(Tuesday)

Fuyumi Todoroki can pinpoint the exact day that her father began to change. It wasn't anything sudden or unusual, but it had a cause and now, two years after Touya ran away from home, their dad is different.

It's not a very-good different, or a very-bad different. Nice, if you ask Fuyumi, and Absolutely Meaningless, if you ask Natsuo.

"Yeah, he's different," the eleven-year-old rolls his eyes, brooding over his iced tea. "But he's still a dick—a jerk, sheesh, Fuyumi."

She still gives her brother a pointed look, unable to back down on this topic. "First of all, you're too young for that language. Second of all—can't you admit dad's trying, and that means something?"

Natsuo crosses his arms. "Yeah, it means he doesn't wanna ruin the rest of his offspring."

Fuyumi deflates. "He cares about our feelings. About Shouto's feelings too."

But her brother just shakes his head, carefully setting his glass in the sink and wiping his hands. "Fine, he doesn't want us to end up like Mom or Touya. But don't kid yourself, sis. Being decent now doesn't make up for what he's already done."

Dad never mentions Touya.

But if a shouting match started up between Natsuo and him—as it does, too often and too passionate—it was more likely to end with Enji storming out of the house to cool off rather than Natsuo sneaking out in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. While Enji still trains Shouto most of the time, he also lurks around the courtyard of their home and yells at Fuyumi to do her physics homework. He demands a curfew for Natsuo when he's working at a friend's house, and when Fuyumi asked if she could have a cake for her birthday, Enji came home early enough to corral her brothers so they could all have supper together.

Granted, he has a busy schedule and it was actually four days after her birthday, but the effort is real.

And the most important difference for them all is Shouto. Shouto is still quiet, is still, painfully, the favorite, but after Touya's disappearance, Fuyumi starts to see him around the house more often, usually eyeing the book she's reading or the handheld game Natsuo is playing. Which means their dad isn't training as much with their youngest brother, and wasn't trying to separate them anymore.

And it's so nice to get to know her youngest brother. Before, she didn't know a thing about him.

One day, while the three of them are home at the same time for once, Fuyumi gets up and shows Shouto that she's reading poetry for a literature class. She reads out a few of her assigned poems and explains what they're about. And Shouto doesn't say anything at all while she talks, just roams over the text with mismatched eyes.

But when she finishes talking, her eight-year-old brother looks up at her and says, frank and simple, "This isn't half as good as the way you explain it. I bet your poetry is a lot better than this crap."

Across the kitchen, Natsuo explodes into laughter, startling both of them. Fuyumi flushes, at both Natsuo and Shouto, because yeah she does have her own poetry but no one's even read it before, and also— "Sh-Shouto, you shouldn't speak like that! Who taught you that word, one of your tutors?"

Shouto gives one slow blink, and then replies, "The old man."

There's a muffled "Oh my GOD," from Natsuo, and Fuyumi slaps her own forehead.

"Shouto, don't call him that! That's not very nice!" She insists.

"That's how he talks," her youngest brother answers, raising an eyebrow. "And Natsuo calls him that too."

Fuyumi stares, conflicted between admonishing her brother and simply being in awe of his cheekiness. She's oddly proud of him.

"Correction: I call him damn old man!" Natsuo informs them, pausing in the middle of a math problem to join them on the staircase.

"But," Fuyumi flounders, setting her book aside. "But it's disrespectful? He's our dad! And he's not that old!"

"That's what the old man says too," Natsuo agrees with a wicked grin. "Don't listen to 'Yumi, Shou-chan. Or dad, for that matter. They don't know what's good for you."

"And you do?" Fuyumi shoves at Natsuo as soon as he plops down next to her. "Don't confuse him, Natsuo, he's only eight!"

"Then…" their youngest brother draws their attention, "Then who do I listen to?" Shouto asks flatly, his brow beginning to furrow. "I don't want to always listen to Dad, but you two keep saying different things to me. And… Mom's not here. So."

His two older siblings pause, and exchange a quick look between each other.

Fuyumi chews on her lip for a moment, but when Natsuo doesn't speak up, she answers. "Yourself, Shouto. I think that's what Mom would say."

Their little brother looks back at the two of them with a little less conflict in his eyes than before, and Fuyumi thinks she's said the right thing.

As Shouto slips off to start his tutoring session and Natsuo returns to his homework, Fuyumi knows it's because of Dad that the conversation even took place. And Natsuo might not get it, but Fuyumi is grateful for the family she still has, Enji included.


