warning: my creativity died multiple times on me for/during these fights, so there's gotta be like illogical stuff in here, sorry,,

===

"Everybody!" The announcer roars, "Are you ready for the third match?!" Equally as deafening, the crowd screams back, excitement buzzing in the air.

Momo silently sighs as she walks into the battlefield, already feeling the mass amount of stares on her. The sounds, the stares—none of it is helping her stay calm.

It'd felt like only seconds had passed since the beginning of the Festival, and she can't help but feel like she should've spent the time during and between the one-on-one battles more efficiently. Momo had spent most of that time planning her attacks and how to defeat Sero, ever since the match-ups were announced, but she should've... done more, or something. Ensured that her plan would work.

Oh, worrying over it is useless now. Momo steps onto the stage along with her opponent on the other side, feeling the heat of the ignited flame geysers next to her as they flare. She takes a calming breath, looking up to meet Sero's eyes (mostly) fearlessly and tuning out Present Mic's commentary. He does the same but with a lot more nervousness, giving her a grin as he raises an elbow.

"Good luck?" She offers over the roar of the crowd.

"Yeah," Sero nods. "You too."

"Start!" Present Mic shouts, and then Sero immediately starts launching his tape directly towards her.

Momo dodges the first few with mild difficulty, trying to inch closer to the middle of the platform to be far away from the boundary line. She still gets caught by a streak of tape, its end plastering itself on the sleeve of her shirt. Sero makes a noise in triumph, reeling his elbow back, and if Momo hadn't been expecting it and dug her heels into the ground, she'd have fallen.

With a moment of hesitation, Momo creates a sharp switch-blade (she can't be sure that knives are allowed) and slices through the tense, stretched tape latched to her arm. She leaves the remainder that's stuck on her skin alone. There's no time to worry about the little details, only that she keeps moving forward.

Sero doesn't look too shocked, though. There's a plan he has, and maybe the way he's shooting his tape is a part of it? Momo can't think about it for too long, though, when a shot of tape almost grazes her sleeve. Oh God—can he change the properties of his tape to make it more adhesive? Can he make it double-sided? Is it naturally double-sided? The variables she knows about Sero's Quirk are too little and reliant on surface-level observations to help her here.*

As Sero keeps shooting tape, Momo's eyes quickly dart around the platform. She doesn't have time to do a full-scale analysis, nor does she have any opportunity to, but there's a few things she does notice: there are parts of the floor lined with tape, maybe the result of the trajectory of Sero's tape in order to hit Momo. So with a quick prayer in hopes that this improv-idea and probable-risk works, she ducks down and creates three wide rectangular shields as a barrier directly on a few lines of tape, peek-holes near the top of the barricade.

The problem with this is that Momo's been rendered stationary, too, her feet stuck on Sero's tape, making this match more on the side of a waiting game. Her original plan was almost the direct opposite of that: creating a polearm and slamming into Sero as fast as she could, knocking him out of bounds. The long-range game they're playing, though, would make her polearm useless—Sero would probably be able to take it away from her anyway by latching onto the weapon like he did her forearm.

Nervously, Momo extends and retracts the metal of her switchblade again and again. Sero seems to have covered a majority of the central platform in tape, confirming that it's double-sided (because why else would he do that if not to limit her area of movement?), before aiming for her shields. Sero might've made the adhesive stronger, which serves to her benefit and demise; her shields will hold strong because they're stuck to the ground, but one mighty tug from Sero if his tape's latched on, and it'll all fall down. Momo doesn't have time to plan; she has to think.

As Sero begins tugging on her barricade, Momo takes a quick moment to create some acetone from her fingers and let it pool around her feet. It should take five minutes at best for the adhesive around her to wear off. Though it might be useless because the mass amount of tape along the platform will still make her trapped, at least it's some form of mobility.

Okay, so—how does she deal with this? There's tape on the platform. Momo can create acetone to remove the adhesive, but it takes time that she can't afford. Sero's still on the other side of the platform, far out of her reach, and—

—huh? Wait...

Oh. Momo feels so, so foolish; if Sero's on the other side of the platform stiff, he isn't immune to his own tape. If he is, then his clothes most certainly aren't. If she could just...

