama is instantly recognized at the host stand and taken to a table near the back. As expected, Saitama’s seat is amongst about four others. In each of these seats were workers from B-Lizzard, all quietly chattering. At the head of the table sat the president, a woman with straight black hair and green highlights. Expensive sunglasses covered her eyes, and she wore a tight black dress and oversized fur coat. The table is empty except for silverware and rounds of water. 

 The hostess seats Saitama in the last available chair, directly across from a large man with huge eyelashes. The conversations abruptly stop with Saitama’s presence, the table's attention mixed between B-Lizzard’s president and Saitama. Ms. President leans toward Saitama, her green eyes peaking from under her sunglasses. 

 “Good afternoon, Saitama. I see you’ve accepted my invitation.”

 “I mean, it’s free lunch, isn’t it?” Ms. President’s expression switches from confident to confused, her head gently tilting as her glasses slip down her nose. 

 “No, I mean joining my company.”

 “I didn’t hear about that?”

 “That’s what my secretary told you,” Ms. President’s eyes dart to a woman with black hair and blue bangs, her hair tied with a pin of a lily. The woman’s face drains, her mouth gently quivering. 

 “I uh- forgot to add that part, President Fubuki.” Ms. Fubuki sighs, her head turning back to Saitama as she slips off her sunglasses. The man with large eyelashes quickly takes the sunglasses off the table, tucking them into a small, green purse. 

 “Wait- so, what did you think we invited you here for?”

 “Oh, I didn’t really consider that. I thought you just wanted to talk about setting up a multi-company meeting or something.” A waiter who was initially approaching the table is now backing away slowly. Ms. Fubuki’s eyebrow twitches, the left corner of her mouth gently dipping down. 

 “Well, do you want to join B-Lizzard? We’ve been reviewing your records for the few years you’ve worked here, and you’d make a good addition to the bunch. You’ve got your work done on time and completed it well. We’ve also learned that many of your coworkers have been taking credit for your assignments, and your well-done spreadsheets are devoid of your name or title.”

 “Oh, I just forgot to add them. Who’s been taking credit for my work?”

 “Satoru Mumen, specifically, who we know sits across from you and shares your position.”

 “Leave him outta this. I’m fine with where I’m at right now.” Saitama leans back in his seat, releasing the briefcase he’d forgotten he was clutching. Ms. Fubuki sighs, her thin eyebrows twitching with more force. 

 “Still, even with the credit taken from your excluded, you’re a sufficient worker, and we need you on our team.”

 “What do you need more people for? You’ve got a pretty large business.”

 “Not larger than Tornado Industries. We here at B-Lizzard are planning on expanding for the sake of toppling Tornado Inc’s monopoly over the PC business.”

 “You’re making enough, despite Torndao’s monopoly.”

 “It’s not about money; it’s about pride!” Ms. Fubuki’s shout leaves the surrounding tables silent. Ms. Fubuki stands up from her seat, shoves off her coat, and walks outside. A few members of her group attempt to follow her, but she signals for them to stay put. Looking from Ms. Fubuki to her subordinates, Saitama sighs. One of the subordinates, a man with circular glasses and well-moisturized skin, speaks up. 

 “Ms. Tornado is President Fubuki’s older sister. Ms. Tornado has consistently exceeded her sister in academics, sports, and overall educational and career prowess. This has made President Fubuki extremely insecure, yet she’s been too scared to take risks. We rarely mention Ms. Tornado around her, as it usually leads to an outburst.” The rest of the table nods in agreement, a few taking sips of their water. Saitama sighs, touching his face and massaging the skin underneath. He stands up, grabs his suitcase, and pushes in his chair. Walking away from the confused table, Saitama walks outside of the building. Outside, Ms. Fubuki is sitting on a wooden bench outside the building. Saitama walks over to her, standing a reasonable distance away.

 “Don’t think you can console me, baldy.”

 “Wasn’t planning to.” Silence falls between the two, the spring air filling the gap. Ms. Fubuki sighs, leaning forward, placing her arms on her knees, and catching her face in her hands. Laughing uncomfortably, Ms. Fubuki shakes her head in her hands. 

 “This is humiliating. I can’t believe I let myself do that.”

 “It was pretty out of the blue.”

  “So, you gonna tell all the HRs over at A-Rank that B-Lizzard’s run by a crazy woman?”

 “Nah, I’m good. I don’t really know the HRs that well, anyway.”

 “I don’t get it, Saitama. How do you just let other people take credit for your good work? Why don’t you wield your ability and level up?”

 “I’d have no time to go to the gym or read manga, that’s why.” Ms. Fubuki lets her hands fall and back straighten, now staring at Saitama. Saitama makes eye contact, blinking once before looking at the road before him. Beside him, the black-haired woman stands up from the bench, dusting off her lap. Ms. Fubuki pats her hair quietly, using her reflection in the windows to fix her appearance. She walks past Saitama, confidently striding to the door. MS. Fubuki turns to Saitama, her face completely calm. 

 “I’m not going to stop trying to recruit you.” Saitama nods quietly, walking back in the direction of his building. Along the way back, Saitama purchases a burger from a local fast-food restaurant. The burger tastes good, and Saitama finishes the food within a few bites. 

Chapter Text

“-Because of this construction, we require our in-office workers to stay home for the day. As aforementioned, we are rebuilding the floors of levels 1-4 due to the slight flooding from this weekend’s tiger-level hurricane. Thank you for understanding; this will not decrease your monthly payment.” This is the lower half of a lengthy email concerning the hurricane from a few days ago. Saitama’s eyes practically glow as he rereads the message several times over. The account is official, and most of Saitama’s coworkers are cc’d; this is completely and totally real. Looking at the bottom-right corner of his laptop, Saitama dully notes that it’s too early in the morning for a day off. Saitama closes his laptop, discards the item on his coffee table, rolls onto his futon, and promptly falls asleep. 

 A few hours later, Saitama wakes up, a brighter light shining through his blue curtains. For the first time in what feels like months, Saitama is completely refreshed and ready for the day. The analog clock nearby his head informs Saitama that it’s a comfortable 8:30 in the morning. Sitting up in his bed and shoving the covers off of him, an unfamiliar sense of contentedness has Saitama feeling lighter than air. After some basic morning stretches, the bald man gets up from the paradise known as a 10-thousand-yen futon and walks to his kitchen for breakfast. Replacing the usual two protein bars is an amateur omelet copied from the diet magazine Saitama forgot he had and ketchup doomed to expire in negative four days. I guess I can go shopping again, maybe buy some stuff that isn’t already expired. 

 Saitama’s significantly better morning makes the bald man miss the days he’d been job-hunting, where you could eat like this every day for an incredible three days. Amidst his lightly bouncing around his apartment, Saitama has a new, much more exciting realization. I can go to the gym during the day. I don’t have to deal with those snobby rich guys! Holy SHIT! A day off had brought back another buried feeling, true and total happiness at not having to talk to someone. Saitama sprints to his closet, tearing open the door and ripping his tracksuit off its hanger. The beautiful morning sun gently illuminates the deep blue tracksuit, each repatched fragment standing in glory in Saitama’s hands. 

 The walk to HERO GAINS is triumphant, Saitama’s pace generating a nice rhythm as he lets silent music guide him to the gym. Approaching the building, Saitama also notices that the parking lot has fewer cars than average, with a few bikes speckling the rack. The gym also smells different; the smooth scent of disinfectant is gently layered over the stench of sweat now buried within the gym’s walls. There’s only one person at the front desk instead of the typical two, the receptionist having the large word “TRAINEE” on his shirt. Yet, no matter how painstakingly long the trainee takes, Saitama doesn’t mind, even tossing a few yen into the large donation jar on the counter's edge. As Saitama enters the weight room, he shuffles through his previous work and settles on training his abs today. Calisthenics was always Saitama’s favorite, the complex moves needing more than two tries to master, occasionally even four attempts. In the quiet gym, Saitama stretches his whole body. Calves for five seconds each; the same goes for glutes, thighs, and hamstrings. Back, chest, and spine for ten seconds, keeping tight control of his breath as his muscles sprung to life. Finally, shoulders, arms, and wrists for completion, each stretch held for 6-10 seconds. 

 Before he can start, Saitama remembers the gymnastics area near the back of the weight room, a few pommel horses, still ring sets, vaults, and bars of various heights. If you looked hard enough, there was also some basic rhythmic equipment. Gymnastics was one of the few sports Saitama was genuinely interested in, respecting how people can have strict control over their bodies so they can occasionally defy gravity on will alone. The bald man’s first destination is the parallel bars. The three-meter long, two-meter high bars are perfect for various movements. Setting his hands on the bars, Saitama hoists himself up into an L-sit, keeping his abdomen engaged as he holds the pose for however long feels right. Directly after, Saitama curls in his legs and rolls forward into a handstand, which keeps most of his body excited. The initial stress feels good but eventually wears off as the rust washes from Saitama’s muscles. Sighing, Saitama lowers his handstand, his legs synchronized into a plank. Noticing he’s slightly off of the track, Saitama creeps his hands forward enough so his entire body is in between the parallel bars. After a few more uncounted seconds, Saitama lowers into his first push-up, his chest dipping beneath the bar as he keeps his body perfectly straight. As his muscles remember the movement, the next forty push-ups get easier. So, as a gentle challenge, Saitama finishes his next sixty push-ups in a handstand, occasionally letting his hands go and pushing his whole body up, catching the bar directly after. 

 After getting as diverse as he can with the parallel bars, ranging from one-handed planks to reverse sit-ups, Saitama lets himself drop the bars. Although the stress isn’t severe, Saitama reaches for his water bottle. As he sips from his 562 Piece-themed water bottle, the bald man notices something in the weight room. Two people, one skinny and one jacked, are huddling over something the skinnier one is holding. Eventually, the jacked one of the two takes the item from his friend’s hands, Saitama noticing its syringe-like shape and murky contents. Suspicions are proven true when the jacked man pushes the needle into his thigh, letting the strange liquid enter his skin. Oh, steroids. Thought those were out of style or something. The two excitedly murmur to each other a little more, the jacked guy eventually leaning back onto the bench he’s been sitting on and lifting the plate-stacked bar above him. Satiama averts his gaze, decides not to concern himself with the situation. 

 It seems that Saitama looked away too late, as when he lets his eyes flicker back to the scene, the skinnier guy is staring at him with a dark expression. Leaning over to his friend, the jacked one is now staring at Saitama too. Determined to have a good day, Saitama sets his left hand up in surrender and walks over to the uneven bars he wants to try. Jumping onto the taller bar, Saitama quietly begs the gods for the two guys not to care enough to try and fight him. After just a few muscle-ups to handstands, Saitama’s peace is interrupted. “Hey, baldy.” Saitama forces himself to stare at the two men to his left. The more muscular one has a shaved head and no eyebrows. You’re bald too. His, what Saitama assumes is a brother, has scruffy, long hair, a thin face, and a lab coat. Saitama drops from his bar.

