Ch: 2 [Past and Present]

As I devoured my lunch, I couldn't help but steal glances at Dean Clara. She had an air of confidence and allure that was impossible to ignore. Her voice was like honey, and her casual demeanor seemed at odds with her position as the dean.

"Enjoying your meal, Travis?" she asked, smirking as she caught me staring.

"Yeah, it's good," I replied, trying to focus on my food instead of her captivating presence.

"You know, Travis, you're not the typical student here," she said, her gaze piercing through me.

"What do you mean?"

"Most students here are content with their scholarships, not daring to dream beyond. But you, you seem different. You have a certain fire in your eyes."

I looked down at my plate, my cheeks warming up. "I just do what it takes to survive. It's a big cruel world out there. And someone like me with a useless Quirk has to find a way to stand out."

"Useless? Oh, I don't believe that for a second," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Every Quirk has its own unique potential. It's all about how you use it."

I glanced at her, skeptical. "You really think so? My Quirk is just reversing small objects. It's not exactly flashy or powerful."

"Power isn't always about being flashy," she mused. "Think about it, Travis. There's more to a hero than just raw strength. Sometimes, it's about innovation, strategy, and the ability to adapt."

I took a bite of my food, mulling over her words.

"You know," I began, a touch of vulnerability in my voice, "when I was a kid, I used to believe that my quirk had more to it. My parents, my brother, my two sisters – they all had these incredible quirks. And then there was me, the odd one out with a quirk that could barely reverse spilled coffee into a cup."

Dean Clara's gaze was steady as she listened, her expression empathetic. I continued, "My family tried to help me improve, they trained me, hoping I'd get stronger. I remember one time my father even shot me, thinking I could reverse the bullet and save myself. But all I could do was watch as the bullet dug into my shoulder."

I pulled my shirt aside to reveal the faded scar, a painful reminder of that moment. Her eyes were fixed on the scar, her expression unreadable. It felt strangely weird to share this with her, as if a weight was lifting off my shoulders.

"They... they left me after that," I admitted, my voice cracking slightly. "They thought I was a failure, a disappointment. They couldn't understand why I couldn't harness my quirk like the rest of them."

As I recounted my story to Dean Clara, her gaze remained fixed on me, her expression a mixture of empathy and understanding. It felt strange to open up about such painful memories, but somehow, her presence made it easier to share.

"They left you just like that?" she asked, her tone a mix of incredulity and concern.

"Yeah," I replied, my voice tinged with bitterness. "I was eight years old. They just left me at the train station and disappeared."

"That's... incredibly harsh," she said, her voice softening. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Travis."

"Don't be," I sighed. "I barely remember their faces anymore." I shook my head, pulling myself out of my solemn thoughts. "Anyway, I am glad I get to live my life my way rather than being shackled by the expectations of others. Sure, it might be tough sometimes, but nothing worthwhile comes easy, right?"

"That's a rather mature outlook to have," she remarked, offering a tentative smile.

"Years on the streets will make you grow up quickly," I said, my lips quirking upwards, "but I'd rather not let the past dictate my future."

Dean Clara's gaze met mine and she gave me a nod of approval. "Words to live by, Travis."

We continued our meal in relative silence, my words hanging in the air. It was a strange feeling to share such an intimate part of myself with her, especially considering how little I knew her. But somehow, it was also cathartic in a way, and her nonjudgmental listening was comforting.

As we finished our meals, she took the cup of lemonade, "So, how did you get off the streets?"

"Truth be told I got lucky," I began, leaning back in my chair. "After my family abandoned me, I had to fend for myself. I did odd jobs, whatever I could find, just to survive."

Dean Clara's gaze remained fixed on me as she listened intently. It was strange to share so much of my past with her, but there was something about her presence that made it feel natural.

"One day, I stumbled upon an old man named Mr. Johnson. He ran a small repair shop in a rundown neighborhood. He saw something in me, I guess, and offered me a place to stay in exchange for helping around the shop. It wasn't much, but it was a roof over my head."

"A kind soul," she commented, her voice soft.

"Yeah," I nodded, a small smile tugging at my lips. "He taught me the basics of fixing things – cars, gadgets, you name it. It was like... I had a purpose."

She was looking at me and listening without blinking her eyes.

"I owe a lot to Mr. Johnson," I said, my voice filled with gratitude. "He even paid for my school. So, I put in more effort. That's how I got the scholarship."

"Sounds like a wise man," she said.

"He was," I replied, my tone tinged with nostalgia. "Unfortunately, he passed away a few years ago. But to my surprise, he left all he has in my name. The lawyer said that he lost his family in a villain attack and he... Well... He left everything he owned to me..."

Dean Clara's eyes softened, and there was a touch of sadness in her expression. "He must have seen something special in you, Travis."

"I'd like to think so," I replied, a mixture of emotions welling up inside me. "He believed in me when no one else did."

"He left quite an impact on your life," she said, her voice gentle.

"He did. And I'm determined to make the most of the opportunities he's given me," I said, a newfound determination in my tone.

Dean Clara leaned back in her chair, regarding me thoughtfully. "You know. I've met many students in my time, but there's something about you that's different."

I raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious. "Different how?"

"You have this... resilience about you," she explained, her eyes locked onto mine. "You've faced hardships, yet you haven't let them define you. Instead, you've forged your own path, and you're unapologetically yourself."

"I guess when life hands you lemons, you better learn how to make some damn good lemonade," I quipped, a faint smirk playing on my lips.

She laughed, a sound that was both warm and inviting. "Indeed. It's a valuable skill to have."

We sat there for a moment, sharing a genuine laugh amidst the casual chatter of the cafeteria. It was a surreal experience, conversing with the dean in such an informal setting. The walls between us seemed to blur, and for a moment, it felt like we were just two people having a conversation.

"If you don't mind me asking..." She continued, "What would you do if you ever meet your parents again or your siblings?"

"Meet them again?" I repeated, taken aback by the sudden shift in the conversation. "Honestly, I haven't thought about that in years. I've moved on, and I'm content with the life I've built for myself."

She leaned forward, her expression thoughtful. "But what if they reached out to you? What if they wanted to reconnect?"

I sighed, my gaze turning distant as memories resurfaced. "You see, a part of me is angry, hurt... abandoned. Another part of me wants closure, wants to know why they left me."

"That's understandable," she said, her voice gentle. "It's natural to want answers, to seek some form of resolution."

"I've built a life without them," I continued, my words tinged with a mixture of resignation and determination. "I've learned to rely on myself and that old man was the only family I had. If they suddenly walked back into my life... They can just... FUCK OFF!"