A/N: I accodentally posted chapters 11 and 12 in the wrong order, oops. Big thanks to fencer29 for pointing that out to me!
Warning: Endeavor being his charming self, and Stain.
Aizawa-sensei stood in front of them, arms crossed, at his most unyielding and stern. His eyes seemed to bore into each of them individually, as if he could physically impress upon them the seriousness of the words he was speaking through the power of his gaze alone. Even with his mind only half on the proceeding lecture about the importance of the coming internships, the split-second of eye-contact Shoto had with Sensei, in passing, was enough to send a shiver down his spine. The effect Sensei's focus had on him was a curious thing, when he considered the long years he had spent bearing—and slowly becoming immune to—the weight of a similar gaze day in, day out; it said a lot about the man's incredible presence that he could effect Shoto at all.
Aizawa-sensei had been born to either teach, work at a high-security prison, or be an incredibly dangerous criminal, and Shoto mentally gave a prayer of thanks to the sleeping bones of all past-heroes everywhere that Sensei had chosen to teach.
Sensei could be strict, demanding, and occasionally harsh… but Shoto was beginning to see that he could also be fair and patient—and gentle, when he wanted to be. Even the little Shoto had experienced for far of UA's teaching methods in general was such a contrast to what he was used to: learning brought on by fear, aggression, and pain.
There was teaching, and then there was teaching: some days, Shoto thought that where the line blurred between the two was similar to the way Villain and Hero could seem strangely not-mutually exclusive; every day, Shoto felt he could never be grateful enough that their homeroom teacher's method seemed to fall more often than not on the latter.
('I'm here to help, kid.' Sensei had said, and Shoto believed him.)
"Ashido, don't draw out your 'yes's! You come off as sloppy and rude, and that's the worst first impression to be making!" Sensei snapped, the change in tone drawing Shoto's full attention back to the present.
Pinky wilted under the scold, and pouted out a muttered: "Yes sir."
Sensei eyed them all tiredly, looking understandably fed up, and probably secretly ecstatic to be rid of them. "Get on your trains, then, and get the most out of these next few days that you can," he finished, giving them all one last, focused look, and a nod. "And for god's sake, don't lose your damn tickets, I'm not going to pick up any of you at some random station because you were too lazy to keep track of your things."
His own ticket tucked carefully in his inside pocket, Shoto looked through his bangs at Aizawa-sensei, and thought: You would, though, wouldn't you? You would come and get any of us, anywhere, if we really needed it.
The thought was a pleasant one. As they all dispersed, Shoto watched as Midoriya and Uraraka ran after Iida, stopping for a moment to exchange a short conversation; then Iida was nodding goodbye, and turning to leave. Shoto watched his departing back, throat caught on the words he wanted to say (and couldn't, because how could he? Words were impossible, confusing things that always got mixed up and stuck together in the wrong places, just when he needed them most). He watched him walk away, and didn't call out to him, like he desperately wanted to; instead, he let himself cling to the knowledge that when Sensei said he wouldn't come for them, he had lied. For now, that would have to be enough.
Then they all dispersed, and Shoto was heading to the city to Endeavor's Pro-Hero Agency to complete his internship.
By the time the train pulled into the station with the high-hiss of the pressure release on the breaks, Shoto was incredibly relieved that the ride was over. He stepped through the small waiting area between cars, a careful half-meter of space between him and Endeavor, and together with Endeavor's personal assistant (a short, mousy looking man with glasses and a placid demeanor), they stepped off the train and onto the platform.
Getting out of Tokyo station and into the car that had been waiting for their arrival was a relatively smooth process. Shoto only had to withhold two, maybe three eye-rolls as Endeavor was stopped by avid groups of fans, and managed, with varying success, to hide behind the dutiful form of the mousy aide, who was kind enough to provide a barrier between Shoto and the incredibly crowded station. The train ride had thankfully been short enough that aside from some ogling, there hadn't been anyone brave enough to approach. The one time Shoto thought he'd spotted a potential fan, it had luckily coincided with the approach of the refreshments cart, and he had made a show of carefully selecting his drinks and snacks so as to make it too awkward to approach. The potential fan had given up shortly after, which had been well worth the low lecture on unnecessary sugar and empty carbs from Endeavor, which Shoto had subsequently done his best to tune out as he munched on strawberry-chocolate Toppogi and drank grape Fanta.
(Which he'd then had to excuse himself to get rid of, shortly after, when they started trying to crawl back up and out of his mouth. Sometimes, getting on Endeavor's nerves was it's own reward—but other times, it really, really wasn't.)
Once they had escaped the flashing of cameras and the nauseating calls of, 'Thanks for your hard work, hero!', the assistant quickly ushered them into the awaiting car. From there, it was a one-hour or so ride to the central Hero Agency in Hosu, where Endeavor had arranged for them to set up their 'base of operations', so to speak.
It was fully dark by the time they had finished with the necessary talks and paperwork. Shoto was already feeling fatigued by this time, which was a strange thing, as he hadn't done more than travel. It had been his first time on a shinkansen, outside of the ride to his father's agency in Hamamatsu—which, in hindsight, had actually been a complete waste of time, as Shizuoka station (where they had all met up, and Aizawa-sensei then had seen them on their way) was on the way to Tokyo, and in the opposite direction of Hamamatsu. If Endeavor had simply made Shoto wait in Shizuoka station, they could have gone together from there, saving Shoto the unnecessary travel time.
To be fair, having experienced the bullet train with Endeavor vs. not with him, Shoto could say with great certainty he had much preferred the former, so it hadn't been a total waste of time. All that being said…
Shoto shot Endeavor—who was taking up an unnecessary amount of space with his gigantic Ego, in an otherwise rather empty reception room—a nasty look, and stalked off to grab something to eat from the vending machines before they left.
What a dick.
Patrol began quietly enough. Shoto strolled after Endeavor, doing his best to shake off every hint of resentment that threatened to flare as they walked. He was here to learn, on his own terms; partly as a way to show Endeavor—to show Father—that he was capable of putting aside personal feelings in favor of a common goal (an important part of being a hero), and partly to remind himself that fire could also be utilized to help people, even when being wielded by someone as morally corrupt as his sire.
"When patrolling, it is important to remember," Endeavor rumbled, "to keep yourself aware of your surroundings."
No kidding, Shoto thought snidely, then quickly shook that thought away as unhelpful, and did his best to open his ears.