 “Seems you saw my brother and I’s personal business.”

 “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that,” Saitama replies, hoping to signal his disinterest.

 “Well, as our uh- business ain’t legal, I’m gonna need to make sure you shut up,” the larger one says, slamming his left fist into his open palm. 

 “I don’t care what you do, man; just leave me out of it.” The smaller one smirks, digging into his pocket. He pulls out a second syringe, equally loaded with the drug.

 “If you wanted a hit, you could’ve just asked. You’re pretty small, so I get it,” the smaller brother holds out the syringe with a pretentious smile. Saitama glares at the object, watching the muddy liquid swirl around the needle. “I’m good, dude. I’d rather go natural and stuff. Can you leave me alone now?” The smaller brother’s smile wipes off as his larger sibling takes a step closer to Saitama. His breath smells like artificial strawberries. “You calling me fake? I’m the strongest man in the world.” The man’s second statement catches Saitama’s ear, a small smile appearing on his face. “What’s it feel like?” Saitama’s question irritates the taller man, and both of the brothers frown deeper at this. “Wouldn’t you like to know, punk?” The older brother whips his left arm out, the muscular limb hitting his smaller sibling square in the face. The younger brother falls back, his nose bleeding and bruising from the impact. His older brother instantly crouches over him, the syringe in his hand now broken with the liquid spilling out. It only takes a few moments for the bigger brother to carry the smaller one out of the gym, practically crying. Saitama watches the sad scene for a moment before looking at the liquid again. I really don’t want people to think this is mine. With a heavy sigh, Saitama moves away from the liquid and skips the uneven bars. The rest of the morning is spent measuring various types of planks, times ranging from 10-12 minutes depending on the difficulty, and doing simple exercises. 

 The next day, Saitama is back at the gym working on his arms, lowering the 50kg dumbbells to his waist. That’s 50. Setting the weight at his side, Saitama notices a man walking in his direction. He’s a tall man with short black hair, a leather jacket, and pale skin. He looks a bit like a zombie. Zombieman, as Saitama proclaims him, eventually ends up directly in front of the bald man. 

 “Saitama, I take it?”

 “Uh, yeah. What’s up?”

 “I work with HERO GAINS’ legal team. Do you recognize this liquid,” Zombieman asks, holding out a zip-sealed bag with the steroid from yesterday. Saitama contemplates his choices before silently nodding. “So you’re aware that this is a dangerous steroid that’s resulted in the permanent hospitalization of twenty people.” At that, Saitama shakes his head. “Hm. Where did you see it, then?” What kind of lawyer is this, man?  

 “I saw some muscly dude take it. Then he and his brother tried to pick a fight.” 

 “Did you happen to catch what these two men looked like? The area we found this liquid isn’t monitored by security.” 

 “Uh- it was one really skinny brother with scruffy hair and a tall guy with a shaved head.” Zombieman’s expression dulls, the dramatic lights of the gym making him look ninety years old. 

 “You’re absolutely certain that you’re not involved with this?”

 “Yep.” Zombieman takes out his phone, starting a call with someone. “Hey, Kazuhiko,” the person on the other line says something unintelligible, and Zombieman sighs, “I mean Child Emperor. Anyway, this Saitama guy told me it was those two brothers we’ve wanted to investigate.” Child Emperor says something else, and Zombieman sets down the phone. “Can’t let you go, Saitama.”

 “What?”

 “Apparently, a lot of the footage we’ve got of you points to you being on enhancement drugs.” Saitama slumps over himself, his forearms in contact with his knees. 

 “Really?”

 “Yeah. Apparently, much of your performance here is a little too suspicious, especially your advancement from 480-490kg within the past three weeks.”

 “You take tabs on that stuff?”

 “Only for the night group, as some attendants like to have their results mailed to them every three weeks.”

 “That uh- that adds up. If you keep thinking I’m on drugs, what happens?”

 “We’d have to report you to the police.”

 “Ah. How can I prove I’m not on steroids?”

 “Well, from this batch, we’ve noticed that the most common side effect is delayed reaction times and quick burnout. We’d have to test your abilities in those areas.”

 “When can that happen?”

 “Today is preferable; we’d rather not associate HERO GAINS with too many steroid abusers.”

 “Okay.” Saitama gets up from his bench but quickly reseats himself. Zombieman looks confusedly, reaching for his now-pocketed phone. “I didn’t do the other side.”

 “Oh, okay. We’ll call for you in five minutes.” Zombieman walks off, grabs his phone, and makes another call. 

 Exactly five minutes later, Saitama is called into the small medical office in the gym. How the hell did I not notice that? Apparently, HERO GAINS had been sued so many times for hazing that they have a small medical staff ready to operate at all times. Inside were three people; a young kid with brown hair and a comically large lollipop, Zombieman, and a guy with “Busho” written on his nametag. 

 “My name is Kazuhiko, but I’d rather be called Child Emperor. I’ll be conducting a large part of your examination. Busho and Tamotsu both have experience, so they’ll be watching over as well.” Saitama nods quietly, Zombieman bringing over a large container of ping-pong balls. The first test was for reaction time, where Zombieman threw about twelve ping-pong balls at different times at different speeds, and Saitama was asked to catch as many as he could. The bald man caught all twelve with ease. Next was taken out to the main gym, where Saitama was asked to deadlift all the way to his max, five repetitions per new weight. It went by slowly, Zombieman demanding an intermission so whatever dosage Saitama might’ve taken would have time to wear off. “Listen, I know this from experience; we need to keep the lifts as far apart as possible.” I guess he had a problem with these.  

 After a time, Saitama pretends to max out at 501kg, and the second test ends. The rest of the exam was for running speed, agility, and everything else on a patched-together anti-steroid ability test. From the expressions of the small group of judges, Saitama passed with flying colors. The group had seemed the most shocked at Saitama’s lifting weight, watching as Saitama lifted a bar bent by 455kgs over his head. Genos had even arrived at one point, proudly boasting to the other three as much as one could with a monotone voice. Eventually, stars washed over the night sky; Child Emperor ended the exam and went home, Zombieman and Basho doing the same after a while. 

 “What was that test about?”

 “It was apparently a steroid drug test. I guess they can’t find it in piss yet.”

 “Really? Because I’ve had to take that same exam at my job. I’ve got to take it once every four weeks.”

 “What is your job, anyway?”

 “I’ll tell you later. First, I need to submit a complaint with the owners of HERO GAINS for subjecting a paying customer to a drug test.” Genos flips open his phone, dialing in a number.

 “Wait- no, it’s fine. They’re just trying to preserve the legacy or something. I’m not too upset. Plus, it gave me a good light stretch.”

 “That’s good, Master, but are you sure?”

 “I am, Genos. Don’t worry.” Genos nods, Saitama noticing that Genos’ eyes are not their usual amber color. This time, they’re a dark black that reflects the night sky. Although the test was somewhat disappointing, the night air had a new level of crispness Saitama had only felt as a kid. 

Chapter Text

Everything felt hot. The air was heavy and humid, each breath pushing a new wave of heat onto Saitama’s face. Small prickles of sweat sprouted under Saitama’s shirt, washing away with each movement. Rocky holds scraped calloused palms, nudges of dirt and stone lodging themselves under fingernails and into unopened wounds. Saitama swings up his left arm, gripping the next unconventional hold above him. His right leg digs itself into his arm’s previous hold, dry rocks threatening to crumble under the force. A large gust of wind blows between Saitama and the mountain, pushing cold, crisp air against the climber. 

 “Sensei!” The barely-heard sound brings Saitama’s attention to a few rocks below him. Genos’ hair molds against his reddened face, his hands trembling against their hold. 

 “Genos. You alright?”

 “I am just fine, Sensei! I wanted to inform you that we may have people accompanying us.”

 “Who?”

 “I am unsure, but I can see the parking area from here, and there seems to be a large, black car positioned there.”

 “Ah. Well- we should be done soon. Are you sure you’re alright? You can have some water.”

 “I cannot do that! You told me to keep up with you.”

 “That was a joke, dude. Take your time.” Saitama swings his left side up, evening out his stance along the mountain. Picking up his pace, Saitama accelerates up the rocky cliff. Rock climbing never really occurred to Saitama before. He had always deemed rock climbing as a strictly sport-related thing instead of something for training. A few more paces up the mountain and Saitama decides to look out to his right. The view was similar to the bottom of the cliff. Cracked, rocky plates floored the scene, curving up into large cliffs that lead to plateaus. In the far distance, the cliffs evened out into mountains occasionally cracked with rivers or streams. Saitama and Genos were scaling the highest part of the plateau, to which they agreed to walk across to one of the mountains. 

 Looking back at the cliff in front of him, Saitama finds his next hold and swings himself toward it, digging into the beige rock and letting the sharp edges push against his hands. Genos grunts below Saitama, his expensive outfit stained with dirt. Genos never seemed to care for his clothes, always tearing off sleeves or wiping dirty surfaces with luxury-brand cotton shirts. Yet, no matter how many expensive shirts were ruined by the blonde, he always had a new one the next day or week, broadening the oddly calculated cycle in which he wore his clothes. 

 This was another part Saitama enjoyed about rock climbing. You have as much time as you want to think, as you didn’t need to count repetitions or glare at timers. As Saitama thought about his next meal, he’d already found himself twelve meters above his previous spot, his arms comfortable with the burn each new swing brought. The unfamiliar stress of this activity felt incredible to Saitama. Each time the mountain smoothed out any holds brought a slight smile to the bald man’s face. The few times Saitama’s knee was at chest level are exciting, each fiber of muscle straining to keep his human form intact. Each violent jump to the next hold returned the missed feeling of truly getting stronger. The silence of the site was also helpful, with whistling winds replacing noisy grunts and yells from sweaty men.

 One issue was still present throughout the climb, and was now extremely obvious. Saitama is now already at the top of the cliff. Gripping onto flat land, Saitama pulls himself onto the plateau. Standing up, large canyons and cliffs stretch around Saitama, fading into the unclear horizon. A clouded blue sky looms across the view, tens of kilometers vanishing ahead of him. Genos finds the top after a few minutes, wiping his face with the front of his shirt. Over the past week or two, Genos has shown significant progress, carefully shredding into an impressive physique. When the blonde situates himself, finishing his water and stretching, he sits down next to Saitama.

 “We should continue soon, Sensei.”

 “It’s only noon. We can take a few minutes. Plus, you’re still in full tomato mode.”

 “That was quite challenging, so yeah.” The two sit in silence for a while, occasionally tossing an empty remark into the wind. As the sun fully peaks above the Earth, Saitama and Genos stand up from their spot, going over their plan for the day. 

 “This walk should be about five kilometers. We’ll get there in an hour or so without breaks.”