She wastes no more time, creating a small grappling hook with only a couple sharp hooks and setting her finger on the trigger. Her middle shield's starting to fall, so she manages to shimmy over to one on her side, setting the tip of her grappling hook at the edge of the peephole it has. (The adhesive may be wearing off; Momo only had to twist her feet a few times to create friction for her to move them.) After a moment of hesitation (if the hook injures Sero, would she be reprimanded?), she pulls the trigger.

The hook whizzes through the air, latching onto Sero's shirt. He yelps in surprise, tape barrage momentarily subsiding as he glances down at the metal object digging into the fabric of his clothes with its barbs. And that moment when he's off-guard is all Momo needs.

Momo reverses the move he did on her in the beginning of the round, reeling the grappling hook back. Sero digs his heels into the concrete flooring, taping his shoes to the ground with quick-thinking. But the way he's frantically trying to yank the metal hook out instead of taking his shirt off (no, Momo is not a pervert, it's just a logical thing to do) or even tugging the grappling hook on his end tells her that he's panicking.

She creates another grappling hook and shoots that for more security, seeing it land on his collar. And with a grunt, Momo takes a step back and pulls.

The extra force is what she needed. Though his feet are still in his shoes, the rest of Sero's body hovers over his own area of tape, still being pulled and therefore held by Momo's grappling hooks. It feels like a Herculean task to keep her hands from letting the grappling hooks slip out, but she manages, continuing to tug and tug and tug and—

Sero falls. His shoes rip out of his tape, or maybe his feet slip out, but regardless, he tumbles down face-flat onto the tape-less concrete around him, soon pulled into the sticky area of his own making. Continuing to panic, he puts his hands on the floor, presumably to lift himself up, only to realize his mistake when his hands get stuck on it, too.

Midnight recognizes his defeat immediately, waiting a few seconds to make sure he truly can't get out. "Sero is incapacitated!" She soon shouts, the crack of her whip signalling the end of the match as it rings throughout the stadium. Soon after, the shouts of the crowds do, too.

Momo hesitantly knocks the middle part of her barrier down, stepping on it to get a little closer to Sero. There's still quite a distance between them, so she creates a large blanket to cover the entire ground, flapping it in the air once to use it fully. Once it lands on the tape-covered ground, just barely covering Sero's head (ah, she's gotta work on measurements), Momo walks on it, soon looming over Sero.

She crouches down. "Um, so. Does the adhesive ever wear off, or do you need—"

"—Yeah, I need help," Sero interrupts, muffled by the way his face is facing the ground. "My tape's adhesive can last for weeks depending on its strength, which then is based on my mood and more stuff."*

Momo winces, already creating diluted isopropyl from her palms and letting it pool around the closest of his hands. She then shifts to the piece of tape still on her arm, smattering it with isopropyl, too. Should be weaker than acetone, but she can't use it in large amounts, either. "Ah," she says, ignoring the way Midnight coos something about sportsmanship, over-exaggerating about Momo literally just helping someone out. "Sorry."

"Don't be! You just did what you needed to do to win." Over the still-roaring crowds and Midnight calling a hero to help, he adds, "That was cool, by the way! The whole grappling hook thing. Didn't even know you could make that."

Momo cracks a smile. "Start moving your fingers on this hand bit by bit," she instructs. "Also, that's honestly not the most intricate thing I've made."

"Really?! Then what is?" Sero's enthusiasm makes her pause, her smile faltering.

Eventually, with her smile a little brighter, she says, "Well..."

Momo begins to detail the times she's created machines of all sorts—even an attempt at recreating the Antikythera mechanism out of pure curiosity—while helping Sero break free from his tape prison. Though she does ramble during some stories, derailing the entire thing because Sero has to know about some mechanism or theory or thing, her smile stays the entire time.**

===

Fumikage feels unbearably seen as he steps up to his place across the field, the light shining down on his form along with the all-seeing cameras that record his every move like sharp needles scraping along his skin. The crowds are an annoying cacophony, one that grates in his mind incessantly, and Present Mic is no help. Once again he is reminded of how comforting the darkness of the night is, because though it is the unknown, at least it is familiar, a danger that he is used to.