"In any metropolis, there will be a significant percentage of the criminal element, even in an area of the city that is teeming with regular people—businessmen, families, schoolchildren. Whether that element shows its face in the form of a pickpocket, a sexual predator, or a dangerous killer, you must always remember that appearances mean nothing: the villain who stabs a pregnant mother between one moment and the next, could just as easily be the middle-aged man over there—" Endeavor gestured to a rumpled, weary-looking man lingering in front of a corner store, cigarette hanging from his mouth, "—or that teenager girl over there, as it could be an obvious villain."
The teenaged girl in question had on an incredibly short plaid-skirt and a low-cut shirt that showed about three-quarters of her lacy purple bra. She also had incredibly tacky highlights, even tackier gem-studded nails half-again as long as Shoto's, and a massive cellphone that she could barely hold with one hand as she posed provocatively for a selfie.
Shoto cataloged all these details about her with a frown. He supposed he could see the logic in what the pro-hero was saying, that anyone could be a villain, no matter how innocent they first appeared; still, it was difficult to imagine this civilian, in particular, hiding anything like a knife on her person, because first of all, where would she even hide it? Under her skirt? …What skirt? That glorified-handkerchief barely passed as an item of clothing. Shoto pursed his lips in disapproval, giving the area a quick sweep of his eyes, and glared at a group of teenage boys who had stopped to admire the view.
But Endeavor was already strolling past before he could confront them, so Shoto dismissed the thought from his mind and hurried to catch up.
"You must also be sure to keep your eyes on the less occupied areas, such as the backroads, or the drinking streets that become crowded around this hour. As the night wears on, the men and women who have spent their day stressing to accomplish their work, in whatever form that might take, will use this time to de-stress—be that with alcohol, company, or food. In the case of the first two, when they mix, there opens the possibility of someone deciding that all the permission they need to take the latter, by force, is the courage of the first."
(He could smell the alcohol on his breath.
Father had hit him. Father had… hit him.)
As they passed a laughing group of mixed college-age students, already looking well on their way to drunk, Shoto breathed carefully through his nose and slid past them, passing by completely unnoticed, where Endeavor warranted a few double-takes and a surprised, "Was that—".
That had been… different. Todoroki Enji, in his capacity as Shoto's 'Father', had never hit him before that day, and hadn't since. The Pro-hero Endeavor did many, many things in the name of training (and would doubtless do so again, for as long as he deemed it necessary), but Father had always kept himself above such acts. Most likely, in his inebriated state, his mind had associated the sight of Shoto with the activity where they saw each other the most—training—which caused him to slip into the mindset where raising a hand to Shoto, in order to 'prepare him for the future', was the rule, rather than the exception.
…So that wasn't—so it wasn't the same thing. Father wasn't like that. Endeavor, yes, always; but Father was… different.
Shoto overcompensated in his attempt to fight down the desire to fall further behind the hero (who was currently taking up a large majority of the sidewalk, leading to a lot of terrified looks that quickly transformed into awe) and ended up walking nearly beside him. Stuck, as falling back would appear cowardly and odd now that he had entered Endeavor's line of sight, Shoto told himself to suck it up. He put gentle pressure on the side closest to the Fire Hero's glowing quirk, as if with that pressure, he could avoid any kind of physical contact.
"Never be afraid to step into a suspect situation," Endeavor continued to lecture, oblivious to the changes Shoto's body language had gone through in the past thirty-seconds. He continued to prowl down the sidewalks and across streets as if he owned them, content in his superiority and power.
The glowing lights of the city welcomed them into her midst, and Shoto looked at all the people, going about their evening in happiness, sadness, tiredness or apathy, and wondered which of the faces hid a different side to them—a side that would turn the ones around them shocked and horrified if it should ever see the light of day.
"If you hear a cry, go to it! Even if you arrive to discover that had someone dropped their phone, or was surprised by a friend, or heard some terrible news. There is no room for embarrassment in the work of a hero, and you should always strive to be the type of hero to whom the words, 'Too Little, Too Late' never cross your lips!"
They passed a multi-storied Bic Camera, and in the entranceway were a number of various sized television screens; as the crowd parted before them, Shoto happened to glance at one of the smaller tv screens, and slowed to a stop at what he saw.
'Hero Killer Stain, At Large After Gravely Injuring Pro-Hero Ingenium!' the heading read, in bold, unmistakable letters. Shoto watched as the scene of the incident was broadcast, watched the police cars and long stretches of yellow crime scene tape, watched the dark alley where someone's precious older brother had nearly lost his life... and felt his throat ache.
Iida.
If only he could have found the words to tell him: I understand. Because Shoto understood in a way that many of Iida's well-wishes couldn't. Most of them probably didn't have siblings, or if they did, theirs were alive and well. They didn't know, and hopefully never would know, the pain of losing a brother, a sibling, of knowing that something indescribably precious had been taking away from them and that they would never be getting it back.
Iida's brother was still alive, the last Shoto had heard, but even so, the possibility had been there. If someone hadn't happened to come across his fallen form, if someone hadn't called the authorities in time, if, if, if.
Shoto wished he could have told Iida: I understand, but you don't.
Iida didn't understand, because he could have lost his brother, but he hadn't; that thought was no doubt the farthest thing from his mind right now, when it should be all that he could think about. Shoto understood that the pain, the fury and wanting vengeance had given him tunnel vision, but Iida still had something left and if he continued forwards on this path of vengeance and anger, forgetting the things that were actually important, he would end up with only regret to show for it.
Nii-san.
The ache spread, and Shoto turned his head away from the pictures now covering all of the screens, willing himself to put all those distractions out of his mind and focus on his current objective.
Endeavor had nearly reached the end of the street by this point, and Shoto picked up his pace before the Hero could notice and call out to him. This time, when he had closed the distance, Shoto stopped well short of the man, barely within earshot.
"—of course, cooperation between Hero Agencies is essential to a successful capture," Endeavor was saying, still oblivious, to both Shoto and the civilians doing their best not to get hit by his massive, waving hands.
It was then a hero came running in their direction, one Shoto recalled seeing at headquarters. He approached Endeavor and immediately began whispering to him in a hurried, stressed manner, and Endeavor's back straightened at whatever he heard. Shoto straightened in turn, the niggling feeling that something had gone wrong solidifying when Endeavor began to break into a jog.
"There's been a villain incident! Follow me, Shoto; it's about time you truly saw what it means to be a hero!"
Right then, Shoto's phone vibrated in his pocket. He had turned off the vibrate in the car, in the hopes that the constant tapping noise as he fake-chatted (when he was actually just typing random words in a blank note) would irritate Endeavor into silence, but had turned it on again afterward for the sake of professionalism. Now, as he opened the message and took in its odd, then alarming, contents, Shoto could only fervently thank his ancestors that he had even noticed the vibrate in the first place.