 “Cool. Let’s get going, then.” The two set off west, walking across the barren plateau. Rocks crunched beneath their shoes as spare dust brushed their legs. Harsh rays from the sun continued to beat down on them as they walked. As Saitama and Genos progressed, the terrain slowly started to rise, small grasses and brush starting to form along the carved path. Their general pace slightly slowed, the strange angle of the mountain constantly shifting. 

 Yet, Saitama couldn’t shake an odd feeling. A strong urge to whip his head and look behind him hung over his head. “Master, there are people ahead,” Genos says, disrupting the deafening silence between the two. Saitama stops and glances in the same direction Genos is looking, the younger man watching two very tall people inspecting the side of the mountain. Their odd fascination with the stray rocks and small lizard they had found was almost funny. All three men were identical, huddling around each other as they watched the lizard squirm. The slight murmurs heard from them were their own level of interest. “Tough rocks, that is good.” “Good holds, that is good.” “There are good mountains here, after all.” Genos and Saitama stopped their staring when one of the (was it four now??) men shot a dark stare in return. Strange collections like this were sprawled across the trail, analyzing the small amounts of plants and wildlife on the mountain. A few of them tried to strike up conversation as they passed by Saitama and Genos, asking them about the quality of City Z’s mountain ranges. 

 After a while, Saitama and Genos find themselves at a new cliff. The large, rocky ascent was now almost vertical. Each step required the two to fall on their hands and knees to climb safely, crawling up the 50-something-degree angle. Wind avalanched down, strong gusts slapping the two climbers in the face. Along the climb, a single, strong tree stuck out against the cliff. Saitama and Genos made the executive decision to snap off two branches and use them for extra support. As they almost get to the top, a voice calls out from below. The two look down, seeing a heavily-backpacked person at the bottom of the angle. Their overflowing bag almost looked like a separate set of arms sticking out from their body. 

 “I demand you two help me up this cliff.” Genos and Saitama exchange glances, turning their attention back to the hiker. “My name is Geryuganshoop, a contracted land surveyor, and I need to get to the top of this cliff. Give me your supports; I deserve it. This hill must be completely inspected for the Boss.”

 “You can have my stick, I guess,” Saitama rolls down his branch, watching it thud at the land surveyor’s feet. The surveyor picks up the stick, their bright-blue gloves and clothes now covered in a layer of dust from the stick’s tumble. Geryuganshoop pulls a disposable camera from their bag and takes a picture of the stick and the hill. Adjusting themself, the surveyor starts their own journey up the cliff. Geryuganshoop doesn’t look at Saitama or Genos the rest of their way up, taking any opportunity to dust themselves off or scoff at Genos’ pace. 

 “Who is your boss, Geryuganshoop,” Genos asks.

 “A king amongst climbers. Do not step on that plant! You are damaging the mountain.” Genos lifts his foot away from the weed it was about to cover. The overall ascent takes ten minutes or so, the slope of the hill broadening out into a more understandable angle. Geryuganshoop shoves their way ahead of Saitama and Genos, dropping spare bottles of water from their large backpack. Genos and Saitama take two of the bottles, mutually agreeing that it’s their payment for giving Geryuganshoop the extra help. The water is life-changingly crisp, startling Saitama’s organs and arguing against his heightened body temperature. “Home Water” is written on the bottle.

  The rest of the hike is generally peaceful, occasionally interrupted by a “land surveyor” scoping the land. A few times, Saitama recognized some hikers from HERO GAINS, watching them argue over whatever demand was made by the land surveyor behind them. The two finish the hike after five hours, walking along the road to the nearest bus stop. A few people were waiting there as well, a tall man in a prisoner suit and two swordsmen. The trip home is relatively quiet, Saitama thanking Genos for telling him about the trail earlier that day. Genos responds with his usual enthusiasm, eagerly rambling about Saitama’s “superhuman feats” of climbing a 35-meter wall in 20 minutes. Saitama occasionally chimes in, making his own remarks about Genos’ abilities and advancements. As the two pass the stop located outside HERO GAINS, Saitama decides that he’s worked enough today and that this could count as a sufficient rest day. Genos seems to agree, as he falls asleep on the ride back. As Genos’ head slumps against the window, shifting with each small movement from the bus, his phone loudly rings in his hands. Saitama leaves it alone for the first two missed calls, counting each ring as they pass. The third call, though, comes with a barrage of texts. The noise is getting annoying, so Saitama slips the phone from Genos’ gentle grip. The screen flashes DR. KUSENO,  the profile picture a picture of an old, bowl-cutted man. Saitama has no desire to answer the call, so he sets Genos’ phone on mute, barely registering the texts about “defeating the M.C.” or the state of some crime a few cities away. 

 Tomorrow morning brings sunburn-caused aches. Saitama’s face is completely red in the mirror, his shoulders and arms have sharp lines defined by Saitama’s sleeves. For the first time in months, Saitama opts to take a cold shower, pushing the nozzle as far right as it can go, lowering the water’s temperature as much as possible. Drug-store soap stings in the small cuts from fallen rocks. It’s Sunday, so there’s no need to move quickly; Saitama uses the money saved on shampoo and conditioner for this shower’s water bill. Saitama spends the short day lounging around and treating his burns with Aloe Vera. Walking to HERO GAINS that night is refreshing, the city wind slapping the bald man in the face as he lets his comfortable tracksuit press against his burnt arms. Sunburns never lasted long, so the pains are mostly gone, replaced with gently tanned skin and the occasional dry patch. 

 HERO GAINS is busy that night, with cheesy pop music streaming out of the door. The voice is recognizable, but Saitama cannot put a name to it. At the treadmills, the same blue-haired guy is running, arguing with a pompadoured teenager about the music. Saitama chooses the farthest treadmill, quietly thanking the Gym Gods that Mr. Pissed-Off is focused on someone else. “I made this fucking song, you delinquent idiot,” the blue-haired one starts. “No wonder it sucks so hard; you sound like a goddamn thirteen-year-old,” the black-haired teenager responds. Saitama tunes out their argument, staring blankly ahead as he finishes his run.

 “Do you have a problem?” Saitama snaps from his gaze, angling his eyes down to the green-haired girl in front of him. She’s wearing a tennis outfit and holding a racket on her shoulder, her expression disapproving.

 “Huh- no, sorry.”

 “Then why were you looking at my training?”

 “I zoned out; sorry about that.” The green-haired girl sighs, muttering something about “celebrity problems,” and walking back to her previous area. Her shirt has “TORNADO” written in bright, green letters on the back. Everything about this feels very nostalgic, which is odd for the fact Saitama’s only been going here for about two weeks. Shutting off the treadmill, Saitama is instantly approached. Except, this man is very different from everyone else. His spiky, white hair has pink tips and is tied into a bun at the top of his head. He has pale skin with large moles and tattoos running across his limbs.

 “You are the bald man from Mountain A; I take it.”

 “What? I mean- I’m bald, and I have climbed Mt. A, but I don’t know you.”

 “You know my men, especially my elite Geryuganshoop.”

 “Oh! Him! Right.” The taller man is wearing a golden sweater and large, white pants. All of it is luxury brand, with various titles along the sides and fronts of his clothing. 

 “I am Boros. I demand a challenge, bald man.”

 “My name is Saitama, and no thanks.”

 “You cannot refuse. You’ve taken and drunk my water; now I have the right to fight you, Saitama.” A memory of the fallen water bottles recurs to Saitama, the feeling of pure enjoyment of that water justifying the stealing part. For the first time since he joined the “Night Group”, Saitama understands the challenge he’s received and follows Boros across the gym. It occurs to Saitama that Boros has a very distinct accent that the bald man cannot place, unable to pinpoint exactly where Boros might be from. His extremely large, blue eyes, pale skin, and sharp chin point to Boros being from a different country in general. 

 “I’m from across the world. I’ve come to this continent looking for the best climber to face off against, and I think you may be it,” Boros starts.

 “Excuse me?”

 “My men watched you climb A-Cliff, and reported to me that you may be on my level.” Oooh, right, that black car. The two finally reach a corner of the gym, the walls littered with multicolored handles of different shapes and sizes. Some are completely smooth, while others are warped and heavily textured. Saitama’s seen the Boulder Wall a few times, watching large men slip off of pink, smooth rocks. This section of the gym has a much higher ceiling than the rest, stretching about 10 meters high. Boros takes off his sweater and unties his hair, letting long, white strands fall down his back. Saitama looks at his own apparel, kicking off his running shoes and setting them along the sides of the provided mat. Saitama glances around, expecting several random followers of Boros to be lounging around. 

 “I do not allow my men to interfere with my affairs. They survey my climbs and time them. That is it.”

 “Oh, cool.”
“You have been challenged many times; I take it. Have you had many encounters with bouldering?”

 “Not really- I just started yesterday. Boros’ mouth is clamped shut, his jaw sticking out as his thick eyebrows knit together. 

 “Yesterday? I have been bouldering for twenty years.”

 “Oh. Good for you, man. You must be a veteran.” Boros starts stretching his arms, his neck cracking as he stretches it in circles. Saitama follows suit, eyeing the wall in front of him. 

 “I’ve settled on our competition.” Saitama turns to Boros as he scans his side of the wall. “Whoever can reach that hold first,” Boros points up to a large, white boulder at the top of the wall, “wins.” Saitama hums in agreement, positioning himself at the opposite side of the wall as Boros. The bald man has no reason to win, but he has no reason to slack, either. These boulders are cemented into the wall, requiring no restraint from either party. Boros and Saitama look over at each other, the white-haired man’s eyes are focused intently on Saitama’s pupils. The eye contact is a new level of personal, as if Boros is staring directly into Saitama’s brain. “Go.”

 The two launch up the wall, Saitama jumping and grabbing onto the highest rocks he can reach. His arms are set wide apart, his legs even wider. It’s a tough position to rebound from, but Saitama manages to swing up his right leg and left arm, the parallel limbs following in response. His pattern continues, the bald man slowly shifting his body to the left, directly underneath the goal rock. Boros’ ascent is slower, his moves are calculated and practiced. I don’t want this to be over yet. Saitama slows his pace, letting himself hang extra seconds in uncomfortable positions along the wall. Boros catches up in moments, and Saitama quickly overtakes him. The white-haired man seems to notice Saitama’s lack of effort, making his swings and movements more violent as he matches Saitama’s pace. 

 The boulders are much different than the mountain, almost slippery to Saitama. His fingers dig into the plastic casings, his cotton socks at an even higher threat. With each centimeter Siatama accidentally slips, his heart rate picks up, the man biting back his smile throughout his ascent. Boros has his own struggles, grunting with each jump toward Saitama. The idea of this fight is exhilarating, good competition between two people on the same level- fuck. Saitama looks at the large, white rock under his left palm. The rock has small craters on its sides, mimicking the moon. It feels- disappointing in his hands. Saitama turns his head down to Boros, who’s just a few meters behind. Boros’ eyes are wide, his dark eyelashes almost reaching his eyebrows. Saitama pulls himself up, so his left leg is more comfortable in his current position. But his shock causes his sock to slip on the rock it was aiming for, the loss of stability surprises Saitama enough for him to loosen his grip on the boulder. 