On good days, she feels like a gardener. A creator. A shepard. It's not so bad, thinking of her role this way. She plants seeds and fosters them into great, blossoming worlds of knowledge and truth. It feels right. It resonates truth. It is beautiful.

Now, though, as a young boy lies thrashing on the operating table, screaming for someone that will not do a thing, Umeko Shinsou only feels drained.

"We'll fix it," the nurse beside her assures Umeko. "You haven't seen our full staff, we can reverse the procedure if it goes too far."

She centers herself. Ensures that her voice won't waver, will not leak any of the spiraling emotions in her head. "Hasn't it already?"

The nurse only gives her a pitying smile. As if Umeko has yet to grasp the importance of their work, as if Umeko is an outsider. But the nurse, a simple tool in the grand scope of their undertaking, could not be any farther from the truth.

Is this the only way?


(Tuesday Night)

Her leg is kind of fucked from the match, according to Hajime the medic. Toph listens with a deep frown on her face, feeling herself shake from the pain rather than the adrenaline. The lacerations have been sealed up completely, but there's serious muscle strain and the possibility of a tear from what the medic can assess. She can't put much pressure on her leg without it sending jolts of pain up her body, and there's nothing more Hajime can do about it.

Toph leans her head back on the cot. "Well, fuck." Her eyes are watering, but she couldn't care less. It hurts. She's in trouble.

The medic huffs. "Watch your tongue, missy. I don't know why Loban lets you fight, you're a liability to the Rumble like this."

Toph sticks her tongue out. "I-I've been doing this for months, usually I just get scrapes," she argues, but her voice wavers dangerously. It's beginning to get hard for her to focus on the sounds around her, and trying to sense vibrations is out of the question.

Hajime tsks. "You need a hospital. At the very least, you need a brace for that knee."

"I can't wear a brace," Toph snaps, shaking her head roughly, wiping at her eyes again. There's already a roll of stretchy bandaging material on the cot, ready to be used, and Toph knows it'll be too noticeable during the day. She hears the door open, and for once, she can't bothered to sense for who it is. The answer's apparent as soon as they speak anyway.

"You're still in here, brat? Fucked up that bad, eh?" Hotshot strolls toward her at a slow, even pace.

"What're you doing here?" Toph snaps again. "Get out, asshole."

The footsteps stop. "Can't you tell? Doc, does this need to be sealed or not?" Hajime leaves her side, and Toph frowns again. She'd assumed Hotshot was just here to annoy her, and she couldn't sense an injury.

While the two of them were preoccupied—Hotshot just had a long shallow cut that needed gauze—Toph sat up on the cot, carefully stretching out her right leg until her toes brush against the floor.

Nothing.

What the fuck—oh, wait, it's back. Toph shudders, gripping the papery bedsheet beneath her. For a moment she couldn't make sense of the vibrations around the room at all, and the world felt about as orderly as a tower of blocks toppling over. Toph shakes her head. She did get punched in the head, maybe that's causing the delay.

"Hajime, how can I tell if I have a concussion?" She asks, and then remembers that fucking Hotshot is right there. "I'm fine," she adds quickly, reaching out to feel for the wall. She can balance on one leg for now and escape.

The medic is already rushing towards her. "Sit, sit! Good grief, kid, don't you try to stand with that leg!" He's in front of her quickly, pushing her back onto the cot.

She lets him without complaint. Holy crap, her knee hurts. Her eyes are watering again. "You have painkillers, right? Nothing too strong…"

"What you need is localized anesthetic," Hajime worries, carefully avoiding her leg. "What's this about a concussion? Are you feeling dizzy or sensitive to sound at all?"

Toph scrunches up her nose. She only feels dizzy from the knee pain. As for her sensitivity… "Not really. If anything I'm less sensitive, I can't even—" she pauses, concentrating, and then she's able to locate Hotshot again, sitting in a fold-out chair to her left. "Ugh, I'm just tired," Toph says dismissively.

"Bandit, if you have a concussion on top of this knee—"

"I don't," Toph says more confidently. "I'm okay. I've got a hard skull, you've seen me break through concrete head-on."

The medic sighs irritably. "You still need to get that knee looked at. Stay here and ice that leg. I have other people to check on, and I'm telling Loban you won't be in the ring for a while."