"Just a location?" he murmured, a frown pulling at his brows. Midoriya wasn't the type to send something like this without purpose; obviously, something had gone wrong.
"Why are you looking at your phone and not at me! Look at me when I'm talking to you, Shoto!" Endeavor bellowed, already a ways ahead.
Seeing the Number Two Hero in his full glory had been a large reason for his interning with him in the first place. It was funny that now, with the ominous message staring up at him from his screen (blank, except for an innocuous pin with the directions and link to a GPS tracking site), that reason and all the others cleared from his mind like it had been wiped clean, and written over that blank space were the words:
My friend is in trouble. I'm going to save him .
"Shoto, where are you going?!" came the next bellow, as he did an abrupt u-turn and began to jog back down the street the way they had come.
"Sorry, something's come up," Shoto called over his shoulder as he slipped his phone back into his pocket, the route already memorized. "I'll be in an alleyway down 4-2-10 Echo Street! When you've finished, come find me, and bring whatever available heroes you can with you! I'll leave the other business in your hands."
As insurance that Endeavor would actually listen to him, for once, Shoto added on a bit of flattery as well as a concession: "If you're the one handling it, I'm sure it'll be taken care of in no time. But my friend might be in trouble, so I have to go."
So saying, Shoto mentally mapped out the route showed in the GPS tracking app, and ran.
There were many things he had imagined seeing in the few minutes he spent running, full tilt, down the sometimes loud, sometimes quiet streets. He had pictured Midoriya, separated from the hero he was interning with (who had it been again? Grand Bird? Some relative unknown, in any case) and nearly overcome by villains; Midoriya, a dying civilian or hero in his arms, his phone lost at some unknown point and unable to defend himself from an attacking villain without potentially hurting the injured victim; Midoriya, the one injured, quietly bleeding out in an alley, his last conscious act to group-send his location to all his contacts in a desperate attempt to chase off the inevitable.
That last image plastered itself across his mind-scape in bright technicolor, and it served to spur him on even faster in his search, desperate to keep that horrible future from coming to pass.
He nearly missed the alley, when he finally found it. Without the barely-heard, desperate cry of, "Stop it!", he might have walked right on past it.
But when the second cry rose in the air, louder and more despairing, Shoto didn't stop to think.
He slid into the alley at a run, took in what was happening in two split-second blinks of his eyes, and let his eager fire explode out of him without pause, straight through the raised, glinting light of a katana's blade.
The Hero Killer: Stain—unmistakable in the glow of the fire illuminating the dark alley—jumped back out of range, giving Shoto the few seconds he needed to catch his breath and get the minute tremors in his limbs under control.
That had been close. Too close.
"Just your location, Midoriya, really?" he said dryly, trying to hide his relief behind sarcasm. He flashed the image of the GPS app to Midoriya and watched the blatant relief in his teary eyes. "You've got to give more detail than that when shit happens. You almost made me late."
"What are you doing here?" Iida shouted, desperation and anger in his hoarse voice, but Shoto didn't wait around to hear any more.
He immediately stamped his left foot down and let his ice coat the ground, making Stain jump to avoid it. In the time between the man jumping and touching down on the ground again, Shoto released a rising shelf of ice to take the three slumped forms of Iida, Midoriya and a hero he didn't recognize out of harm's way, and shot out fire to cover them. They tumbled out of their frozen beds a second later, to slide down the icy slopes and safely to the ground behind him.
"I've let the pros know where I was headed, so they'll be here in minutes," Shoto said tersely, making sure that his voice carried towards the villain staring him down across the newly-frozen alley.
He stood before his fallen friends, the cold fear in his stomach thawing into hot rage the more images of what-ifs flashed through his mind. Shoto focused his concentration, determined, now more than ever, that the terrible futures his mind had kindly conjured for him would never come to pass.
"I won't let you hurt my friends, Hero Killer Stain," he promised, the heat in his voice a perfect match to the flames dancing their way across his left arm and shoulder.
"Don't let him cut you!" Midoriya shouted from behind him. "I'm pretty sure his quirk allows him to steal your movements if he ingests your blood! That's how he got the three of us!"
Shoto drew his arms up into a fighting stance, letting his eyes fall to Midoriya to reassure him. "That's why he uses a blade, then. So long as I keep my distance—"
That moment of distraction cost him. Shoto looked back in time to save his left eye, but not soon enough to avoid the blade cutting into his left cheek, not very far below it.
In the split-second between the knife grazing its mark and Shoto turning his attention back to the villain, the Hero Killer had closed the distance between them, drawn a trench knife the length of Shoto's forearm from its sheath, and swung.
Like with the thrown knife, Shoto barely managed to send up an ice-pillar to block the swing in time to avoid a knife to the throat. A sixth-sense made Shoto look up, to see—
"Fuck," he spit out, as the katana came down straight for his head, but he didn't have time to do more than look back at the Hero Killer before—
—the man grabbed his collar, pulling Shoto's face within reach of his own, a long, grotesquely-thick tongue coming out of his mouth to touch the cut on Shoto's face—
—and Shoto's fire burst to life, barely in time to save him from the same fate as his friends.
"Shit, that was close," he gasped, once he had made it back to a safe-enough distance—if there was such a thing, against this monster. Next, he threw out his ice in a tall, thick wall, which was easily taken care of with a swipe of a chipped katana blade, so Shoto adjusted accordingly, and followed the second, thicker wall of ice with a billowing stream of fire.
"This is my fight!" Shoto heard Iida call behind him, tears of frustration in his voice. "I inherited the name Ingenium, so it's my duty to make this right! Stop getting in the way!"
Stain dodged the ice and made to get closer, so Shoto made a shield out of his fire with his left hand while drawing more moisture out of the air, to create enough ice to turn the alleys into a jagged, frozen landscape.
"That's funny," Shoto said to the other boy, almost losing the fight to keep his voice even under a spike of renewed anger. "I don't remember ever seeing that look on the old Ingenium's face."
Come on, Iida. Come to your senses, you are better than this!
"You've got a lot going on behind the scenes in your family too, huh?" he added as an afterthought, keeping his body ducked low and tensed for the next attack.
Family was a difficult thing, even when you didn't have to juggle love and hate and find a way to live with both. Shoto knew and understood this, but whatever Iida's hangups with his brother or his family legacy, here, right now, when their lives were on the line? That hesitancy and doubt had absolutely no place.