 “I’ll uh- pay for the water.”

 “That was not the intent of this challenge, Saitama. You’ve proven yourself better than I.”

 “No- dude, it’s not like that!”

 “Saitama, accept your win, my rival. If you don’t, I’m going to look like even more of a fucking loser.”

 “Right, sorry.” Boros starts his descent down, Saitama following suit shortly after getting over his surprise. On the ground, Boros holds his hand out toward Saitama, the bald man grabbing it. Boros continues his intense eye contact during the excessively long handshake. Saitama lets go first, using his newly freed hand to rub at his chin. 

 “Saitama.”

 “Yeah?”

 “I will be back soon to challenge you again. The next time I do, please give it your all.” Boros breaks eye contact and walks away, using the hair tie on his wrist to wrap up his hair once again. Saitama is left standing on the gym mat, rubber-wrapped styrofoam bending under his weight. The bald man looks back at the wall, noticing that the top of Boros’ section was marked “EASY” while Saitama’s was labeled “HARD.” This deepens the ache; Saitama averts his eyes from the wall and walks toward his shoes. Saitama wants to go home, as he does after every challenge, but he can’t bring himself to only have a 5-minute workout. The next thirty minutes are dedicated to running, climbing stairs, and swimming, Saitama’s mind completely blank throughout. Is he really the best?  

Chapter Text

“Kiyomi, I love you,” the love interest says, his pitch-black hair flowing in the wind. The music swells as Kiyomi starts tearing up, her large brown eyes glossing over. As the shot pans out, the two love interests run toward each other on the small bridge, cherry-blossom petals flowing across the screen. They crash into a hug in the middle of the bridge, looking deeply into each other's eyes as they get closer together. Their heads get closer together; the wind now no longer exists for some reason. Tadao, the male lead, mutters, “I’ve always loved you.” Just as their lips are about to meet, the television flashes to an ad. Loud, obnoxious music shocks Saitama out of the comfortable daze he’d been in for the past however many hours. The far-too-long ad flashes images of the newest type of window blinds, showing that they can block out 60% of any natural light.  

 Saitama takes the opportunity to sit up and stretch his body, noticing how stiff it’s gotten. The television has switched to a new ad for medicine, the noise filtering into incomprehensible mumbles in Saitama’s mind. It’s close to 19:00; I should get some dinner in me and go to HG. Maybe I can just do my usual thing today to mark my three-week anniversary in hell. “Sugary Flowers,” the drama Saitama had spent his last hour completely invested in, is now back on the screen. The two love interests share a chaste kiss, and Saitama’s mood resettles at “below average.” He’d been rooting for Tadao and Kiyomi for the past year the show had been airing, so it’s good that it’s officially gotten somewhere. As the episode sets up the next plot point, Saitama puts some leftovers in the microwave and watches them warm up. 

 For some reason, everything feels right today. It’s Thursday, the best day of the week; Saitama’s actually on time for the gym; it’s been getting warmer lately, and everything is well. At this realization, a giant pit of dread settles in the pit of Saitama’s gut. 

 After about fifteen minutes, dinner has been consumed and cleaned, the small tear on Saitama’s tracksuit has been awkwardly repaired, and the bald man is ready to go to the gym. Opening his door, post-rain humidity covers Saitama like a comforting layer of slime. Right. It’s been pouring for the past few hours. I’m lucky that I just avoided it. The knot of apprehension slightly untangles as Saitama sets out, following the hazed streetlights to his destination. After a few minutes, Saitama finds himself at HERO GAINS, patting the shapes in his bag to ensure he has everything he needs. After a quick check, Saitama enters the facility. 

 HERO GAINS is at its usual capacity, with around 15-20 people working out individually. At the front desk, Saitama notices a large, pink sign along the sides, “PILATES AT 19:15,” written in large, red letters with hearts around them. The rest of the sign lists details about the workout, that it’d be 30 minutes long, everyone was welcome, and it’d be a course-level intermediate. 

 “I wouldn’t trust that if I were you,” the receptionist starts, pushing a lock of her short hair behind her ear. “The guy who teaches it is nuts.”

 “Oh. Thanks for letting me know.” The receptionist’s expression falls stern, her eyebrows knitting. 

 “I mean it. He’s already got twelve people pressured into attending. Apparently, he’s a felon, so nobody wanted to mess with him.” Saitama nods, wondering who let such a supposedly dangerous guy into the gym in the first place. The bald man shoves the thought away, walking to the weight room to start his full-body workout. The large digital clock along the room walls informs Saitama that it’s 19:13. Heading over to the barbell, Saitama decides to check his deadlift amount, as he hasn’t in a while. Heading to the weight rack and picking up his first set of four 50kg weights, Saitama notices someone walking toward him in his peripheral vision. 

 “Excuse me?” Saitama turns around, somewhat surprised at how politely he had been approached. The man Saitama turned to is an extremely tall man with curly hair and a stubbled chin. Saitama then notices the man’s outfit, a classic prison jumpsuit with a large device on his ankle. “Would you like to join my pilates class?”

 “No thanks, man.” The tall man’s expression sours. 

 “I need one more person. You seem like a good fit.”

 “There are a few others here; I’m sure they’d like to join you.”

 “Already asked them. I cannot let you decline.”

 “Oh.”

 “Plus, your little friend is joining us as well, so you’ll fit in just fine.” Saitama’s gaze passes slightly behind the felon; Genos stand a few meters away, looking at another pilates poster. 

“I don’t have a lot of experience.”

 “Don’t worry, I’ve been watching you, and I’m sure you’re strong enough. Especially considering the 200kg you’re carrying like nothing.” Saitama looks at the weight pile in his hands, realizing he’s not getting out of this situation. 

 “Fine.” The curly-haired man smiles and claps his hands together. He leads Saitama to the designated yoga section along the right side of the gym, fifteen multicolored mats laid out in 3x5 rows. Romantic Felon, as Saitama has deemed him, organizes the now thirteen people onto the mats. Saitama finds his place at the farthest mat in the back, Genos aligned with Mr. Pissed-Off and Something-Something-Sonic in the frontmost row. It must be in the order of compliance. The following two rows are filled with people of different types, some athletes, some bodybuilders, and a few people in between. Oh hey, Watchdog! Romantic Felon situates himself in front of his, well, hostages, turning on a heart-shaped speaker and setting it next to himself. The speaker starts blaring pop music; the song is in a different language with words like “LOVE” and “BABY” sprinkled in. A few groans rise from the guys in the captive collection; The complaints don’t phase romantic Felon. 

 “Alright, everyone, my name is Angel or Pretty; I’m alright with either. Today, this will be a short workout to prove to the few administrators observing that Pilates is an essential form of exercise. Now, I’d like everyone to get on their hands and knees in a tabletop position.” After a few seconds, Saitama finds himself peeking over a sea of thirteen asses pointed in his direction. Some people’s backs are arched, others curve downward, and most of them are incredibly comfortable with having the world’s worst-smelling socks. Angel’s voice reaches over the buttcheek horizon, asking everyone to arch their back down into the “cat” position. He then asks everybody to push their back up into the “cow” position, instructing them to switch between those two positions a few times. Angel then shifts into a straight-armed plank, the group following his lead. People then settle on the floor, pushing their stomachs into the mats and lifting their chests. Everyone shifts through these movements three to four times, each set taking about thirty seconds. As the song shifts to another by a male group, Angel sits on his mat, his class quickly following suit. 

 “Great! Everyone warmed up?” The group is dead silent. “Wonderful! I’m going to show you all through a set I taught at prison! It was quite popular amongst my boyfriends.” The leftmost person reaches for his bag in the row directly in front of Saitama. His shorts have DARKSHINE written in bold letters, and Saitama briefly remembers him from his first day at HERO GAINS. Darkshine attempts to pull something out of his bag, and Angel seems to teleport directly in front of him. Angel is visibly shorter than Darkshine, but his dark look makes up for the missing centimeters. “Water? Already?” Angel crouches down to eye level, and Darkshine stiffens. It’s evident that Darkshine is much stronger than his instructor, yet Angel radiates a strange danger. 

 “I was already tired before this.”

 “This is an intermediate class; you should handle just fine. Plus,” Angel smiles widely, moving closer to Darkshine’s face, “you’ll need that later.” Darkshine grumbles as Angel walks away, stuffing his name-brand water bottle into his bag. Next to Darkshine, a muscular girl with long, dark orange hair tosses a thumbs-up with a bright smile. The man nods confidently; his previous fatigue now vanished. “We’ve been waiting long enough; let’s get moving, ladies and gentlemen!”

  Angel audibly guides everyone through the following exercise labeled “Down Dog + Bear.” The movement is mainly focused on the legs, everyone shifting between holding bent legs just above the ground and lifting their lower back as high as possible. Shifting the energy back and forth to Angel’s quick instructions quickly drains most of the group. Thirty seconds later, Angel announces the next move named “plank saw.” The action is where you shift forward and backward in a forearm plank. Because of the position, Saitama found his nose uncomfortably close to the stained socks of the man in front of him. It only takes a few repetitions for Saitama to force his head downward, sniffing (for some fucking reason) perfume-stained vinyl beneath him. ‘Plank saw’ lasts the same amount of time as its predecessor, about thirty seconds. “Okay, now, since we are already in our plank, we’ll switch to plank leg lifts!” The most exhausting part of the workout is that Angel doesn’t allow breaks between each exercise, automatically shifting to the next move with as much as a five-second warning. 

 Plank leg lifts are slightly easier than plank saws; Saitama effortlessly alternates his legs and lifts them as far as possible. Peers like Sonic, Thumbs-Up Girl, and Watchdog in the second row are just as capable as Saitama, Sonic’s legs lifting high enough that his soules face the ceiling. Most of the bulkier members lift to more acute angles. Again, after about thirty seconds, Angel shifts to the next move. Now, Angel is facing the group as he shifts to his side. Angel bends his lower leg, supporting his upper body with the parallel arm. The other leg is outstretched as far as possible, and his arm is held above his head. “There are about four moves in this position; we will do two. This one,” Angel lifts his outstretched leg, “is the Side Leg Lift.” Saitama is now facing his left, his right leg holding up his torso. Everyone else faces the same direction, doing the leg lifts to their individual capacities. Thirty seconds, we’re done. Everyone shifts to the opposite side, Saitama getting a pleasant view outside the window he’d forgotten was there. People pass by the class, their faces quickly shifting to shock upon seeing the felon teaching the class. It’s only been about five minutes at this point, and Saitama is actually enjoying the movements quite a lot. Angel then instructs the group to do “leg sweeps,” which means just moving your outstretched leg forward and behind you. The issue is that about eight people were immediately kicked in the face. This event causes three of the thirteen total to drop out, one with a bloody nose and the other two with minor bruises forming at either their eye or mouth. Angel gives his most compassionate “ooughh ouch” at that and allows the group a twenty-second break before the next movement. 

