When Edna Mode’s phone rang that morning, she was elbow-deep in a whirlwind of creativity. Her studio looked like a battlefield: rare fabrics, spools of thread, and metallic prototypes lay scattered alongside sketches scribbled in every direction. She was putting the finishing touches on a new fireproof textile inspired by dragon scales—a revolutionary material that could withstand infernal temperatures while remaining as supple as silk.
She was just about to test its resilience when the shrill ring of the telephone shattered the sacred silence of her focus.
“Who dares?” she growled, snatching the device with her fingertips.
On the other end, a trembling male voice struggled to sound formal.
“Ms. Mode? This is Hiroshi Tanaka from the prestigious U.A. High School… Our hero academy in Japan has an… urgent need for your expertise.”
Edna pushed her glasses up onto her forehead, as if the gesture alone might clarify the situation.
“Hm? Another institution incapable of dressing its heroes properly?”
“Well… it’s just that,” Tanaka began, hesitating. “Let’s say our young heroes lack… functional elegance.”
Edna narrowed her eyes, already sensing the sartorial disaster lurking behind those diplomatic euphemisms.
“I’m on my way,” she declared, hanging up without waiting for more.
Three hours later, she was en route to Tokyo, sketchbook under her arm, pen already poised to correct the world’s fashion sins. She gazed out the plane window like a queen surveying her domain, her glasses reflecting sunlight off the clouds. A heroic mission awaited—though she already suspected what she would find.
Upon arrival at U.A., the welcome was fit for an empress of style: red carpet, cameras, awkward bows, and students whispering her name with a mix of reverence and dread. Edna acknowledged it with a magnanimous nod.
She expected the worst. She was not disappointed.
In the exhibition hall, lined up like poorly dressed soldiers, were the prototype costumes for Japan’s future heroes. Edna stopped dead in the center of the room, her breath catching.
Capes. Dozens of capes.
Long, short, frilled, sequined, patterned with traditional motifs, printed with digital designs, some even equipped with multicolored LEDs… a few unfurled automatically at the press of a button.
Silence lasted one second. Then:
“CAPES?!” Edna roared, her voice booming like thunder. “Capes… in the 21st century?!”
The students jumped. The teachers took a step back.
“Did I learn Japanese for NOTHING?!” she thundered, throwing her arms in the air. “Do you want to train heroes or stage a carnival parade?!”
One student, clearly volunteered by his braver classmates, attempted an explanation.
“Ms. Mode, it’s… it’s noble! It’s heroic! It’s part of our traditions!”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Edna blinked slowly. Very slowly.
“Tradition? Noble? HEROIC? Very well, very well. Projection!” she commanded, snapping her fingers.
Assistants activated a giant screen. Immediately, catastrophic clips began to play:
—A hero sucked into a jet engine because his cape was too long;
—Another lifted off the ground after his cape caught in a helicopter rotor;
—A third trapped in an automatic sliding door, flailing like a desperate puppet.
The students paled. Some covered their mouths. Others whispered, “No… it can’t be…”
Edna, unrelenting, moved to the next clip: a hero bursting into flames because his synthetic cape was not fireproof in the slightest.
She turned back to the assembly, triumphant.
“A cape is elegant suicide,” she declared, each syllable falling like a guillotine. “Style, yes. Drama, sometimes. Stupid death? Absolutely not.”
She tapped her sketchbook.
“A dead hero saves no one. And certainly not fashion.”
Terrified but convinced, the students handed over their costumes. Edna imposed her methods:
“RIP THAT UP.”
“THROW OUT THAT ABOMINATION.”
“Who thought a built-in fan in the collar was a good idea? I want their name!”
In just a few days, she transformed the academy into a workshop of functional high couture.
Smart fibers that reacted to danger. Aerodynamic suits that followed every movement. Materials that absorbed impacts and redistributed energy. Colors chosen for visibility, psychology, and team coordination.
Each costume became the perfect extension of its wearer: efficient, durable, elegant… and above all, with nothing fluttering uselessly behind.
The day of the final parade arrived.
Under Tokyo’s blue sky, the young heroes marched with newfound pride. Journalists, cameras, influencers—everyone held their breath.
And when the first class appeared…
Not a single cape.
The crowd erupted in applause. Some teachers wept with emotion. Even All Might, present for the event, placed a hand over his heart and said sincerely:
“Splendid!”
Edna stood with arms crossed, watching the scene. Satisfied, yes—but already imagining improvements for the following year.
Before leaving, she placed a carefully calligraphed note on Principal Nezu’s desk:
Capes belong in theater, not on the battlefield.
With love — Edna Mode.
The principal read it three times, sighed, and realized he would have to overhaul an entire curriculum.
As for Edna, she boarded her plane, adjusted her glasses, and murmured:
“The world may not be ready for me yet… but it will get there.”
ns216.73.216.33da2
and then Add to home screen.