Dark Shadow stirs worriedly in his consciousness, another welcoming comfort.

You alright, Fumi?

...The discomfort is manageable, Fumikage decides, eyes tracking his opponent. Regardless, it is insignificant in the face of this fight—especially with someone like Kaminari. Their introductions should be finished in just a moment's time, and thus—

Yep, yep—I'm already on it!

Dark Shadow, always in sync with Fumikage, starts to form as soon as Present Mic begins the match. It manifests in wisps of smoke and shadows, solidifying its form in compacted layers of darkness. As it forms, Dark Shadow curls around Fumikage like a snake, its illuminating gold eyes piercing even in the daylight.

They waste no time—with what Kaminari could do to them, they cannot afford to. Fumikage runs forward, feet pounding against the concrete platform. Dark Shadow reaches farther, distributing the density of its form to protect Fumikage while also giving strength to its upper half. In no time, they can take a swipe at Kaminari, and if they can do so, if they can have the advantage swiftly—

"Let's go," Kaminari shouts, aiming his hands at the ground, "one-point-three million volts!"

Reckless.

Both Dark Shadow and Fumikage reel back, but not in surprise. They have had to expect anything they could, considering the rampant, bright nature of lightning. Like planned, Dark Shadow coils around Fumikage like a cocoon, swaddling him in its embrace. Though this will still damage it, this is better than taking the risk to knock Kaminari out of bounds that will destabilize Dark Shadow even further and render Fumikage paralyzed. Fumikage instinctively raises his arms over his face, slamming his eyes shut.

There is a moment wherein the only sound that can be heard is crackling lightning running unrestrained over the field, a harbinger of chaos and destruction if they were in the foray. It dies down quickly, the air stinging with the remnants of Kaminari's sheer power. Fumikage lowers his arms slowly, his senses humming in displeasure at the unusual sharp air.

Dark Shadow's form does not seem to be too affected, still marginally wisps at its edges. Fumikage sets a gentle hand along it just to be sure, satisfied when his hand doesn't sink through or feel the buzz of lingering static.

When Dark Shadow speaks again, there is a seeping amusement permeating its tone.

All's good on my end! It's basically safe, but—

A sound like a badly-muffled caw rings out. Fumikage's confusion rises higher, because that is most certainly a laugh.

—Fumi, I told you that you worried too much!

When even more confusion fills his mind, that just makes Dark Shadow struggle to not laugh harder. It quickly unwraps Fumikage out of its coils, letting him adjust to the light of the day before revealing...

Ah.

You see?

Kaminari is entirely unable to fight. His mind seems to be fried, like what Fumikage had noticed after the Cavalry Battle as their class headed towards the cafeteria for sustenance. Dark Shadow fails to hold back more snickers as the two of them approach Kaminari's incapacitated form, Fumikage more wearily than Dark Shadow.

Gently, Fumikage pushes Kaminari in a way that the blond steps outside of the boundary line. The audience is silent, disappointed at an anti-climactic battle, but a few do start clapping when Midnight declares the winner of the match to be Fumikage.

Fumikage sighs quietly. He reaches out, shaking Kaminari's shoulder in hopes of getting him out of this stupor to no avail. With hazed eyes, thumbs up on both hands, and a silly smile, all Kaminari manages to do is say, "Whey."

You think he needs to go to the clinic, or can we take him to the class viewing booth?

That would be ill-advised, Fumikage believes, to whisk Kaminari straight to the booth. The only reason they were unscathed was because Dark Shadow was covering them; on the other hand, Kaminari had no such protection. In the face of his own power, he himself had overestimated the limits to his mortal form.

Alright. ...Should I carry him or something? Kaminari looks like he's about to collapse.

Yes, that would be ideal. With a drawback such as this, handling it with delicacy is essential.

Dark Shadow slips out of Fumikage's form once more, hesitating as to where its claws should go. It then decides to simply grasp Kaminari's collar, hoisting him up with ease. Without preamble, Fumikage starts walking away with Dark Shadow and Kaminari in tow, relishing in the shade that the entrance to the field provides as they leave the spotlight behind.