 After the break, the next set of movements is on their backs. The group went through thirty seconds of “Pilates 100s,” which were strenuous in their own right, scissor kicks, and bicycle crunches. By this point, the group had gone through a fifth of the course, and the music still focused on various pop bands in different languages. As the course progresses and the movements get more diverse and challenging, about five more people drop from the course. Mr. Pissed-Off declares that he has “better things to do” and leaves. Darkshine quietly got up and walked away shortly after barely reaching his foot on the “toe touch twist,” Thumbs-Up Girl scrambling after him a few moments later. The following two consisted of a tall, blonde man with a scar on his eye who “went off to use the restroom” shortly after the first plank and the same guy who had approached Saitama after his ‘battle’ with Tanktop Master, who had fainted on the floor about ten minutes in. Saitama, Sonic, Genos, Watchdog, and Sir Blonde III were the last five left. 

 The other exciting thing was that Angel refused to repeat moves unless they were specifically targeted at one side of the body. Once he had gone through enough motions on the back, the group never exercised on their backs after that. Some movements were also directly inspired by average workouts, deadlifts in which you kicked your leg upward as your front lowered down, squats where you swung your arms forward, and tricep presses on your side. Time passed quickly with only five group members left, the members taking each new move as a challenge. The time initially scheduled for breaks were now still planks, and transitional time between poses was much shorter, Angel not waiting for everyone to fall into line. Saitama had figured out why someone like Angel was allowed to be in this gym; despite his criminal record, Angel was strong. He proudly talked about his long years as a professional MMA fighter, having about ten belts sitting at home; his secret move, “ANGEL HUG,” had apparently led to the deaths of two fighters as well. 

 Genos dropped out from the running as the twenty-minute mark hit, kneeling dramatically on his soft pink mat as he was forced to admit defeat after dislocating his shoulder. He watches from the sidelines, shouting words of encouragement at Saitama while he moves through the exercises. It felt a little awkward to have someone study you as you do pilates, but Genos’ stare was by far the most familiar in HERO GAINS, so Saitama’s learned to tolerate it. The last few movements, consisting of squat holds, handstand-to-bridge sequences, and crunches where you movies your arms and legs toward each other on your side, were enjoyable. As the group finished the handstand sequences, the receptionist approached Angel, whispering something in his ear and pointing toward Sonic. Sonic seems to understand what’s happening as he quickly jumps from his mat and runs to the other side of the gym, still in a handstand. He returns shortly after the receptionist stops looking for him, making it just in time for the final stretches. 

 Most of the cooldown is yoga, and Angel puts on zen garden sounds that make Saitama feel like he is doing arm circles in a toilet. The whole sequence takes up the final three minutes of class, Angel’s voice straining as he attempts to make it smooth and calm. “You feel a small light in your gut,” Angel says in his very burly voice. “You feel it grow inside of you.” Saitama has never tried to think about sex less in his entire life than during this moment, as apparently, the light continues to spread across your body and coat you in a layer of warmth and goodness. Watchdog breaks his peaceful demeanor when Angel says that the light “feels so good inside you, like a wave of love,” breaking into wheezy chuckles. Sir Blonde III yells at Watchdog for his preteen sense of humor as he tried to cover giggles with coughs. Saitama feels like a cracking rock when Angel accidentally moans a little too hard when adjusting poses, trying to remember every sad thing that’s ever happened since the beginning of mankind. It feels wrong to laugh at such a respected art, but a guy like Angel really shouldn’t be teaching it. 

 Overall, the class felt a little overhyped by the receptionist, Saitama doing additional core exercises before going home. But, the small knot of dread in Saitama’s gut had unraveled just a bit, the strangely innuendo-ed light possibly loosening some metaphorical strands. Genos joins Saitama home, the two engaging in a short conversation about how the fuck those two died from something called an Angel Hug. Everything felt right. 

Chapter Text

Rain drowns out HERO GAINS’ usual playlist, violent thuds against the windows flushing out the Top 50 Song radio station that had been playing over the speakers. Outside, street lights are barely peaking through the fast rain, highlighting the near-flooding streets. City Z’s downtown is close to the ocean, so hurricanes and strong thunderstorms are prevalent, but this rain is different. The surrounding stores have closed early, sidewalks and streets are devoid of life, and the radio is often demoted to loud static. Looking around, Saitama sees only seven people, which is much more than he had expected for a hurricane. The bald man barely notes everyone before letting his vision fall to Genos next to him. Genos has been copying Saitama’s current leg workout, the 105kg on his shoulders quivering with each single-leg squat. Feeling a sense of pity for the blonde, Saitama raises his standing leg. He unhooks his left leg from the bench, lifts the 495kg off his shoulders, and moves the bar over his head so it falls right at his feet. Genos unhooks his own leg but doesn’t lift the weight off. 

 “Master, I know you’re only halfway through this set.”

 “Ah- the weather is making me tired.” Genos processes Saitama’s information and nods. Genos’ first attempt to remove the weight as Saitama has failed, and he opts to shove the barbell to his left, crouching down so it reaches the floor less dramatically. As Genos begins removing the two 50kg plates from his bar, Saitama lets his gaze wander around the gym. He notices someone familiar standing below the AC; his pale skin and sunken eyes bring a name to Saitama. “Zombieman!”

 “Who is that, Master?”

 “Oh, he’s a member of the legal team; he’s actually kinda strong if you see him in front of a punching bag.” Saitama watches the tall man as he jots down notes for something. Zombieman finishes whatever he’s doing, and starts walking in Saitama’s general direction, noticing the bald man halfway across the floor. Zombieman pauses his short journey and walks in front of Saitama and Genos.

 “Saitama.”

 “Zom- ah, what was your name again?”

 “Tamotsu. I see the nickname Zombieman has made its rounds again.”

 “I didn’t hear it from anyone; you just look like a zombie.”

 “Hm. The nickname usually moves around when I get over another illness or beat a record.” Genos eagerly picks up after Zombieman.

 “I’ve heard about that. What illness was it this time?”

 “Oh- light Pneumonia.”

 “I don’t think light Pneumonia exists,” Genos says, Saitama looking from him back to Zombieman. Just as the taller man is about to say something, the lights flicker out, and the radio station shuts off. The only noise is the thundering storm, the occasional scurrying around before someone turns on their phone. The bright, blue light captures the gym’s attention almost immediately. 

 “Oh, fuck, how do I turn this off-” the voice behind the light says with a gruff yet awkward tone.

 “Don’t fucking turn it off,” another voice calls; this one is much younger and angry. 

 “How many people are here right now,” Zombieman starts, his voice much louder in the silence. Slowly, the nine other voices, one being Saitama’s, establish their presence. Everyone silently decides to move toward the blue light, which turned out to be from a small Gameboy. As everyone gathered at the light, someone else had fished out their phone. The light was much dimmer, but more than just the four closest people could be seen. The man holding the Gameboy was the tallest of the bunch, awkwardly towering over everyone in his unfitting apparel. He has slicked-back blonde hair, a scar on his left eye, and tanned skin, and is wearing a red flannel shirt and genes. Gameguy looks around the group before landing on Saitama, now staring at the bald man.

 “Hey, do I know you from school?”

 “What? I don’t know?”

 “You’re Saitama, right!” Before Saitama can respond, another person quickly identified as Sir Blonde III speaks up. “Woo-hoo, nice reunion. Can someone tell me why the power’s out?”

 “I mean, you were using that treadmill pretty hard,” a shorter guy starts. He is the owner of the angry voice from earlier, and his appearance perfectly matches his tone. He has pompadoured hair which is knocked a little loose, a sour expression, and is wearing long basketball shorts and a dark red shirt. Young-Punk, as Saitama deems him, is now in a staring match with Sir Blonde III.

 “Wait- there are only twelve of us here,” Zombieman abruptly states flipping his head around the dark room. “I saw thirteen people before.”

 “Maybe they just left after you checked,” the youngest voice of the group says. Child Emperor looks around the room, curling a finger over his chin. Just as everything quiets, the lights flicker on. The lights are still dim; only about half of the gym is illuminated. The moment the lights stop flickering, a shriek comes from the receptionist’s desk. Child Emperor, Zombieman, and the prisoner from a few days ago all rush to the source of the scream, the receptionist holding a hand over her mouth as she looks at the floor. Slowly, everyone joins at the desk, and Saitama looks at the dark-haired man who is passed out on the ground. Emoshire? Child Emperor crouches down and checks the unconscious man’s pulse, the room falling still as the kid waits. After a few seconds, he sighs, standing up from next to Hyphenated-Name-Guy. “He’s good, but he’s been knocked out cold.” Child Emperor looks to the receptionist, “Do you know who he is?” The receptionist shakes her head still slightly shaking. 

 “That’s Something-Something,” Saitama says plainly. Thirteen pairs of eyes suddenly shift toward the bald man, most of them extremely judgemental. “I don’t think he pays for his membership.”

 “And how do you know him,” Child Emperor starts.

 “He keeps talking to me for no reason. Calling me his rival or something like that.”

 “Well, are you his rival?” Genos interrupts Saitama.

 “Are you implying my master is guilty of this?”
“He’s the only one here who knows who this guy is.”

 “Actually, he was in my pilates class, and he went by Sonic, I think,” Angel says, looking pitifully at the unconscious body. Child Emperor shifts his focus to the prisoner. 

 “Who was in your pilates class? Can you point them out?” Angel slowly points out his four ex-pupils: Saitama, Genos, Sir Blonde III, and Darkshine. Zombieman is still at Something-Something’s, body, inspecting his head. 

 “Yeah this guy got hit pretty bad, no blood though.”

 “It might’ve been an attack!”

 “Don’t jump to conclusions, Kazuhiko.”

 “Child Emperor.”

 “Whatever. He may have tripped and hit his head on the floor.” Child Emperor hums, looking around. Saitama notices the short, green-haired girl next to him is nervously fidgeting, her sour expression getting darker as Child Emperor scours the floor. “All of you, please continue your routines. But, we may call a few of you over to ask about who this person is,” Zombieman concludes. Everyone leaves shortly after, sticking to the illuminated side of the gym, which had been the weightlifting room. Genos quickly joins Saitama on his way to the barbell. As the two are clearing off their bars, Genos looks earnestly at Saitama. 

 “I promise to assist you at your trial, master!”

 “I didn’t do anything!” Another voice appears behind Saitama. 