Just then, the gigantic, frozen wall between them and the blade-wielding psychopath shattered into large, useless chunks of ice. Shoto narrowed his eyes and his focus, sparing half an irritated thought for the way his quirk was being so easily overcome.
"Purposely blocking the line of sight between you and an opponent significantly stronger and faster than you… what arrogance!" Stain called as he came down from the iaido move that had so neatly shattered the wall.
Refusing to acknowledge the part of him that wanted to return a petty quip about long swords and compensating for something, Shoto snarled in reply: "Call it arrogance if you like, but you won't be calling it that for long." He strengthened the heat of his fire—
—and gasped at a sudden spike of pain. He looked down, and saw two small blades protruding from his arm, already beginning to trail thick lines of veinal blood in ugly dark streaks from the site of the injury.
Shoto turned his head sharply to his side at movement in his peripheral, eyes widening as he took in Stain coming down on the unnamed hero— still frozen by Stain's quirk—with his sword, grasped tightly in both hands.
His right hand grasping the injury on his left, Shoto could only open his mouth helplessly to shout something, anything—a prayer? A useless cry for help that was taking too long in coming?—when a miracle in the form of bright-green streaks of lighting came shooting past him, taking Stain with it to gouge a giant path into the concrete wall as they drove into it for a good three meters. Momentum took them half-way up the concrete wall, nearly two meters above ground, before gravity began to take hold and they sprang off the wall and apart.
Shoto stared up at the inexplicably free Midoriya, a small portion of his mind wondering, Green? while the rest filled with a deep sense of relief.
"Midoriya!" he cried after him, and Midoriya, knowing what he was asking, said: "I don't know, I was just suddenly able to move!"
A time limit? Shoto squeezed at the warmth dripping down his arm, not noticing the intensifying burn as he pressed the knives in farther.
"It's not a time limit," the still-unnamed hero corrected shakily, jolting Shoto, who hadn't realize he'd spoken out loud.
"That kid got hit with his quirk the last. If it was a time limit, there's no way he'd be moving so soon."
Shoto's eyes went to Stain, narrowing as he followed his and Midoriya's quick, back and forth movements. Not a time limit?
"Get back, Midoriya!" he barked as Midoriya tripped and fell on his face. He sent a spray of frozen stalactites to back up his retreat, and kept his eyes on Stain as Midoriya crawled beside him, coughing tiredly.
"He ingests the blood to keep his victims from moving," Midoriya explained hoarsely. "Since I was the last to be caught but the first to move again, I can think of three explanations:
"The first is that his power weakens the more victims he has caught in his net. The second is that the amount matters, and the less blood he ingests, the shorter his quirk lasts. And the third is that it works differently, depending on your blood type."
From the way Stain's eyes narrowed, Shoto would bet his money on the last one being correct.
"Blood type… I'm B," the prone hero said. "I'm type A," Iida added, bring up their blood types to one A, one B, and two Os.
"That's correct," Stain agreed with a sinister smile. "It does have to do with blood types."
"…Just knowing his quirk doesn't help us much, though," Midoriya admitted in an undertone, not taking his eyes off the killer.
"I wanted to get those two out of here," Shoto said, eyes cutting to Midoriya, but just as quickly back to the danger before them, "but he's too fast to catch with my fire or my ice. I can't risk keeping myself open to attack for that long."
Stain, apparently content to wait out their planning, stood patiently before them. The ragged, off-white scarf wrapped about his eyes, completely covering his nose, did much to obscure his features. It gave his eyes a shadowed quality that was made all the worse by the way the only light they had to see by was cast by the distant streetlights and the remnants of Shoto's quirk, which was even now burning itself out as it quickly ate through the bits and pieces of garbage that had been cast about during their short, but intense, fight.
The red scarf wrapped about his neck and shoulders and trailing down his back added another layer to the man's overall intimidating presence, the dark, wine-red giving the crimson of his eyes a brighter, deeper intensity. From what Shoto had observed of the man in the short time he had been given, Stain wasn't the type to care about outward appearance; this, if anything, just made his overall look—one of a savage, mindless killer—that much more impressive, for knowing it hadn't been intentional.
"Our best bet," Shoto concluded, with the heavy weight of certainty, "is to keep him occupied for as long as it takes the pros to get here."
It would not be easy, and they would likely be walking away from this fight with considerably worse injuries, but if it meant getting everyone out of there alive, Shoto was willing to stand his ground and do what was necessary, no matter what he personally had to sacrifice in the process.
Midoriya nodded his agreement, saying: "You've lost too much blood, Todoroki-kun, so too much movement isn't safe for you. I'll go in close, try to keep him distracted and away, and you can cover me with your quirk."
The familiar glowing-red lines of his quirk began to spread across his face, before fading into a less-familiar green. Shoto resolved to find out what that change was about when this was all over, and nodded to show his agreement.
"It's a bit risky, but it's the only chance we've got," Shoto said, and Midoriya made his wincing way to his feet, and managed to stand straight. They were both tired: Midoriya, from whatever battle he had had to fight before Shoto made it into the picture; Shoto, from utilizing both his quirks in tandem, when he had barely used his fire before now, and kept accidentally over-casting and wasting precious energy (strangely, his left side had yet to begin to itch or even bother him, which was a question for another time.) Despite their tiredness and the terrible odds against them, they stood tall, unfaltering in the face of evil. A thought drifted into Shoto's mind, unprompted: Is this what being a true hero feels like?
"He will not touch them," Shoto vowed solemnly, and together, they stood side-by-side, tensing muscles and shifting limbs into stances in preparation for the oncoming fight.
Midoriya made the first move, shooting up in a blur of green to bounce back and forth against the small gap between the two buildings lining the alley, quickly taking Stain, and the fight, away from the injured. Shoto moved to cover him with a thick shield of ice, eyes keenly following the movements should he need to intervene.
In that moment, as he stood between the classmate he was tentatively beginning to think of as a friend and the murderer who wanted to kill them both, Shoto found the words that he had been trying to say to Iida running through his mind. The words flowed as if across a blank page, forming a letter in his head that he might never send, but that needed to be written down regardless.
Dear Iida, the letter would begin.
Ever since I heard the news about your brother's injury, you've been constantly on my mind.
I, of all people, would recognize the face of someone who's acting on pent-up resentment and anger; I am intimately familiar with the color of the red that clouds your eyes, the way the resentment narrows your field of vision till you can't see anything past it.