===

Tenya stands on his side of the battlefield, resolute in the face of all the attention on him. The taste of orange juice lingers on his tongue, his body filled with energy. Despite Midoriya looking equally as brave, Tenya's learnt some of his nervous ticks over their time at U.A.; such as the way Midoriya's eyes keep flitting around, how his shoulders are tense, and the way his fingers twitch.

It's inspiring, the way Midoriya keeps his brave face on when he smiles at him. "Good luck," he mouths. Tenya nods.

And as soon as Present Mic calls the start, Tenya bursts forward in a flash of movement, engines revving up. It's not his top speed, not yet, so he makes a risk and spends time running near the edges of the boundary of the platform. The only thing he has over Midoriya when he uses his Quirk is speed, after all, and even that may be by a hair.

Midoriya, far too used to tracking blurred figures and things, is easily able to watch him even through the dust-clouds Tenya's kicking up. (At the thought of a curtain concealing his moves, Tenya takes to skidding more at random intervals, making sure to be subtle.) He's standing still instead of warily trying to follow Tenya's every position by spinning around, having moved to the center of the platform to simply observe. When Tenya feels his engines burn with a familiar warmth and ache, he knows he can't wait any longer.

Bursting through the smokescreen he's created, Tenya reels his leg back, aiming for a hard kick to Midoriya's upper body—

—and gets blasted back by an equal, if not stronger force.

The disruption of his balance is startling but adaptable, his raised foot automatically using the explosion of power to stabilize his body by sliding behind him. His smokescreen's been pierced through, a clear circle where there was once dust. Tenya's been forced back, the bottom of his shoes making visible dark marks in the concrete flooring. He takes a glance behind him; he's close to the boundary line, his foot just a few feet away.

He looks forward again. Midoriya stands with a hand raised, a single finger glowing with the rivulets of the power his Quirk holds. It fades relatively quickly, and though Tenya can see some minuscule discoloration where the illuminated power once was, Midoriya is unaffected.

Tenya ducks back under the security of his curtain, only taking another lap around to kick more dust up before going in, this time aiming for Midoriya's legs—

Another knock-back. Dust swarms his face, getting on his glasses, and Tenya can only brush it off momentarily with his fingers.

He tries again and again, hyping his speed up further and aiming for different places. Every single attempt at a hit is blocked swiftly, and he is kept near the boundary line.***

Tenya shifts wearily.

This may not be a battle of power or speed—both Tenya and Midoriya have that, the latter having significantly more limitations on his strength, making them almost equally matched. This may just be a fight of stamina, of outlasting the other. Yet Midoriya has ten fingers and his legs, and Tenya only has just that: his legs.

He will lose, and Midoriya will rise.

The thought is disheartening. Tenya doesn't linger on it (—can't linger on it, even though it feeds into the parasite that lives in his mind that always chants about legacy, legacy, legacy.) He charges his engines up, and—

In a sudden change of plan, Tenya tries to lay lower. The way the platform shatters under them is the only reason why.

Cracks rip through the stone, carving out uneven, elevated platforms, leaving jagged edges, and letting fumes of dust rise. Tenya stands on a part that wasn't as affected yet still unstable, one of his feet higher than the other. The only reason he was able to keep himself stabilized and able to predict any of this was the widening of Midoriya's eyes and the way his offhand started to shine.

Midoriya himself stands in the center of it all, the area around him weathered terribly and indented slightly. He looks up at Tenya with a smile that screams triumph—not for the match, but for himself. Tenya feels a sense of confusion as he looks around, and—

—oh. Oh.

Tenya is not used to running on uneven terrain. Midoriya, on the other hand, having ricocheted along walls and platforms (or even trees and rocks) a thousand times before, is far too used to it. Midoriya has stolen the one tool Tenya can use, and the thing he's given in this trade is a height advantage. That won't help when Midoriya can just blast him out of the air and make him collapse onto jagged, sharp terrain.

Tenya purses his lips. He has to go all in anyways. (Legacy, legacy, legacy.)