Saitama was bored. Really, really bored.
The little tent he had been shuffled into was hot, crowded, and loud. Everywhere he looked, people in costumes shouted over each other, waving clipboards or glowing tablets as they argued about something he didn’t care to understand.
He caught snippets about “damage reports,” “Leviathan’s corpse,” “evacuation zones,” “civilian casualties,” and “unidentified parahuman interference.” Whatever that meant.
He didn't really care. He just wanted to go home.
Saitama glanced down at the grocery bag he’d somehow managed to keep hold of during the whole ordeal. The eggs were cracked, the leeks were bent, and the tofu was now more of a paste than a block. He sighed.
“Great. Dinner’s ruined.” He paused. “…Should’ve let Genos handle this one.”
If he’d known everyone was going to make such a big deal out of him punching the monster, he would’ve just gone home instead.
He leaned back on the flimsy folding chair someone had given him, the metal creaking under his weight. Nobody had spoken to him since dragging him here. They just kept sneaking looks at him, whispering to each other, and occasionally gesturing like he was some kind of zoo exhibit.
It was all so boring.
Saitama yawned, scratching the side of his head. Maybe he could ask if there was a supermarket nearby. The city looked too wrecked to have a decent one, but it was worth a shot. He still needed dinner, and… now that he thought about it, none of this looked familiar.
That was when he noticed someone standing in front of him.
The guy had been talking, apparently. His mouth was moving, but Saitama hadn’t caught a single word.
Ah, crap. Had he zoned out again? That wasn’t good.
He raised a hand. “Uh… can you shorten what you have to say to twenty words or less?”
The man blinked, caught off guard. He wore a sky-blue bodysuit that was skintight, complete with a mask and his own insignia on his chest. His outfit looked way more professional than what most of the heroes in the Hero Association wore.
“Right,” the man said finally, forcing a smile. “I just wanted to thank you for killing Leviathan—”
“Leviathan?”
“The Endbringer,” the man clarified, tone tight. “But we have no record of you anywhere. Just who are you?”
No record? That didn’t make sense. He might not be S-Class, but he was definitely registered. Everyone in the Association knew him. Well… mostly.
“I’m Saitama,” he said plainly. “B-Class hero.”
That didn’t seem to help. The guy turned and exchanged glances with two others, like the same man in a skintight blue-green suit with a hood and cape, and a woman in a black costume and steel helmet. They all looked at him like he’d just announced he was an alien.
He waited.
“…So,” Saitama said eventually, “does this city have a Hero Association branch, or what?”
No one answered right away. The blue-suited hero hesitated, visibly trying to piece together what to say.
Saitama crossed his arms. “So where exactly is this, anyway? I don’t recognize the area. Is this part of City Z’s outskirts?”
The man’s expression shifted, something like realization dawning, followed quickly by unease. He took a small step closer, voice dropping low.
“This isn’t City Z,” he said. “This is Brockton Bay.”
Saitama stared at him. “…Never heard of it.”
The man took a breath. “You’re not on your planet, Saitama. You’re in another world.”
Saitama blinked once, then twice. “…Oh.”
There was a long pause. The other heroes were watching him closely, maybe expecting shock, panic, or disbelief.
Instead, Saitama sighed, resting his chin on his hand.
“Man,” he muttered, “does that mean I have no place to stay?”
The man’s mouth opened, then closed again.
Saitama looked up again. “So, uh, does this world have supermarkets? I kinda need to replace my groceries.”
No one said anything, but someone in the back coughed.
Saitama sat back, staring blankly at the tent ceiling. “Guess I’ll find one myself,” he muttered, but made no move to leave yet.