"What?" Toph raises her eyebrows. "Hold up, I didn't say—"

"No, I'm saying it," Hajime rises, dodging her grabby hand. "Unless you get Recovery Girl to kiss you, you'll be out for at least two weeks."

"Who's that?" Toph asks, bewildered. "Wait, Hajime—" she lurches forward, swears colorfully at how her knee moves, and then the door swings shut behind the medic, leaving the room painfully silent.

Hotshot shifts in his seat, which reminds Toph that he's right there. She grimaces, reaching for the ice pack Hajime left for her. What the hell is she going to do? How could she fuck up in a fight so badly?

"What happened?" Hotshot says after a moment. "Reel Pop caught you off-guard. I've never seen you go down like that."

"I didn't go down," Toph denies immediately. "I won, remember?"

"Sure," he answers, but his voice is thick with sarcasm. "You ever heard of a pyrrhic victory?"

Toph scowls. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You don't—?" He snorts. "Whoops. Sometimes I forget you're an actual child."

"You call me a brat, like, all the time."

He snorts again. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, a pyrrhic victory is when you win, but you're so fucked from the fight that you might as well have lost."

"Oh, so like all of your fights," Toph quips, though it does sound about right.

"Hey, fuck you too," he replies, but at this points it's delivered more like a casual greeting than an insult. "What are you gonna do about that leg?" he asks her, oddly solemn.

She's been trying to figure that out since Hajime told her she couldn't be fixed by him. Toph traces the swelling outline of her knee lightly. "...I can't hide this at all."

Hotshot simply hums in agreement.

She can wear leggings under her school uniform, it's still cold enough for her to do that. But walking on it, without painkillers or an ice pack… She has a driver to take her to school and back, and a maid that sees her out of the house each morning. She could make it past them, but a whole day of classes, with people like Tenya Iida breathing down her neck…

"Bandit," Hotshot calls to her quietly. "Is there anyone you can go to for this? Anyone that knows you fight here?"

Toph doesn't answer, biting hard on the inside of her cheek.

"I'm not trying to rat you out," he continues, "We don't use our real names here for a reason, I get it, but maybe you should talk to Loban about it. He has connections, he could get you treated—"

"I go to school, Hotshot," she cuts him off. She thinks over her words quickly and carefully. "And I can't show up with a brace or a cast or any indication I'm injured. That's the problem, nothing else." She rubs her face, feeling the tension over her brow. "I-I'l get treated if I can, but no one can know what really happened."

"...Okay," he concedes after a moment, still sounding oddly serious. "You've held up alright with bruises before. How's the pain?"

Toph trembles, shaking her head. "Bad. I can't walk. But I haven't been given and medication yet."

"Well, I think we can do that much," Hotshot decides, rifling through plastic bottles. "Ibuprofen should bring the swelling down too. Take one now, don't take any more for at least four hours."

He hands her a pill. Toph frowns. Since when did Hotshot know anything about treating injuries? Also, she can't tell if the pill is what he says it is. It's hard enough for her to trust their actual medic, Toph can't just do whatever Hotshot says.

Her trepidation must be visible on her face (and the fact that she hasn't moved to actually swallow the pill), because Hotshot huffs and drags a chair over to her. "I'm not trying to kill you or anything, kid. I swear it's just a painkiller."

Toph listens hard. He's sitting close enough for her to hear his heartbeat properly now. "Say that again," she requests. "Promise me."

He scoffs. "I promise it's just ibuprofen. It won't kill you," he repeats with exaggerated slowness.

She's heard him try to lie before, and this… sounds truthful. Toph takes the pill, chasing it with a sip of tap water. Then she downs the whole cup of water, feeling absolutely parched. Hotshot gets up without a word. Instead of leaving, though, the faucet turns on, and he fill another paper cup with water. "Drink more," he instructs.

She can't tell where the cup is without putting her foot on the ground, so she just holds out her hands and waits for him to pass it to her. It's what she does at home, where Toph has to make it painfully obvious that she's blind. She hates having to do it here, but it takes too much concentration to use her senses right now.

Toph sips on the water silently. Hotshot retakes his seat. In the back of her mind, Toph knows that this isn't like him. They might not be as rude to each other any more, but Hotshot's never been voluntarily helpful. He's never missed an opportunity to tease her about her height, age, or blindness. They don't hang out except to train, and usually it comes with a lot more cynical humor and broody teenage drama.

