Within the frozen fortress of Shoto's body, a fire burned. Oftentimes, that flame was small, weak, and glossed over; but in times like today, it was ferocious. His father knew this; his friends knew this. Though such knowledge lay within both their minds, only within his friends did it also lay their hearts.
His father didn't find it necessary to encourage him. Endeavor was confident in his son, and for that reason alone, Shoto couldn't hate him. That confidence in him was no longer warped by his own desires, like in his youth. Enji Todoroki might still be an asshole, but his elevation to the greatest hero in Japan had changed him. He was hot, instead of scalding. He was tough, instead of harsh. Shoto would never know if he loved, but he knew he no longer hated.
Izuku, and to a lesser extent, Setsuna, felt like the other side of that coin. They made their confidence known; a physical, verbal projection that landed on Shoto's shoulders like warm spring water. His shoulders burned where they'd slapped them, but not of fire. Therapy had done numerous things for his outlook, but this was the most notable.
He could… accept his father. Look his failings right in the eye, see all the wrong he had done, and move on with him. Forgiveness was irrelevant; it wasn't even on the table. Within no one else was the truth so crystal. He had a choice: remove himself from the situation, or stay and move on; and the answer had come to him with far more ease than it did Natsuo.
Thus, he lived, trained, and persisted with his father. They spoke often, at times quite deeply, and there was an affection between them; akin to a camaraderie. Perhaps Endeavor wanted more, but this was enough for Shoto. He got all the support he needed from his siblings, mentors, and friends. Even now, as Shoto drew power from his father's decisiveness, the bulk of his strength came from his friend's support.
Heat bloomed in his chest, just as his feet felt an icy shock, like a winter's river had flooded his ankles. With his father, his rival, and his friend at his back, he stepped forward.
Had he been any other man, he would've fallen over the railing, landing on his back like a moron. Within him, however, winter's coldest river answered his call, and his foot found its holding on an icy bridge. His father's fire illuminated his back, warming his structure and turning its edges slick, but his control kept it solid, unwavering. The further he walked, the farther his father's light became, yet he himself grew no darker. Fire whispered in his left ear, its crackle hanging against his shoulder like a friend.
Shoto stood over the arena now, some thirty feet in the air. Far below, Space Hero Thirteen stood, hands behind her thick suit in a polite patience he appreciated. He'd be sure to send her flowers after her loss; she'd always been one of his favorites. Nothing he was about to do was in any way an insult to her. She was just the unfortunate hero they'd chosen to try and put him in his place.
By clicking his heels together, a simple spiral staircase creaked into existence, ending at the feet of Thirteen.
Whispers in the crowd kept him intense; their buzz sharpening his focus into a blade. He could hear nothing of Present Mic's obnoxious ramblings, his racing heart, nor the anxiety in his chest. Shoto leaned into their awe, drawing on it for inspiration. Inasa had been a massive surprise; a former top ten hero's son, testing today? It was hard to imagine anything could exceed it. Had Shoto not been here today, there might not've been. Well, except for his friends. And possibly that Momo girl; that'd been quite the sight.
He would give them the best performance of the day, and secure the best spot in 1Z. In any scenario, he'd pass; but the top spot would be special. It'd set a precedent, an expectation that'd forge him into the best hero he could be; forcing him to stay ahead of the curve. It'd be a far more motivating goal than just merely becoming the best.
It might have also been to make up for his abysmal Algebra 2 score. Seriously, why Algebra 2? U.A. might as well have given him an exam on quantum physics. Even then, he'd probably do better on that test, given the time or two he'd spoken to that Togata guy Izuku'd been hanging around. The guy was like a walking particle conundrum.
When he took his final step, his sneakers planting on the ground for the first time, his structure collapsed. His inner fire ran through it, liquifying it so fast that the water crashed against the floor in unison, shaking the whole arena. Shoto wrinkled his nose; the mud it created stained the bottoms of his shoes; niceish, bleached sneakers that he wore for good luck.
"Hey, little hero. How ya feelin'?" Thirteen asked, holding her massive glove out for a shake. It wasn't vertical, like for a man-to-man shake, but held horizontally, lady-like. Shoto considered it for a moment, tempted to keep the exchange all business, but shrugged. No point in scorning someone he kinda looked up to. He gripped the side of her massive hand, his fingers barely reaching around her forefinger, and gave it a light tug. Though he couldn't see her face through her reflective helmet, he got the impression of a smile.
"Alright. No hard feelings, right?" He asked, looking into his own eyes painted on her helmet's front. A nod. "Cool."
"Ten!" Present Mic started. "...Nine!"
Shoto tuned the Radio Hero out, his awareness condensing down to the most important subject: Thirteen's fingers. Bending his knees, he pushed himself back, the surface behind him turning slick. He almost stumbled; but practice makes perfect, and he was putting in skating hours every day. It was a little awkward with his shoes slick with mud, but that wouldn't be a problem when he got a hero costume. Izuku had helped with the design; shoes with retractable skates wasn't even an idea he considered until the guy brought it up one day.