 “Saitama,” Angel starts, waiting for Saitama to look at him. “I’ve seen you have conversations with that man more than any other attendee. If you did hurt him, please own up to it now, I hate to see my dear Tamotsu sad.” Saitama grunts, shoving the last 2.5kg off of the rack and walking toward the plate rack. Heading back, it seems that two people have accumulated where Saitama was standing, all arguing amongst themselves. Watchdog and Darkshine working on their arms, practicing boxing with one another. Gameguy is awkwardly looking at the plates, Child Emperor standing behind him expectantly. The green-haired girl, or Green Goblin, is looking at her tennis racket at the edge of the gym, casting angry glances at Zombieman, who is tending to Sonic’s body with the receptionist. 

 “He’s awake,” Zombieman starts, Child Emperor practically sprinting to Sonic. As they had before, people silently pay attention to the recovering body on the ground. As the black-haired man finally stands up, he’s quickly interrogated by Child Emperor. 

 “Were you hit?”

 “I don’t get hit. But yes I do think something knocked the back of my head.”

 “Can you tell me what hit you?”

 “I said the back of my head.”

 “Right,” Child Emperor seems to be more excited than before. “Everyone, please come over here!” The nine others join Zombieman, Sonic, Child Emperor, and the receptionist in the middle of the weight room. Child Emperor orders those nine to assemble in a line facing him. Saitama is standing between Genos and Young-Punk, feeling oddly old next to the two. The brown-haired boy approaches Angel, who is at the leftmost side of the line. 

 “I’d been testing my speed on the treadmill,” Angel says. “21kmph, boys.” Child Emperor watches Angel point to the treadmills in the back. Moving to the right, Child Emperor stands in front of the next person. 

 “Flashy?”

 “I was on my daily thirty-minute 30kmph run. So I can support Angel’s alibi.” Angel nods next to him, and Child Emperor moves down the line. 

 Darkshine and Gameboy, or King, give their alibis, Darkshine explaining that he had been doing bicep curls and King pitifully explaining that he’d been trying to beat level 59 of some game for an hour before. Child Emperor notes that Darkshine’s weights were still laid out and King’s Gameboy was still on when the lights went out. 

 “I was kicking the sandbags and practicing my Spanish,” Watchdog states when interrogated. Child Emperor acknowledges the freshly ripped sandbag and Watchdog’s headphones blaring Spanish verbs. Genos immediately excuses himself and Saitama, Sonic even agreeing that Saitama wouldn’t resort to such “puny measures of elimination.” Just as Young-Punk, or Badd, is about to give his excuse, Green Goblin groans. 

 “I did it.” Child Emperor’s excited expression practically dies, the kid acting like he’d been kicked in the gut. “I was practicing my serves against the wall; I missed my catch when the lights went out, and a stray ball hit that loser in the head.” At that moment, the radio switches back on, cheesy boyband music filling the silence. Green Goblin tosses a tennis ball she’d hidden in one of her pockets, the green ball quietly bouncing against the gym mat. Child Emperor’s eyes solemnly follow the ball the kid looking like he is about to cry. Turning away from the group, the kid wipes his nose.

 “Glad we figured that out…” He walks away slowly, Sonic grabbing the tennis ball. Sonic angrily shoves the tennis ball in his mouth as he looks at Green Goblin, quickly coughing it out and retching out spare hairs. Green Goblin sighs, walking past Sonic and over to the dark side of the gym. She flicks a light switch on the wall, and the lights instantly turn back on. She hides her smug expression as she walks over to her tennis racket, the back of her shirt having TORNADO in bright, green letters. Everyone begins to disperse, the rain now lightening up.

 “Sorry for accusing you, Master.”

 “It’s fine, Genos.”

 “Are you sure?”

 “Ah- it happens all the time. I just hope this rain gets me another day off tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Saitama’s never considered himself a big fan of noise. He keeps his television at low volumes; music is never anything too loud, everything of that sort. It’s not as if Saitama particularly minds it, but sometimes silence is better. So, Saitama tends to enjoy eating in smaller restaurants. As he’s gotten stronger over the past three or so years, Saitama noticed his vision and hearing had gotten a lot better, which means chewing and being around people chewing makes him want to silently rip his ears out of his head and shoot them with a .22 caliber gun. That leads Saitama to the udon restaurant he’s currently at. There’s gentle, cultural music in the background, dim lights, and only about three other people in the restaurant. Even for a non-religious man like Saitama, this is heaven. The food is excellent and rich, the noodles well-made and soft, and the broth is mild and relaxing. Shoveling another collection of noodles into his mouth, Saitama lets his eyes close shut as he enjoys the food. 

 “Baldy?” Motherfucker. 

 Saitama lets his eyes open slowly. He knows he’s the only bald man in a forty-meter radius. Yet, for some reason, he quietly wishes this wasn’t directed toward him. That another person, anyone, with a bald head would walk in and pick up that conversation. Saitama looks up, already exhausted. There are, even worse, two people looking at him. One of them Saitama recognizes from the Great Fall of Sonic, with his pompadoured hair and sharp eyes. The other person Saitama recognizes as Mr. Pissed-Off. The two are standing at the door, looking at him with judgmental glances. They glance at each other, and for some fucking reason, both telepathically decide to sit with Saitama. Pompadour and Mr. Pissed Off are holding large stacks of papers in their hands, Mr. Pissed-Off rifling through his stack as he sits down. Saitama cannot help but glance at the pages, seeing headshots and assortments of numbers on each one. Suddenly, Saitama recognizes Genos, Watchdog, then Green Goblin and realizes that these must be the gym records HERO GAINS keeps. Saitama’s headshot appears after a while, his list of numbers marginally larger than any others. Mr. Pissed-Off scans through it, shows the page to Pompadour, and they both nod. 

 “Join our baseball team.”

 “What?”

 “I don’t have to explain it to you; join our baseball team. We need a Center Fielder.”

 “No.”

 “You can’t say no.”

 “Why?”

 “Because HERO GAINS will have to close if you don’t.” Mr. Pissed-Off, or Amai, as his very obviously expensive shirt says, looks at Saitama with genuine seriousness. 

 “Wait- you’re not lying?”

 “Of course not!” Pompadour sighs at Amai’s somewhat pitiful shout, leaning close to Saitama. He pulls something from his stack, a legal document of some sort. Saitama grabs the paper, stares at it briefly, and sets it down. He’s not reading that shit. Pompadour notices, quickly grabbing the paper and placing it back in the stack.

 “Just- basically, a rival gym has found an uh- secret within HERO GAINS, and they’re threatening to sue us if we don’t participate in this ‘battle,’ which is just a baseball game.”

 “Just ask Zombie to help. He’s a lawyer, right?”

 “Listen, I was just asked to recruit players who attend the gym.”

 “There are nine players on the field, right? There are like seventeen regular attendees at night; just ask them.”
 “We have. We’ve got everyone but Center Field. Just- CFs don’t do shit, just stand there and let me carry you guys to victory.” Amai looks over at Pompadour, his expression angry as he nods. Pompadour juts a thumb over at Amai, clearly showing a distaste for the blue-haired man beside him. “He’s the pitcher 'cause King couldn’t come, so he’s taking over the challenge of aligning our defense, and for some fucking reason, he picked you.” Saitama thinks about the situation again, hanging his head low and sighing. Sports were never recurring in Saitama’s life. The thought of your winning relying on a team of people who probably don’t like you seems better in manga and dramas. Of course, Saitama’s been put into football or basketball by his mother, but the idea of a sports-star son slowly died once Saitama turned fourteen. Amai slides a small piece of paper in front of Saitama, depicting a baseball diamond. Each small circle is marked with initials, except the one in the center behind the second base. Amai points to the unmarked circle with a blue pen, tapping on it.

 “That’s where you’re playing. You just stand there and catch the ball if you can.”

 “I know what baseball is.”

 “I’m not gonna assume someone like you knows anything. Now shut up.” He’s expecting me to play for him? Saitama continues to follow Amai’s pen on the page as he talks, the blue-haired man using the closed tip to outline a few fundamental plays. The idea is that the ‘HEROES,’ as Amai so graciously named his team, will focus on getting as many batters out at the second base, the first and third bases just being precautions. He reasons that the batter will be more worn out at the second base, and there are more people around there, including the shortstop, or TS. 

 “TS?”

 “Tatsumaki- you don’t know who Tatsumaki is? Tornado?”

 “Just get back to your thing.” Amai sighs, explaining his plays a little more. Saitama is supposed to be a batter due to his raw strength, but the contract conditions only allowed nine players per team. At Amai’s microscopically subtle praise of Saitama’s strength, Pompadour butts in.

 “Yeah, but don’t get a big head or nothin’. This game is about me winnin’ and you all tagging along.” Amai groans again. How are these two working together? 

 “Sorry about my child of an associate. He’s got a little crush on one of the people we’re going against.”

 “It’s not a fucking crush, you posh piece of bleached garbage. There’s a guy there who I wanna beat, a real infamous player called The Sage. He’s crushed every team he’s gone against, but he disappeared five years ago. Apparently, he’s fucking around at MONSTER, the gym we’re going against.” Pompadour gives the picture from the top of his paper stack to Saitama. On it is a massive catcher with an insane amount of armor. Saitama hadn’t expected Pompadour’s mortal enemy to be a catcher, but it makes sense. In his disinterest, Saitama nods, and Pompadour slips his oddly old photo back into his pile. 

 “Just- anyways. Your little buddy’s agreed to be our first baseman. He’ll go nuts if you’re there, too.”

 “What- Genos?”

 “Who else?”

 “Yeah, that makes sense.” 

 “Just be at the local diamond off of S-Street at seven tomorrow.”

 “Seven? Seriously?”

 “Nobody on the fucking team has ever touched a bat apart from Badd over here, so, yes, seven.” Badd and Amai stand up, awkwardly picking up the five or six papers that fell when he did. The two are gone after about five minutes, and Saitama has already considered his next week ruined. After thinking for a few seconds, Saitama bolts from his seat, sprinting to Amai and Badd. 

 “Wait- tomorrow is fucking Wednesday!? I can’t be there at seven!?” Badd and Amai look at Saitama judgementally, exchanging glances as they load into their expensive-looking car. Amai snorts, not even hiding his amusement.

 “So?”

 “I have work.”

 “Just don’t go.”

 “Are you nuts?”

 “You’ll take off the next week? Thanks,” Amai slams the car door, the vehicle speeding away from Saitama. The bald man stands in the cold spring air, looking at the stars above him. They shine slightly overhead, still crowded by the pollution of the city lights. With another sigh, Saitama decides to head back in and finish his dinner. 

 When Saitama wakes up tomorrow morning, he makes the executive decision that there’s absolutely no fucking way he’s not paying rent for a baseball game. He stands up from his bed, gets ready for work, and heads off with his mind relatively straightforward. There are a few strings of guilt attached to his flaking. Strings can be broken, but one of Saitama’s bones is much more painful than any string, especially by whatever taijutsu his landlord knows. As Saitama enters the A-Rank Tech building, the receptionist looks at him strangely. 

