Shouto sat hunched, his forehead mapping the terrain of his laced fingers as the teacher continued to drone on about potential paths that awaited them after middle school. Why did it matter? Given his quirk, everyone expected him to become a professional hero. It was almost unheard of for an individual to inherit such a perfect combination of their parent's quirks. Once again, he was being sold the illusion of choice.
"Todoroki, I suppose you'll be trying out for a position at U.A." Came the teacher's voice, as if to mock him.
A simple nod was his prescribed reply as the classroom was once again filled with the vicarious whispers of fellow students. As always, he was the object of their sheeplike admiration.
"Now class, please fill out the following forms. I know with the continuous evolution of existing quirks and being 5th generation quirk-wielders, professional heroism is growing in popularity; but we must be realistic about your future. After all some quirks are better suited to more modest jobs, which can be just as, if not more respectable than being a hero. Remember, it's not about what quirk you have, it's about how you choose to use it."
The murmurs died down considerably as the teacher hovered his hand over the papers, ushering them to their respective desks with his Beta quirk, Selective Levitation. Such quirks were common, but their skill ceilings were too low to be effectively trained for hero work; as such wielders usually pursued normal jobs, only using their quirks for convenience. Once the class was busied, the teacher began making his way to the back of the classroom, where Shouto was sat, eyes glazed as he idly stared at puffs of frost he was exhaling.
"Now I do suppose you saw this coming and you probably saw the speech I gave earlier to be comical, since you stand out as a gifted exception even among young alphas. Not to mention your father's prowess." Sighed the teacher, reaching into his pocket to produce a yellowed envelope. "I hope that you work hard and go on to become a symbol of peace for your generation."
Shouto stared down at the envelope, U.A.'s logo neatly printed on the cliché red wax seal. Trust his father to make his life a living hell.
"Class dismissed."
Shouto wasn't sure if the envelope from U.A. was protected by some underground hero's security quirk, but it had admittedly made his bag seem heavier on the walk home from school. The chances of students being admitted to U.A. via recommendation was so low that is was a myth of sorts within his middle school. A fairy tale made up by quirkless students to lure arrogant quirk-wielders into a false sense of security before their final exams. Of course, the reigning No. 2 Professional Hero, Endeavor, would easily be able to pull some strings here and there to guarantee his son a position. Once again, his enrolment in U.A. only served to satisfy his father's vicarious exploits.
Shouto turned to admire his housing unit; it wasn't much, but it was his. A modest 300 square feet with a living room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. It was cramped and lacked most modern luxuries, but it was good enough if it meant he didn't have to come home to his father's self-inflicted housefires every day. Following his parent's divorce and government intervention he had been granted the options of a youth allowance or foster care. The whole ordeal had been kept a secret from the press of course, which meant signing a pile of legal and confidentiality agreements. Shouto was rather convinced that by age 15 he had signed more confidentially agreements than the average professional hero. At least it was good practice for his future career path.
Concealing his Gamma status would be even easier in a school full of Alphas; and given the high skill ceiling of his future classmates he'd be called on less by teacher to demonstrate his "natural-born" talents. Shouto knew that such thoughts were just his feeble attempts at optimism; no one would suspect him of being a Gamma since practically no one even knew of the status to begin with. The government had long since passed laws that forced all known Gammas to be registered as Alphas on their medical papers, and a mass signing of confidentiality agreements.
Although his father had rejoiced the birth of a second Gamma within the family, Shouto had seen it as nothing but a lifelong curse. Gammas could only be produced by an Alpha-Alpha pairing, and even then, the chances of an offspring bearing the status was a meagre 1%. Since a majority of Alphas preferred to search for their fated mates, rather than canoodling among their own; there was only six formally documented Gammas in existence that Shouto knew of. After all Alpha-Alpha pairings usually resulted in constant power-struggles. Which ultimately ended in divorce and a domineering Alpha female being stuck with whatever children she managed to birth. Gammas were nothing but harbingers of misery and destruction as far as Shouto was concerned. Their unrivalled power and astronomically high skill ceilings; coupled with a complete pheromone resistance made them more likely than any other status to turn to villainy.
Shouto's gaze flickered over the dented kettle on the stove; his fingers tracing the scarred flesh outlining his left eye. It was almost laughable that someone who could heat water by simply holding a cup in their left hand had insisted on holding onto the outdated piece of technology. Then again, this was the same child who had once frantically tried to extinguish his crude fabric toys and hand-carved wooden figures of All Might every time his father had set them ablaze. The same child who had clung to his mother's legs and begged her not to go as she was dragged away from him and paramedics tended to his wounds.
Settling down on the well-loved tatami, Shouto dug the envelope out of his bag. Ignoring the mild itch that had been pestering his left hand since he'd received it, he flicked open the seal. Grabbing the encased paper with his right hand, he allowed a sheet of frost to form over it, a smirk of satisfaction gracing his lips as he launched it at the door and watched as the shards slowly melted into the doormat, leaving the waterlogged scraps to mark point of impact. The smell of burning plastic filling the room as the pocket-sized projector short-circuited and fizzled out in the newly formed puddles.
He was going to do this on his own terms, whether his father approved or not.