But right now, with her knee hurting like crazy even with the painkiller and ice pack, with no idea how she's going to make sure people don't get suspicious of Toph Beifong, she doesn't care why he's being nice.

"Who do you have to hide that injury from?" Hotshot asks suddenly.

Toph bites her lip. She won't give away anything else. "I can't show up to school—"

"Yeah, you said that, but you could make up a story for school. Not everyone's going to look so carefully. So who are you really hiding it from?" He presses. "Because my money's on your parents. If you go to school, they'll want to confirm your story with whoever you live with."

Toph glares. Forget being nice, she doesn't need this stupid teenager sticking his nose where doesn't belong. She can't let anyone know who she is, she can't let them know—

"I told you, brat, I'm not gonna rat you out. But jeez, quirk fighting right under your parents' noses? Pretty fucking ballsy." He lets out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair until it creaks from the weight.

"That's one word for it," Toph replies reluctantly. "No one can know I got injured like this in the ring. It wouldn't just get me in trouble, I promised Loban that I wouldn't be a risk."

"I know," Hotshot agrees. "Anyone could raise an alarm and get the Rumble shut down if they knew either of us were underage contenders to begin with."

It was the inability to confirm their ages that kept the Rumble out of trouble. Quirks could manifest in all sorts of weird physical ways, and it's not much of a stretch for a person to appear younger than their actual age, regardless of their abilities. But if Iida or one of her teachers thought for a second that she was doing something dangerous at all, they wouldn't hesitate to raise some concerns about her.

The paper cup feels fragile in her hands. Toph thinks hard, and feels the cup crumple under her fingers. "I think I have a solution," she says cautiously, picking up the roll of elastic bandage laying on the cot. Maybe she can fake an injury at school, and pass it off like that. "Help me wrap up my knee."

"What're you thinking?" Hotshot asks skeptically, even as he unrolls the bandages. "If anyone asks…"

"If I can do this right," Toph says firmly, "Then no one will ask anything. Tomorrow is Wednesday, I'll get treated and I'll see you on Saturday for training." She might feel sick to her stomach in the process, but it's still true. It sounds bizarre in her head. She'd have to, what? Trip down the stairs? Get Iida to run her over? Toph doesn't like that idea at all. She has secrets, but she's never had to lie like this. She can't put the blame on someone else…

Hotshot is quiet, focusing on wrapping up her knee tight enough for her to move around in. "And if I don't see you?"

Toph lets the breath whoosh out of her. When she first sat down on the cot to be treated, her eyes began tearing up as soon as she moved her leg. But she didn't cry. There was no outright sobbing. She doesn't do that, not at the Rumble. But she feels like crying now. "If you don't see me, that means..."

I should tell him, Toph thinks randomly. Isn't there a sort of safety in telling a stranger your secrets? He has no interest in getting her trouble. But what can she even tell him? Her identity? Her suspicions about her parents? The kidnapping?

Do not speak of that, the order abruptly sears across her thoughts like a hot poker, and Toph flinches. "H-Hotshot," she whispers, but no other words come out. She can't breathe. What is happening?

"Oi, kid," she can hear him faintly, but it's as if she's trying to listen through ten walls. Through ten feet of earth. There's a bitter metallic taste in her mouth again, and Toph recognizes it as blood. She bit her tongue. She can't breathe.

Then someone grabs her shoulder and shakes her. "Hey, Bandit, what the fuck just happened?"

Toph gasps, dropping the paper cup and grabbing his shirt sleeve. "I don't know. I can't t-tell. I can't tell anyone—" she bites down hard on her lip this time, and no matter what she does she can't speak. She can't think this way. "I'm not allowed."

Do not speak of it. She hadn't known how much power that order held until now. She's never tried to talk about the kidnappers before, has she?

"Breathe, kid. Just breathe for a minute, okay?" Hotshot says, rather frazzled now. "I can get Hajime back here, let me just—"

She tightens her grip on his sleeve and shakes her head. "No." She tries breathing like he said, and doesn't know why she keeps breathing so fast, but she has to calm down. "No, I'm fine."

"It looks like you're in deep shit and panicking about it," Hotshot says flatly, not moving. "And I'm definitely not the one that can help you right now."

"Shut—up," Toph hisses, listening hard for her own breath. And he does shut up, long enough for her to hear his lungs again and try to match his even breaths.