 “Uh- Saitama?” Saitama looks over at her, her expression odd as she looks at her computer.

 “You’ve been uh- excused... For the next week.”

 “Huh?”

 “You’ve been excused... Our partner, Blizzard, has asked you to take the next week off.” The receptionist shows Saitama her computer screen, the email sent from Ms. President directly, detailing that Saitama cannot work for the next week and will instead be on ‘paid leave.’ 

 “Does it say why?”

 “No, you can call the president if you have any questions; she says she’d be willing to meet with you over it.”

 “..Let me borrow your phone to call her.” A few moments, a telephone number and one ring later, the receptionist’s phone quickly clicks. 

 “Blizzard Corps, how can I help you?”

 “Ah- this is A-Rank Tech; I have uh- Saitama here, asking to speak to the President.”

 “One moment.” The line buzzes and clicks immediately after.

 “Saitama, why are you not at the diamond? I can have a man drive you there if necessary.”

 “Wait- you’re involved with it, too?”

 “Of course I’m involved. My sister goes to HERO GAINS, and I legally own 5% of it. Get to the fucking diamond- you know what, I’m gonna send Eyelashes to get you. He’ll be there in five minutes.” The line closes, and Saitama is left with a buzzing from the phone. Handing the phone back to the receptionist, Saitama accepts his fate. 

            Eyelashes arrives just when Ms. President said he would, Saitama recognizing him from his first meeting with Ms. President or Ms. Fubuki, as she continuously insists he call her. Eyelashes takes Saitama to a large stadium, telling him to “just walk straight in.” Having entirely accepted that there is very little he can do, Saitama walks into the stadium. The arena walls are empty, with advertisements for future national-league games occasionally flashing on the walls. It barely surprises Saitama when he sees Badd’s face flash a few times with the name “The Metals.” Entering the diamond, Saitama notices just how large everything is. With the tens of thousands of seats, the large, unpowered lights, and the vast spaces between each base, it looks twenty times bigger than anything on television. Approaching the dugout, the first person to notice Saitama is Genos, decked out in a professional-looking baseball uniform with “HEROES” written in red font. 

 “Master! You’re late!”

 “Oh, well, this was a bit last-minute.”

 “I understand completely. A man with your abilities has no reason to be on time. What position are you in?”
 “I’m a ‘CF,’ or whatever Badd says. Also, what’s up with him? He looks seventeen, but he’s playing for the prefecture team?”

 “Oh, he is seventeen. He got into the Metals about two years ago and has been playing as their star batter for the entire time he’s been on. He excelled in school and dropped out to play full-time.”

 “Damn, at fifteen? That’s nuts.”

 “Truly. He’s the youngest to ever play on a prefectural level, second place being an eighteen-year-old substitute.” Genos looks as if he’s about to continue talking when another person approaches. Genos acknowledges the approaching guy and looks back to Saitama. “This is the right fielder, Flashy-Flash.” 

 “Sir Blonde III?” Sir Blonde III or Flashy’s expression dims at the nickname, the title instinctual for Saitama at this point. Flashy looks over at Saitama, dusting off his uniform before looking back at Genos.

 “Where’s his uniform? Not that he’d look good, but Amai’s gonna shoot him if he’s not wearing it.”

 “Oh, Master, I forgot! Allow me to show you to our uniform area.” Saitama nods, following Genos as he’s led to a small table. There’s a single uniform left, with “#8” plastered on its back. After a few minutes of putting the clothes on and quadruple-checking that the hat doesn’t look good, Saitama rejoins the diamond. By this point, there seems to be something occurring. Heading back to the dugout, Saitama looks at the placement charts, the names now fully spelled out. 

            ‘#1: Amai Masque ((Unless King gets over his cold.))

            #2: Kuro Oda (Darkshine)

            #3: Genos Kuseno

            #4: Badd Yasuo

            #5: Watchdog (real name unsupplied, 550 Yen on Noboru, 2,250 Yen on Daichi, see CE for the rest of the numbers.)

            #6: Suzuki Kimiko (Tornado)

            #7: Shou Hamada (Drive Knight)

            #8: Saitama

            #9: Flashy Flash’

 These names are sprawled out all over, and Saitama notices himself in the direct middle, but his name has been scribbled out multiple times. Looking back onto the field, Badd, or Metal Bat as Saitama enjoys mentally calling him, is instructing a few people how to swing their bats. Genos, Darkshine, and Flashy are all practicing, deflecting the balls Amai pitches. After observing a few swings, Saitama hears a throat clear behind him. Looking behind, then down, Saitama notices Child Emperor standing next to him, barely looking over the wall of the dugout.

 “You uh- you want some help?”

 “Tsk, I do not need help. Just- fetch me that stool over there.”

 “So, what’s got you here,” Saitama asks as he grabs the small, wooden stool and places it next to Child Emperor; the brown-haired kid steps on it and fully sees the training in the diamond.

 “I’m a part of the legal team and one of the very few doctors around here, so I’m the appointed team manager.”

 “Ah. Who’s the coach?”

 “Zombieman’s gonna bring him here in just a moment. It’s a man named Shiroma Norio, or “Atomic Samurai” as his Kendo career will name him.”

 “Cool… why is a Kendo guy teaching baseball?”

 “He has a few years under his belt and was the only one who offered.”

 “Got it.” The two fall silent for a while, looking at the practice ahead of them. As Genos, Darkshine, and Flashy are swinging Amai’s pitches, Green Goblin, whoever Saitama assumes is Knight, and Metal Bat are going over plays. Metal Bat looks behind him frustratedly and yells something over to the batting group. Flashy then points directly to Saitama, and the bald man concludes that his rest is officially over. Genos quickly bolts toward Saitama, extremely determined to say whatever he’s about to say.

 “Badd wants you, Flashy, and Drive to stand at your positions, Master.”

 “Oh, thank you, Genos. I appreciate it. Your hits looked good.”

 “They are but sub-par, Master! After your conversation with Badd, it will be your turn to shine!”

 “Right…” Saitama quickly joins Metal Bat, Flashy Flash, and Drive Knight in the grass outfield. Drive Knight is a tall man with jet-black hair surrounding his face in a sort of mop. His thick hair covers his left eye, and his posture is surprisingly good. He’s a slim dude with the same tone as Genos, robotic and monotone, though still human.

 “You all know each other,” Metal Bat suggests, looking between the three fielders. Flashy-Flash nods, and Saitama exchanges glances with Drive Knight.

 “I am a semi-regular attendee of HERO GAINS. I move between cities a lot due to my racing profession,” Drive night starts.

 “I’m a regular attendee of HERO GAINS, and I just work at A-Rank Tech.” Saitama and Drive Knight awkwardly shake hands before turning back to Metal Bat.

 “Neither of you want to hear my thing?” A silent pause. “Fine, I’ll just have to introduce myself. My name is Flashy Flash; I’m a regular attendee of HERO GAINS and a professional actor and track star. Wait- Drive Knight, if you race, how come I’ve never heard of you?”

 “I’m a racecar driver. Hence the ‘Drive’ in my name.”

 “So why are you playing baseball?”

 “I happened to have six years as an Olympic swimmer, too.”

 “Right.” Flashy falls quiet, and Metal Bat picks up the conversation. He sets Saitama, Drive Knight, and Flashy in their respective positions. Apparently, there’s no actual position for fielders; it’s just wherever they can get to the fastest. Badd places them as well as he can, equally distanced from one another. He then places everyone else in their designated spots before Atomic Samurai arrives. Genos, him, and Watchdog are standing on their respective bases, Green Goblin or Tornado idling directly between bases two and three. Amai stands proudly at the pitcher’s mound, adjusting his hat and glove with far too much confidence for an idol. Darkshine waits ready at the catcher’s line, adjusting to his sized-up gear and stretching his legs. Apart from a few coughs or unremarked sneezes, the stadium remains empty and silent. 

 Suddenly, two loud voices come from the walls of the stadium, two older men chuckling as they walk to the field. One man Saitama notices from the dojo. Earl Mountainhead of Retirement-Home-land, or something of that sort. He is accompanied by a slightly younger guy, about his early forties, with long, black hair and in very traditional clothes. They are both wearing baseball caps and carrying notebooks in their hands. Zombieman walks in shortly after, looking a little more tired than usual. The man Saitama assumed is Atomic Samurai claps his hands loudly, revealing he’s wearing a baseball bat as a samurai would carry a sword. Everyone’s attention is on the two older men, Badd and Amai quickly running toward them. After a few quiet words, Badd turns back to the rest of the team and shouts for them to approach their coaches.

 After a few seconds, everyone is gathered in front of Earl Mountainhead, or Blast, and Atomic Samurai, who asks everyone to call him Shiroma. 

 “Okay, how’s about you all go around and introduce yourselves. I’m sure a few of you aren’t totally familiar with each other. Go in order of your numbers.

 “I’m Amai Masque; I’m an idol-slash-actor, your pitcher, and your self-assigned captain.”

 “I’m Kuro Oda, some of you know me for my clothing brand and bodybuilding under the name Darkshine.”

 “I am Genos Kuseno. I am a loyal follower of Saitama.” There’s a pause for a second.

 “Yeah, but what do you do? For a job,” Flashy asks, his expression curious.

 “Does that matter?”

 “It matters to me, that’s enough for you to have to say it.

 “My loyalty to Saitama stands above how I make my money.” Flashy sighs and Metal Bat introduces himself. The introductions continue around the group until Flashy introduces himself for the eighth time today, and Atomic Samurai starts discussing plans. Blast gives a rundown on the enemy, MONSTER. Their whole spiel is that they’re a donation-funded gym entirely run in spite of HERO GAINS. Supposedly, many incredible people attend the gym, all of whom don’t make themselves known to the public. They’re big fans of steroids and believe there shouldn’t be privately funded exercise organizations. Blast’s lecture goes on for another fifteen minutes before he’s again interrupted by Atomic Samurai. His first move was to measure everyone’s speed and see if any adjustments were necessary to the player chart. Amai initially protested, insisting on using the already made charts, but Atomic Samurai was relentless. After about twenty minutes, the ‘real’ speed chart was created but not shared with everyone else. Blast winked at Saitama while they reviewed, which spoiled the entire need for questions. 

 Other measurements are taken: grip strength, swing speed/power, and stamina. Blast gets tired of winking at Saitama after the third test, just sighing as he looks at him with a hint of annoyance. The only one that seemed to rejuvenate Blast’s energy was the fastball test, to which apparently Saitama’s pitch ‘shouldn’t need to be measured due to him being a center-fielder.’ This time, Flashy very “elegantly” received a wink from Blast with a fist pump and flipping his hair. After all the tests were calculated and over, and a few reviews of the team lineup were done, nothing changed. But, Saitama is named ‘utility player’ and ‘every pinch’ at the end; Blast asks Zombieman to create six more jerseys in Saitama’s size. Of course, this is said in confidence, as Blast had his worries about Amai bursting a blood vessel at any remotely low rankings. 