Wherever he went, ice spread, keeping him nimble and fast. Without proper skates, he manipulated the terrain with ice, making curves where there weren't, removing obstacles where there was. Thirteen was watching him, her helmet only inching side to side as he moved, forming wall after wall between them as Present Mic's countdown got close. Inasa had beaten Midnight in almost three minutes; Shoto intended only to take seconds.
"...Two!..."
Shoto slowed to a stop, staring at Thirteen's semi-warped form through his protective walls. He'd learned how to angle the crystalline innards of his ice, twisting them to leave the least amount of distortion possible. It'd been a lesson he'd learned when he first fought Izuku years ago. Now, Thirteen appeared only inches away from her true destination; and with such a wide suit, inches counted for zilch.
Phase One: Ability Test.
"One! Go, go, go!"
Shoto didn't wait a millisecond; the moment Present Mic's lips formed the "O" in one, he'd already punched his wall. In a chain reaction, that wall crashed into the next, and then that one hit the third like dominoes. Twice more did a wall slam into another, until he had a viscious momentum building as it crashed into the outermost wall. The impact jarred against his ears, colliding with the outer wall with all the accumulated momentum. Shoto barely had any manipulation left to do; the outer wall shattered into a thousand projectiles, each hurtling towards Thirteen like a grenade's shrapnel.
His ears popped as the one of the tips of her gloves flicked open, her quirk pulling his hair against his scalp. Her quirk, Black Hole, pulled in and ripped apart anything within a hundred foot radius. Though its strength waned the further one was, even someone five hundred feet away could still feel it. She couldn't control it; only limit it with her bulky support items. Though the cap on her finger tip was only open for a brief, nauseating moment, it was enough.
Four tons of ice debris flew at her; yet not a single piece damaged her suit. The shrapnel flew past her, embedding in the stone walls of the ring. Shrieks of surprise wrang through the stadium, but no shrapnel hurt a spectator—he wasn't trying to kill anybody, after all. The only place that went unblemished besides the stands was the space directly behind Thirteen, who stood proud and unflinching.
"Simply incredible." She said.
If that small show was incredible to her, then she'd better prepare.
Phase Two: Limit Test.
With a wave, the remaining walls between them dropped, liquified in a blink. Another wave of mud licked his sneakers, but he no longer cared. With his right arm, he swung up, like in an underhanded throw, and the arena shifted.
The previously liquified ice, now partially mud, mixed with the explosive growth of a new creation. Shoto cast aside his sensibilities as a sculptor, instead focusing on sheer power. He thought of his friends, and the strength they gave him. He thought of his father, and the confidence he instilled within him. He thought of his mother, whose power he used even now, and wondered if she'd ever had this strength.
If Shoto ever found the courage to face her, that would be the first thing he'd ask.
The spear exploded from the ground, pulled into existence like an orca breaking air. It was magnificent; a hundred tons of ice drilled into a point sharp enough to prick his finger with a touch. Beyond the tip was a jagged shape based on natural crystallization and his own subconscious. It gave the impression of crocodile eyes on the water's surface; just the tip, the signal of a much larger, more ferocious body just laying beneath the surface. Like a buried statue, with only the crown of its head and raised fist sticking into the air.
The force with which he hit Thirteen with should've collapsed the stadium. Yet the building was fine, sturdy and unbothered. Thirteen stood pristine, whole and ungored.
Shoto's sharpened tip crumbled, fell, and was sucked into Thirteen's outstretched hand. Shoto found himself struggling to stay on his feet as more and more of his Heavenly Piercing Spear was shattered, scattered, and devoured by Thirteen's monstrous strength.
To be expected. Frost clung to his right side; but it left him no more debilitated should he have stood in solid concrete. With a simple flex of his heat, it melted off in streams. Though it went against logic, he felt defiant as he stood straight against the impossible suction of Thirteen's blackhole. Ice crept over his shoes, locking his legs in place so his posture stayed upright even as her gravity tugged against him.
With a click, the caps on Thirteen's fingers closed once again, and Shoto's spear became just a memory. They stood still; their postures firm, their attention sharp as they made eye contact. It would be generous to say twenty seconds had passed.
His core was beginning to ache; even as his power balanced his temperatures, it still took his energy to use them. He soothed the pain with a wave of warmth; a paradoxical cure, but one that let him push his limits with ease. The ice holding him steady melted away, wetting his pant legs. His sneaker shifted in forward, just as Thirteen's shifted back. They were like a mirror, in this moment, as he raised his left arm once again. Fire licked across his sleeve as he prepared the largest attack of his life. She raised her arm in defiance, prepared to neutralize whatever he threw at her next.
A moment passed, then two, as Shoto stared at her helmet. The reflective sphere only showed his own face in it, scowling in focus, scar pink and puckered red around his eyelids.