Soon, she can hear properly again. The pipes in the walls, the faint cheering from the ring. Hotshot's heartbeat, the cot creaking under her weight. She lets go of his shirt and he leans away from her, but he doesn't leave to find the medic.

"We're not going to talk about this," Toph decides resolutely. "Not a word."

And she already knows that he's uncomfortable with it. He folds his arms and gives an exasperated sigh. "It's your life, brat. You can do what-fucking-ever with it, it's not my problem."

He's not a good liar. Toph rubs her face tiredly. "I'll figure it out. And I'll come back." Nothing can stop her from coming back to the Rumble. Nothing.

Hotshot pats her good knee. "...Good luck," he says, as though he understands the thin line she's walking between school, home, and the Rumble. Toph still doesn't know much about him, so maybe he does.

Toph nods. "Thanks."

He's silent again, leaning back in his chair to think. "Fuck. Okay, you don't have a phone, right?"

She raises her eyebrows. "No?"

He shoves himself to his feet and rummages through the medical equipment. "Don't use this unless you have to. And don't—shit, you can't read either, you're so difficult—"

"What are you doing?" Toph demands, frowning. "I just said I'm coming back—"

"Yeah, yeah," he walks back over to her, taking her wrist. "And if you don't have a way back, then you call me." A sticky-note is pressed into her palm. "Can you read the numbers? Should be clear enough…"

It is. There's small indentations in the paper, ten digits and a few characters that are harder to make out, but still enough—

"Is this your name?" Toph realizes suddenly, because the characters don't spell out Hotshot or anything like it. "Like, your actual name?"

He huffs. "Yeah. Don't fucking use it though, don't even call me unless you need to."

"I know," she agrees softly, tucking the note carefully into her sleeve where she won't lose it. She holds out her hand to him. "But for the record, it's nice to meet you. I'm Toph."


(Wednesday)

Endeavor has changed. But it never really struck Fuyumi as a bad or unnatural change for her father. Not until today. What started as a simple Wednesday turns into nightmare, as she watches the Hero Billboard Chart announce that Endeavor the Flame Hero has dropped from the Number Two to Number Three Pro Hero rank following a shockingly lackluster year of work.

It feels wrong.

To her left, Fuyumi hears Natsuo stop slurping his ramen to watch the events unfold. A clatter of utensils as he sets down his chopsticks. "...Fuyumi?"

Her eyes are glued to the screen, trying to make out Endeavor's expression. "We should warn Shouto," she says faintly.

"I'm here," Shouto says out of the blue, and Fuyumi tears her eyes away from the screen. Her youngest brother stares back evenly. He's standing in the kitchen, a glass of water in hand. Fuyumi ought to show him where the juice boxes are.

"He's... going to be mad," Natsuo whispers. There's no inflection of worry or fear in his voice, though, only uncertainty.

"Doesn't it feel kind of wrong?" Shouto asks slowly. "Endeavor is still reaching to become Number One."

"It's not a mistake from the Billboard Charts," Natsuo points out. "He just hasn't been on as many cases this year, has he?"

Because he's been at home instead? Did we do this to him? Fuyumi wonders. But that doesn't seem right either. His hours haven't changed that much.

"That's not what I mean," Shouto frowns pensively. "Sometimes, Dad is really set on training, and then other times he's just... not?"

Fuyumi shoots him a curious. "What are you talking about? He's got a lot on his plate, but he's always focused."

Shouto stares at his glass of water, and then shrugs. "Nevermind."

Natsuo rolls his eyes. "Anyway. He's totally gonna flip. He's fine now on TV, but the damn old man's gonna burn down the gym or something when he gets home."

"Don't call him old man," Fuyumi says instantly, shooting her brother a pointed look. "He's not even forty."

"And yet he's already passed his prime, what a shame."

"Natsuo! Don't pick a fight with Dad when he gets home, I'm sure he's already sad—"

"Sad? Sad, Fuyumi? Quit acting like he's not an insensitive prick—"

"No swearing! Not in front of Shouto!" Fuyumi says desperately.

"The old man swears in front of me all the time," Shouto argues, making Fuyumi grimace. "It's okay, he doesn't swear at me that much."

"Not the point," Fuyumi sighs, sinking into her seat. She checks the time. "Dad told me he has an appointment today anyway, so he won't be home for a while." Hopefully he has time to cool off. "Hey, Shouto, lemme show you where we keep the juice boxes."