 Atomic Samurai then works on drills, having the players run laps, practice bats/bunts, catches, more laps, and tosses. The drills go by quickly for Saitama, the laps giving him an excuse to zone out for short periods as he runs. The grass and dirt sound nice under Saitama’s feet; this noise is welcome after Atomic Samurai banned gum chewing. Shortly after drills, Atomic Samurai goes through practice situations. Team members practice running from base to base, and others would attempt to tag them as efficiently as possible. The members would swap positions every so often, each player getting a chance to stand at each section of the field. Saitama learns just how well most of the positions were placed, enjoying his time as a center-fielder more than anywhere else. Everyone else seems content with their own situations, the worst simulations happening when pitchers were outfielders and catchers were pitchers. 

 Soon, Amai and Darkshine are separated to practice pitching/catching signals; Atomic Samurai just shows them a few episodes of a baseball anime and makes them take notes. Any and all notes about homoerotic undertones are awkwardly discarded. 

 Training continues for a while, Metal Bat and Atomic Samurai criticizing how each person held their bat, adjusting heights, angles, leg distances, and how relaxed someone’s jaw is. After about ten hours or so, with a quick break for lunch between, everyone is sent home for the evening. Going home was the best part of the day; Genos and Saitama had an entire conversation for the first time in a while concerning how Genos’ unnamed job was going and how he had received his last name. 

 The following week or so continued like this, the last two days more devoted to the emergency plans and how the baseball game would go. The team didn’t necessarily get much closer. Still, there was a subtle understanding that nobody would speak to each other again after this. That understanding was motivation in its own right. Tornado found a good friendship with Watchdog, casting friendly two-millisecond glances at each other when one hit a home run or made a good swing. Drive Knight and Saitama got along moderately well, and everyone else seemed to be on a “good-enough” basis with one another. Soon, the long-awaited day of the game arrived. 

Chapter Text

Saitama moves up, the six plates on each side rattling against each other as he completes the squat. There’s a slight burn on the backs of his legs, and Saitama shifts back to let the barbell clang onto the rack. The sound is quickly followed by the sound of shoes pacing toward him. Within seconds, Amai is directly in front of him. Amai is dripping with sweat, his shirt off as per usual. “AHA!” The blue-haired man shouts, his hands resting on his bent knees and his back hunched over. He’s breathing heavily, small wheezes mixed into each exhale. 

 “You-” Amai coughs, “I’ve got you!”

 “What?” Saitama responds, wondering if he should get the idol to an emergency room. 

 “I knew that bullshit strength of yours was fake! You’re just as weak as the rest of us!” Amai eventually straightens himself out, eyes bloodshot and hair messy. He looks like he just fought (and lost) to a bear. Before Saitama can ask again, Amai points at him, specifically his body. “Your form is off!”

Amai’s claim gains the attention of other people working out. Genos, Suiryu, and Darkshine look over at the scene, Genos looking ready to either kill someone or do a book report. The blonde quickly walks over, setting down his dumbbells. His hands are caked in chalk, as he hasn’t stopped using it since he learned about it. Suiryu doesn't seem to care that much, getting back to his phone call. 

 “Master’s form is off? That’s crazy,” Genos says, setting his hands on his hips. It leaves chalk-white handprints on the belt he doesn’t necessarily need for dumbbells. 

 “You can ride his dick all you want, but I know what I saw,” Amai retorts. Genos pauses, looking away with an annoyed expression. “Do another squat,” Amai demands, and Satiama figures he’ll comply. He steps back, dipping down and letting the bar rest on his upper back. He doesn’t really think about much else, which earns Amai’s palm directly in his face. “See!”

 Amai bends down and points to Saitama’s feet. They’re angled out slightly and just a bit wider than hip-distance. “There! His feet are too wide, therefore diverting some of the weight. This probably feels like 30 kilograms for him!” Saitama looks down at his feet, taking his three steps and adjusting them quietly. Genos looks almost offended, pouting as he pulls Amai back. 

 “A fluke. You don’t need perfect form every time.”

 “Dude. You have a laminated paper of the perfect form for certain exercises,” Darkshine says, stepping into the picture. Genos sighs, shaking his head.

 “Because I’m not as experienced! I need the perfect form to maximize growth. Master doesn’t need to maximize what’s already been perfected,” Genos explains, Amai and Darkshine rolling their eyes. Of course, something like this couldn’t just involve three people. Nope. Because soon Flashy-Flash is right beside them with his hands on his hips. Saitama misses Suiryu.

 “Plus, you’re missing something, Amai. But, it’s typical for someone who only does leg day because he has to,” Flashy says, tossing some of his long hair behind his shoulder. Amai grunts, eyebrows furrowing as Flashy walks over to Saitama. “Look, the barbell is too far down, his arms are spread out too far, and from the shapes in his shoes, you can tell he’s only pressing into his heel.” A part of Saitama feels annoyed, wondering what to do about this. 

 “Well, hold on,” Darkshine adds, crossing his arms over his chest. “Since he has less stability, wouldn’t that mean he’s actually carrying more weight? Not only the weight of the barbell but his own body weight?” This causes the crowd to go quiet momentarily, and Saitama is just annoyed that there is a crowd at all. Their eyes all turn back to him, and Amai clears his throat. 

 “Alright, do your descent, baldy,” Amai orders, and Saitama isn’t really sure he wants to. He still goes along, needing to get this set done. He slowly descends, feeling his thighs squeeze with the weight. Immediately, Flashy-Flash tells him to stop. 

 “Look! His pelvic floor is tilted forward!” Saitama is about to move back up when Flashy glares at him. “Did I tell you to move up?” The rest of the group is already in conversation about whether or not the tilt in his pelvic floor puts him at an advantage or disadvantage. At some point, it even becomes a vote, with other people in the gym being asked about their opinions. Out of the 12 people in the gym, five people vote that he’s at an advantage and seven vote he’s at a disadvantage. Saitama is tuning most of this out, having already adjusted his posture. He is starting to feel the weight, his body not even at its lowest point. There’s no room for rest, and the clock says that Saitama has been holding this weird position for about two minutes. 

 Finally, Flashy-Flash turns to Saitama. “Okay, go all the way down.” When Saitama does so, three people step a little too close to him, observing his posture. He lowers all the way down, his ankles lifting slightly. This causes Genos to gasp slightly, setting a hand on his chin. Amai and Flashy-Flash burst up, acting as if they've just found the cure for cancer. Saitama is half-expecting one of them to shout ‘eureka!’ But, no, instead they just smugly grin. This immediately sends the jury into a debate, with a few more people approaching to give their own unnecessary opinions. 

 The other barbells are quickly taken up by people doing their experiments. They try their squats, collecting data on whether or not Saitama’s posture is alright. Other people pull out their phones, consult friends, and overall overreact far too much. Saitama lowers his heels, only feeling a slight difference. His ankles aren’t well-stretched, as he hadn’t gotten the chance earlier today. Angel starts giving people directions on stretching their ankles, offering to stretch out one too many people. Nobody accepts the offer, of course, but they still take his information into account.

 After a couple of minutes, a consensus is reached. Well, somewhat. There are a few people who think Saitama should be banned from HERO GAINS and forced to train in the woods; everyone else just thinks that it doesn’t necessarily affect weight. It just affects where he is strengthened and how much he will hurt in the future.

 “Are you squeezing your thighs?” Amai asks.

 “Yeah,” Saitama responds. 

 “How are you breathing?” Genos asks.

 “Into my waist.”

 “Are your thumbs over or under?” Flashy-Flash questions. 

 “Under.”

 “How do your glutes feel?” Darkshine asks, arms still crossed to flex his forearms. 

 “I dunno? Stretched?”

 “Is your ass clenched?”

“Please don’t ask me that.”

 “Is it?”

 “..yeah,” Saitama responds, sighing.

 He ascends, setting the bar back on the rack. This time, the plates don’t rattle as loudly. Saitama is actually somewhat surprised, his eyebrows raising slightly at the development. For some reason, the crowd around him persists, now arguing about timing. Saitama is observed during his next repetition, now only taking a few seconds to complete the squat. Of course, Saitama is never allowed to be correct, as the “Council Of Guys Who Know Better Than Saitama” launches back into the debate. 

Some members believe a squat should only last a breath, inhale on the descent, and exhale on the ascent. Other people believe one only gets any work in if the squat lingers—a breath per position. Saitama is then made to do both of the above. He tries the single-breath option first, the one he usually does. It goes well, though he then gets accused of using momentum by the guys of the alternative opinion. So, Saitama then does the second option. Flashy-Flash even pulls out a stopwatch to make sure he lingers for a full five seconds. When Saitama moves back up, he’s accused of taking a break at the lowest point. Genos has abandoned the debate, busy writing notes in the small notebook he keeps in his gym bag. As usual, Genos shows these notes to Saitama, searching for approval. 

 Saitama enjoys reading Genos’s notes as he learns everything he’s forgotten over the past three years of working out. He nods slightly, making a slight adjustment to Genos’s notes on the need for a variety of dumbbell curls. After a few more moments, the council reaches another goddamned consensus. 

 “Alright. So, we all agree that it matters depending on what kind of workout one is doing. If you’re testing out a new weight, you should let it linger, but if you’re going for repetitions, a faster squat is preferred,” Child Emperor (when did he get here?) says, Zombieman setting away the binder of workout postures. Everyone else nods in agreement, turning to Saitama as if expecting their guinea pig to add something. 

 “I mean... Yeah. I guess that goes for sumo squats, too.” Wrong choice. Suddenly, Darkshine clears his throat. 

 “Aren’t all squats sumo squats? Especially for bodybuilders?" Darkshine suggests.

 “Are you stupid? No. Sumo squats are totally different from typical barbell squats,” Amai says, glaring at Darkshine. The bodybuilder rolls his eyes. 

 “That’s just because you’re a high-volume guy; you only do it for aesthetics,” Metal Bat adds, which earns him a few glances. 

 “Well, Saitama is a high-volume exerciser. Therefore, I have more of a say,” Amai explains.

 “What? No. Saitama’s a bodybuilder,” Darkshine says, looking confused. Saitama just watches five people, all of whom are not him, argue about whether or not he’s a bodybuilder or not. Genos ends up falling into this debate, bringing in details he really shouldn’t know about Saitama’s diet and routines into the mix. 

 “Okay, let’s just watch him work out, and then we’ll decide,” Darkshine says, nodding. The rest of the group seemed to agree, all looking impatiently at Saitama. How expensive is home-workout equipment again?