That day, after the end of the Sports Festival, after everything I thought I had known about my quirk and myself had been thrown into disarray, I went to see her: my mother. I went and I told her everything that had happened in my life since she had left it. I told her about me, about who I am, what I've tried to become and who I became in spite of that. My mother cried and apologized, and we forgave each other surprisingly quickly.
("Hey, Mom," Shoto said quietly, into the breathless silence of the room. "Been a while."
A smile, brighter then the rays of the setting sun shining across her folded hands, slowly turned up the corners of her mouth.)
The old me wouldn't have been able to choose my old man's agency for the internship.
It's not that I've let go of my resentment, or forgiven him. It's simply that I knew the benefits of seeing the Number Two Hero in his element, and the things I could learn from his years of experience far outweighed my desire to give in to my anger and spit on his offered hand. So even though he was, and is, a scumbag, I went, and I learned, without letting our history cloud my judgment and keep me from gaining the experience I was being offered.
Because I was able to let go. Because someone taught me how to.
Midoriya dodged a flying knife, the afterimage of his quirk shining bright, electric green, but failed to see the swipe of a jagged blade come flying at his hip. Shoto threw out his fire, straining to control and aim it without sending it wildly in all directions, and was relieved when it successfully diverted the villain and sent him flying backward.
It was all so simple! It was so simple, but I just didn't see it.
"But it's not his power, is it? It's yours, Todoroki!"
A few simple words, and all the things I had thought I knew about myself shattered upon the remnants of my selfish pride, and on my stubborn clinging to pointless resentment and anger.
A lucky swing, and Midoriya's leg gained a new cut on his calve, just above the tops of his shoes. Shoto saw him go down, saw Stain aiming to strike, and sent more fire roaring in a straight, barely-controlled line, knocking him out of the way.
Midoriya saved me, in more ways than I think I could ever tell him, and I would like to do that for you. Can I find the words to do that for you, Iida?
"Please stop," a voice croaked behind him, and Shoto looked down, fire still streaming out of his outstretched hand.
"I'm… already…" What he was, Iida didn't say, but the tears dripping down a face contorted with anguish and resignation told Shoto all he needed to know.
His eyes tightened at the corners and he gritted his teeth in resolve.
Would you listen, if I did?
"If you want to stop us, then stand up!" Shoto screamed, eyes blurring in the blinding light of his next wave of fire. "Get on your damn feet and make us!"
Midoriya abruptly dropped to the ground, and Shoto saw the way Stain's tongue disappeared into a mouth stretching into a triumphant grin. He cast more ice, feeling as if time were a physical entity running past the tips of his grasping fingers; every tick on an invisible clock counted down the passing seconds, the loud boom-boom-boom of his heartbeat saying: You are out of time.
Whether you hear them or not, the only words I can say to you are:
"Is the kind of hero you want to be? Is this who you are? Take a good, proper look at yourself and make your fucking choice!" Shoto shouted in desperation, hoping, praying, that just this once, his words could be enough (that he could be enough). He threw his arm back, and his flames rose again in response to his command.
"On your right!" Midoriya yelped, and Shoto obliged, shooting fire that failed, again, to meet its target. He followed it up with ice, with similar results.
"Ice and fire…" Stain intoned as he dodged, past growing clumps of ice that tried make the way impassable, as if they were nothing.
Let's see you dodge this, Shoto thought grimly, and sent a direct column of flame straight at the oncoming villain.
"Has no one ever told you? You focus too much on your quirk, thinking it makes you invincible. You're leaving yourself wide open!"
The next few seconds happened in the slow, choppy frames of an old, black and white film:
Stain, moving past or cutting through every spear of ice shot his way.
The fire glowing under his skin, for once cooperating as it sent a discouraging gout of fire in front of him.
That fire, easily dodged, to make way for a sword.
A sword, steadily grown duller and more chipped as it was utilized against ice, still glinting sharply as it came under Shoto's guard, and sliced upwards.
Shoto saw it all as it happened, helpless to stop the future he could see coming: the sword, still sharp enough to cut, digging deeply into the delicate skin hiding veins and sensitive nerves, splitting skin and muscle to create an injury that could easily prove debilitating without instant first aid.
"RECIPRO-BURST!"
The words—and the accompanying kick, fast as lighting—broke straight through the last frame, as easily as they broke the jagged sword in half. Shoto, his heart still lodged tightly in his throat, fell back gasping, fear thrumming like a physical entity in his chest.
That had been so close, but Iida… Iida!
Shoto spun around, unable to help the wildness in his eyes, and looked at the panting Iida.
"How did you break out of it?" he demanded. "No, never mind, I suppose that quirk wasn't quite as incredible as I originally thought it was." The petty thought, when voiced aloud, didn't quite make him feel as great as he had intended it to, but the little thrill it gave him as the villain's eyes narrowed was worth it.
"Midoriya, Todoroki," Iida broke through the impromptu stare-down Shoto had initiated with Stain, wiping the sneer off his face. "I apologize for wrapping you up in my mess."
"You're still going on about that?" Midoriya rasped, his face showing the pain he was in from where he sat, collapsed on the ground. His face, so expressive, also showed his growing anger.
Iida straightened, and continued with fierce conviction: "I'm sorry for allowing myself to forget the things that are truly important. I will let myself forget again, and that is why I can't allow either of you to bleed for me any more than you already have!"
"Trying to change for the sake of appearances means nothing," Stain snarled. Blood dripped down from the hand still holding the broken katana, and it clenched, making Shoto fall into a defensive position in return. "People cannot change the core of themselves so easily! You will never be more than a fake, who prioritizes his desires over the lives of others. You are a part of the cancerous growth in society that warps the idea of what a 'hero' truly is."
His blood-shot eyes narrowed. "Someone must set you straight."
"You're an anachronistic fundamentalist," Shoto rebutted, tired of hearing the same, meaningless rhetoric. "Iida, this bastard's a murderer, don't pay any heed to his twisted logic."
"No, he's right," Iida said, grim and resigned. Blood dripped down from a deep cut in his shoulder, one Shoto abruptly realized must have come from when he broke the sword meant for Shoto. It must have caught him somehow, and the thought sent his stomach knotting with guilt.
"My actions tonight have been the farthest thing from heroic. Nevertheless, I refuse to lie down and give up. If I give up here, if I allow myself to break, the hero Ingenium will die!"
Red eyes flashed, and Shoto tensed in preparation.
"As if I will let that happen!"
Instinct made Shoto shove Iida away with his right arm and throw his left forward as a fiery guard, just in time to block a leaping Stain.
Fire exploded forwards, bright yellows and oranges and reds painting the dark alley a shimmering array of colors.
"Idiots, you know he's only after me and the kid with the armor? What are you risking your life for?" the voice of the still-prone hero behind them called, disbelieving and fearful. "Forget fighting this losing battle, and get out while you still can!"
"And leave you guys here to die? I don't think so. Anyway, it doesn't look like he'll be giving us a chance to do that," Shoto gritted out, the arm not occupied gushing flame going to support the lower part of his burning arm that had begun to tremble from his quirk, unused to such constant output, and the pain from his still-bleeding knife-wounds.
"Something clearly changed, just now. He's getting flustered, careless," he added, becoming more sure of his words as each one left his mouth.
Stain had jumped high, stopping gravity from carrying him into the growing path of Shoto's flames by a hasty stab of his broken sword, deep into the building's concrete. Now he jumped, out and over the ice still covering the alley floor, and Shoto twisted his body to follow, his right foot pressing into the ground with his quirk as he moved. Ice followed the swiftly moving form, cut down or dodged every time.
He had dodged, but… was he getting slower?
Shoto's eyes narrowed in thought, though he didn't stop sending his quirk out in constant waves, relying mostly on his better-trained right side.
Taking into account the time limit, the uncertain element of the blood types, plus the way Stain had to get in close contact to be able to utilize it, it wasn't actually that spectacular a quirk, or so frightening. Coupled with the way he had to fight multiple opponents at the same time, with a quirk ill-suited to it, made Shoto think Stain was getting desperate to finish them off before the pros arrived.
Stain flew at them again, this time swinging back around and over the wall of ice Shoto had cast around them, and Shoto threw his throbbing left arm up to see if fire would be any more effective.
"Todoroki-kun! Are you able to regulate temperature with your quirk?" Iida shouted, over the crackle-swoosh of attacking flames.
"Yes," Shoto shouted back, "But my left side is unpracticed. Why?"
"I need you to freeze my engines for me, without plugging the exhaust!"
At those words, Shoto jerked his head to face him, surprised.
In his distraction, Stain made his move.
"You're a nuisance! Die!" A knife flew through the burning heat, and Shoto barely caught the flash of silver as he turned his head, only to have an armored glove shoot in front of his face, catching the knife before it could meet its intended target.
The air in Shoto's lungs came whooshing out like he had been punched in the solar plexus.
"Iida-kun!" Midoriya's strangled voice rang out, in time with another deep thud, as a trench knife impeded itself in Iida's forearm, dragging it and the rest of him down to the ground.
"Fuck, Iida!" Shoto dropped to a crouch, desperate to do something, anything, but Iida's harsh: "Don't worry about me, just do it!" spurred him into action, and he froze the boy's leg-engines with equally cold determination.
Stain had made his way to higher ground by jumping from precarious windowsills to wobbly pipes, and now came shooting down, almost too fast to track. Shoto shot successive gouts of flame, and hoped that whatever Iida had planned, it would be enough.
In the next instant, he got his answer.
Shoto looked up at the night sky, as two blurs—one with a glowing after-image of blue-orange flame, the other with brightly-shining green electricity—went shooting after the dark form falling towards them, and smiled.
A glowing fist, and a foot moving like lighting, landed in tandem.
Stain lost his balance and began tumbling down without control, but he was still clearly conscious. Shoto shouted, "Keep at him! Don't stop yet!"
Again, a leg went flying, and caught its target; on the literal heels of that kick, a burst of fire enveloped the defeated monster, taking it down for good.
Seconds later, two forms landed, one after the other with differing levels of control, into a cradle of ice, to send them safely sliding to the ground; and a body fell, limply, to land upon a tall pillar of ice that rose to meet it, and went still.
The Hero Killer: Stain had been captured.
The aftermath was less glorious. Unlike the terrifying adrenaline rush of the previous minutes, digging through trash bins to find some kind of binding material was a strange letdown. Never-the-less, as he dug into a large bin and tried to sort through the contents without touching anything suspect, Shoto could not deny that he would choose this activity over the previous one any day, so long as lives were at stake.
That is, of course, Shoto thought, wrinkling his nose at the awful smell as he pulled a slightly-damaged rope from a bag and tried not to think of how it had gotten there, under the condition that there are lives at stake.
As for right now, Shoto would happily have dumped Stain into the trash bin rather than be sorting through it for capture materials, but there was no help for it, with pro-heroes hopefully on the way and a reputation to maintain that did not include dumping suspects into trash bins.
They worked together to tie him up, he and Iida, with only three working arms between them; Midoriya couldn't quite move, and had settled for checking over the hero 'Native'—Shoto had overheard Midoriya calling him as such, and tried to memorize it. It wasn't every day you saved a pro-hero's life, and he ought to commemorate it by actually remembering his name.
Once that was done, and Native had managed to get to his feet and pick up the protesting Midoriya ("But you're injured—" "Your legs are hurt, aren't they? It's only a scratch, I'll be all right, now let me carry you."), and Shoto pulled the unresisting, dead-weight of Stain behind him.
As they walked, Native self-deprecatingly said: "Sorry that I didn't manage to do anything. Some pro-hero I am."
As Midoriya rushed to reassure him, Shoto—too tired to bother sparing feelings—bluntly stated: "You were useless, yes." As Midoriya gave a horrified little gasp, and Iida began to say, warningly, "Todoroki—", Shoto continued:
"Even with the guy making mistakes, we barely won three-against-one. I'd say it's only luck we won at all; he must have gotten distracted, and forgotten about Midoriya's recovery time. Towards the end, he wasn't able to stand up to Iida and Midoriya's ending moves, but up until that point, he was a very difficult opponent. I don't think it's fair to beat yourself up over not standing a chance, when we barely managed to stay on our feet."
Into the following silence, and feeling the beginning flickers of relief at knowing they were out of danger, Shoto belatedly added: "Just be grateful we all made it out alive."
They came out of the alley a moment later and were swiftly bathed in moonlight. The sight of that pale light—so different from the constant, aggressive light of his fire that had been their main light to see by for the past few minutes that had seemed like hours—felt like a soothing statement of safety, and Shoto felt his shoulders sag, the emotional and physical roller coaster of the last few minutes dropping down like a physical weight.
Native sighed, as if he, too, could feel that weight, and began to say, "Now let's quickly get him to the police station—" when across the street, someone called:
"Hey… hey, what are you doing here?"
Shoto saw Midoriya raise his head wearily, before opening his eyes wide in surprise. "Gran Torino?"
Oh, Midoriya's internship hero. Shoto appraised the small, yellow-clad older gentlemen, wondering what had made him choose someone like Midoriya who, unless you knew him, didn't give off the air of a potentially big-name hero.
Before Midoriya could say more, there was a rush of footsteps, and they were soon crowded by heroes, some asking about the situation, some about their injuries, and others hurriedly called the proper authorities and an ambulance. When they spotted the Hero Killer, tied up and silent on the ground, the sound of rumbling voices rose exponentially.
Shoto watched all the moving mouths, spitting out words in an endless stream of meaningless sound, and felt so, so tired.
A few minutes later, a hero was asking him about his injuries, and Shoto was robotically fielding off his concern, replying that he was fine, it was Iida who was hurt—when the boy in question came towards where he and Midoriya stood, and folded himself into a bow.
"You were both injured because of me," he said to the ground. His voice was wet with building tears, and a part of Shoto ached to hear it; another part of him, that knew the value of something he found so inherently hateful and humiliating, was glad.
"Because of my anger, I… I lost sight of what I was doing, and became unable to see past it."
Midoriya's eyebrows furrowed, and the look on his face was sad. "I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry for not realizing how you were feeling, and how bad it had gotten, even though we're friends."
Liquid, shimmering silver in the reflected light of the moon, dripped slowly to the ground.
Shoto looked at those bowed shoulders, and could only feel relief.
Can I find the words to save you, Iida? Would you listen, if I did?
It seemed like, just maybe, the answer was yes.
"Pull yourself together," Shoto added his two-cents. He felt light, even with the weight on his shoulders, and it made him feel bold, and slightly silly. "You're the Class Rep, aren't you?"
Just then, the hairs on his bare-forearms rose, a shudder rising up through his body as his sixth-sense tingled. Shoto's eyes shot up to the sky, in time with Gran Torino's cry of, "Get down!"
In between one breath and the next, the bird-like form of some heteromorphic-quirked villain (one with a strangely familiar look about them that sent Shoto's skin crawling with unwelcome memory) was flying towards them; then Midoriya was gone, snatched up in their prehistoric claws like a rat snatched by a swooping predator.
Shoto cried out instinctively for his friend, but could only watch helplessly as he drew further and further away, his eyes watering from the strong gusts of wind billowing in the villain's wake.
Then, something moved.
"This society, with its fake heroes, bloated and obese on their unearned accolades and overabundant rewards—"
A dark form ran, quick and light on its feet, even as the villain holding Midoriya aloft let loose a haunting cry and began to drop from the sky.
"—and the criminals, who throw their power about idly, with no goal or purpose—"
The form launched itself into the air, and a bandaged arm rose, a blade glinting in the pale light of the moon. It landed, blood spurted in a massive gush, and the winged-villain fell to the ground and skidded, dragging up chunks of the bricked sidewalk as it came to a rumbling stop. The form that stood above it, bi-colored scarves flapping in the windy aftereffects of their fall, sent a chill that had nothing to do with his quirk traveling up Shoto's spine.
A knife, plunged into the uncovered brain-stem of the defeated monster, twisted and yanked, sending blood gushing once again.
"…Should all be purged. This is all to create… a more just society!"
The heroes about him began to mutter, trying to decide how to handle their suddenly escaped, and now armed, incredibly dangerous prisoner, but Shoto found that his eyes wouldn't leave the prone form of his green-haired friend... and though he wanted to go to him, his feet refused to move.
"What are you all doing, standing about in a group like that?" a familiar (and right now, strangely welcome, for perhaps the first time in his life) voice boomed out disapprovingly. "The villain ought to have come this way, why aren't you going after it?"
One of the heroes piped up, saying, "How are things on your end? Was the villain taken care of?"
"It took a bit more effort than expected," Endeavor admitted reluctantly. Shoto had yet to turn around, but he could imagine the look on the man's face: disgruntled at even the smallest implication that he had fallen short at something.
"Don't tell me," Endeavor added afterward, slowly, "that that man is…"
Stain pressed a hand roughly into Midoriya's back, not giving him room to do more than wiggle as he protested and struggled to get away. Shoto found that maybe he did have it in him to move after all, and put one, shaking foot in front of him.
But before he could do more, flames rose, high and bright enough to cast shadows across the ground before his feet, and Endeavor called out, "Hero Killer!" In reply to the menacing, blue-eyed glare, came the snarled: "Endeavor."
Gran Torino had just finished shouting, "Wait, Endeavor—" and Shoto's foot had only just risen to try another step, when—
An off-white scarf floated to the ground, and what was revealed sent the world shuddering to a halt.
Red irises set in sclera shot through with broken capillaries, no longer half-hidden by a fraying cloth, set upon the gathered heroes—Shoto among them—with a deep, primal fear-inducing glare. The fear gathered in an almost physical wave, sticking Shoto's feet to the ground, freezing every limb in place, making him feel as if he had been caught in the Hero Killer's quirk, and unable to do more than listen helplessly to the monster's short, but poignant, manifesto:
"I must make things right," he growled, his voice echoing in the silent streets. "I might paint the world in the red of fake heroes' blood; I must take back what it means to be a hero!
"COME! TRY TO COME AFTER ME, YOU FAKES!"
Shoto felt as if he had been cast into an illusion, one that distorted the very air he breathed, sending an existential terror shooting through his lungs and turning the man before his eyes into a ginormous, inescapable giant created entirely from fear. Each footstep brought the titan closer, closer, with a boom of sound that should be loud enough to shatter its way through his ears and past them to what lay between. He wanted to cover his ears against the sound, but he couldn't move his hands; he wanted to close his eyes, but his lids stayed stubbornly open; he wanted to hide, but his body wouldn't shift even a single millimeter.
Crazed, furious red eyes seemed to meet his own, and the following words seared themselves into his very being:
"THE ONLY ONE I'LL LET KILL ME… IS THE TRUE HERO, ALL MIGHT."
Shoto felt as if he were caught in an endless moment, wherein the words rang and rebounded throughout his brain, echoing back and forth in an endless cycle.
Into the quiet of the following silence, a knife dropped to the ground with a quiet clatter, breaking it.
"I do believe he's… lost consciousness," Endeavor said, slowly, disbelievingly, and the words shocked Shoto out of the impossible illusion.
Unable to help it, he collapsed, as if he had been cut down at the knees. Around him, heroes and Iida did the same, all of them overcome, as if they too had been cast into that strange, fearful illusion.
After that, things moved quickly, faster than Shoto could honestly keep up with, as the world had never seemed to really settle back in right after those few, terror-studded seconds.
By the time things really slotted themselves back into coherency, Shoto was being urged to lie down on a bed, his wounds bandaged and somehow already changed into a hospital gown, and collapsed on his side without giving the unexpected change in location any further thought.
They had fought a notorious serial killer today. Shoto imagined he was perfectly entitled to shut everything out, other than his immediate desire to sleep and keep on sleeping.
So he was, and he did, and when he dreamed, he dreamed of a world bathed in red.
Shoto had known that they would be suffering consequences of some sort for their actions, but he hadn't imagined… this.
"The fuck you say?" he snarled, feeling his quirk raging beneath his bandaged arm. His fire was as eager as always, and Shoto, strangely, was not terrified at the thought of setting it free.
"Todoroki-kun!" Midoriya squeaked, horrified, mirrored by Iida's disapproving, "Todoroki-kun!"
Shoto continued, unheeding, his eyes glaring unflinchingly into the Chief of Police's own. "Midoriya and I saved Iida's life and the life of the Pro-Hero Native. Are you telling me we should have stood back and waited, with our thumbs up our asses, for a serial killer to murder them in front of our eyes—and all because of some stupid fucking law?"
Waking up in a hospital bed, disoriented and still-tired, had been enough to draw his mood to the very edge of civil; this new bullshit, with the actual Chief of Police of Hosu, standing there, telling them they would be censured for saving someone's life was... it was complete crazy talk, was what it was, and it had easily pushed him over the edge. Iida was shushing him, Midoriya gripping his shoulders and trying to say something, but Shoto straightened his back and pulled his lips up in a condescending sneer, nowhere near ready to back down.
They had faced off with a dangerous villain… and survived. If Shoto had to suffer through days and weeks of nightmares as punishment for risking his life, there was no way in hell he was going to be putting up with anything else.
He was preparing to say just that (or something to that effect, interspersed with plenty of swear words), when—
"That is quite enough out of you, brat," a familiar voice cut in, shocking Shoto out of his building rage. His eyes shot to the door, which he had missed sliding open, and caught tired, irritated black.
"Keep that mouth up and I'll have you in detention, scrubbing the classroom floors with a toothbrush, for the rest of the month. That's the Chief of Police you're speaking to, have some goddamn respect. Apologize. Now."
Resentfully, but without delay, because Aizawa-sensei didn't make idle threats, Shoto grunted out an apology and gripped the end of Iida's bed, not bothering to hide his glower. That didn't last, either, as his eyes quickly caught a matching scowl and a finger that sliced meaningfully across a throat. With a silent gulp, Shoto finally reined in his temper, for real this time. What was Sensei doing in their hospital room, anyway, so far away from UA grounds?
('I'm not going to pick up any of you', Sensei had said, and Shoto had known he was lying, but actually being presented with physical proof was—)
As if in answer to his question, Sensei stepped fully through the hospital doors and past Tsurugamae-shocho, Gran Torino and Iida's intern Hero (Man... manimal?), with a nod for the three of them, saying:
"Gentlemen, greeting. I'm the Pro-Hero Eraserhead, and these kids' homeroom teacher at UA Academy. Principal Nezu sent me as soon as we got the word. I'm to rendezvous with the police, keep him updated, and make sure that these three—" the words were said in a threatening growl, aimed at Shoto and his friends, which made them all flinch back with building dread, "—aren't causing any trouble."
"A pleasure to meet you," Tsurugamae-shocho said, nodding his canine head in greeting. "I was just about to explain to the boys that they would have to be officially reprimanded… If we were to go about this in an official fashion. Here is an alternative I would like you all to consider."
And although the following words nearly sent Shoto into another rage (with Aizawa-sensei's forbidding presence about the only keeping him silent), in the end, they all reluctantly agreed to keep the news out of the press and give the glory to Endeavor.
Even the thought of it, now, sent a sour emotion tingling over this tongue, but Shoto swallowed it down, because the alternative was having this on his permanent record, and a blow to his pride could not compare.
It was still a bitter pill to swallow, regardless, particularly as Endeavor was the one they had selected to stand in the spotlight. A mental picture of the man, standing before the press and spewing out blatant lies, passed over his mind; and Shoto had to hide his face in his shoulder and pretend to cough, to avoid anyone catching sight of it, and asking him what the hell was wrong with his face.
"—you'll be here for as long as it takes you to heal," Aizawa-sensei was saying, and Shoto pushed away bitter fire and ash from his mind, to focus his attention on his surroundings.
"For that long?" Midoriya was asking, sounding dismayed. Sensei tapped on their individual charts, laid out at the foot of Midoriya's bed, and gave the boy a pointed look.
"You can argue with your mother about it, if you like? I'm sure she'll have some very choice things to say about that."
Sensei tapped again, then added, as if as an afterthought: "Of course, if you choose to cause your mother any grief after what did—and could have—happened last night, I'll be forced to step in… and I'm sure you don't want that."
Midoriya visibly shuddered, wilting into his pillow, which Shoto whole-heartedly sympathized with. Then it was his turn to shy back, as Sensei sent them each a long, dark look that promised many things, but none of them pleasant.
"That goes for all three of you, do you understand? Your families are going to have a hard enough time handling the news, I don't want you making it any worse. Try anything stupid—or rude, Todoroki, don't think I've forgotten that shit you pulled earlier—and you'll answer to me."
They all nodded respectfully, the honest fear in their faces at the thought seeming to satisfy their teacher. Then his features softened, and he leaned his hands against the rail of Midoriya's bed. He met their eyes again, but this time the emotion behind them seemed almost... kind.
"You did good," he told them, his deep voice sincere with emotion. "You not only survived against a terribly, unimaginably dangerous man who has already taken down countless pro-heroes, you fought him to a standstill, and then took him down completely. You were injured, but you were victorious, and you have every right to be proud of yourselves for your accomplishment. I know I am."
Pleasure spread tendrils of heat through his chest and up to his cheeks, and Shoto looked down at his bedspread and his folded hands to hide the shy smile that spread across his face.
('I'm not going to pick up any of you', Sensei had said, and Shoto knew that he had lied.)
And so Shoto's internship came to a surprising end. He was released from the hospital shortly after (with his injuries treated and no real cause to keep him), and was soon traveling home on a bullet train, sat beside a surprisingly quiet Endeavor. As the passing scenery flew by in a whirl of color, Shoto gazed outside, his thoughts quiet and content, and kept the words, 'I know I am' close to his chest.