She was a powerhouse, like himself, though inverted. Whereas he was capable of great bouts of destruction from the energy he produced, she could devour any attack sent her way. Her suit wasn't even dynamic; basically a blob of padding for protection, providing her no advantage in the area of attack. Thirteen had the capacity to be the most lethal, devastating fighter in the hero sphere, yet she chose the far less glamorous life of a Rescue hero.
Shoto… wanted to be a hero. He liked the ring of it; Shoto Todoroki, second in line to the seat of the Number 1 Hero. His father, as abusive as his ideology had made him, was understandable, at least to him. Generational trauma was a problem in their family, yes, but a generational heroism counterbalanced it in a way Shoto felt no small pride in. His grandfather had died in the line of duty when his father was still in puberty. He may not have had a license, but the law wasn't what defined a hero. It was about intent, respect, and sacrifice.
What had his father sacrificed, on his way to the top? His family, sure. Perhaps his dignity; his morals and health also came to mind. Endeavor put it all on the line for heroism… but what did Shoto have to sacrifice? What was his intent, going forward? Did his desire for the highest pedestal ring true to his spirit?
The flames on his arm flickered, weakening.
"You know, brute force won't amount to much against me. Heroism isn't about what you can do, kiddo. It's about how you can do it." Thirteen said, soft yet pointed. "You seem promising… but 1Z isn't here for raw power. That's 1A's department. 1Z is for practicality, and that ice spear… Well, let's just say you aren't stopping a robbery with that."
Shoto shuddered. Her words felt like a broken clock had just ticked for the first time in months. A clock that always told the hour time, but never the minute. Blood was pumping in his temple; the adrenaline had yet to wear off, keeping him on high alert.
He latched onto the passing thought, the small throb in his head encompassing all he could think of. Blood. His blood; something that, while his own, shared traits with his family.
None of the living Todoroki children had the spark for heroism, except for perhaps him. He wasn't sure if he'd ever had it, to be honest, but he'd always pushed forward anyways. Even as his father had grown soft and lenient, he'd still pushed him to practice. It was all he knew.
In a blink, he imagined two worlds. In his left eye, for the duration he closed it, he saw a mirror. His expression was harder, icier, with none of the comfortable warmth he'd come to appreciate. It was obvious to him here that any fire within him wasn't a flame of love, but hate. He hated Endeavor. He hated his scar. He hated school, training, heroism, and his life. It was a world in which he'd trained harder, but by coercion rather than choice. He stood tall and narrow, like a fence picket turned into a man. There, he crushes villains, and leaves the rescuing of civilians to the men and women beneath him. A thick golden medal hung at his neck, a "1" engraved on its face. The metal dragged his head down, but it was no heavier than a feather in comparison to the disgust in his chest. The world in which that Shoto inhabited was flat, gray, and lame. Conquered; apathetic.
In his right eye, he saw himself from an anterior perspective; the back of his head. No scar in sight, no tightness in his gait, no weight on his shoulders. He was even a little pudgy down the middle, though no more than a little. It was… empty, but carefree. That Shoto partook in easy pleasures, spending all his time consuming. Be it media, food, or affection, that Shoto absorbed it like a sponge and hoarded it like a fat dragon. That man, that carefree man, despite his gluttony, was alone. No world surrounded him, no life or death or empathy or apathy. It was… empty, with nothing to care for.
Shoto was no fortune teller, but he'd met one, once. Nighteye had been a strict man, but kind and helpful in ways Shoto had never known then. The hero had given him tips on how to utilize his fire and ice at the same time, despite never using them himself. To this day, that advice had never wrung false in his ears. He imagined what the man might say, if those visions were plastered over the inside of his eyes.
"It'd be best not to lean too heavily to either side, you know. Sure, I mean it's easy to give into your passions, but life is about balance. Stay motivated, keep a steady hand, and make sure you're not the only one thriving if you can help it."
Unprompted, Shoto tilted his head, looking through the crowd. Somewhere out there, that same man sat, waiting for his own student's turn. He wondered if he already knew the results, and just kept them close to his chest for fun. It didn't matter much to him, Shoto thought, feeling the power return to not only his warm arm, but also his chilled leg.
Foresight was nice, but the future only plays out when you actually do something; nothing gets done when all you do is read about it. Nighteye's insight had always been more helpful than his Foresight, at least in Shoto's case.
Intent. Respect. Sacrifice.
Motivation. Steadiness. Altruism.
What kind of man did he want to be?
He'd figure it out along the way.
Phase Three: Eliminate.
His arm cut through the air, slashing down from over his right shoulder down to his left hip. He put every ounce of physical and emotional weight into the strike, and the flames answered proportionally. A dense Flame Arc burst from him like a cannon, so large and full that it blocked their vision of the other. Already, Shoto could feel the hungry pull of her blackhole, could see the way his flame arc warped around the edges.
Slamming his right foot into the ground, he launched himself to the edge of the ring. Ice walls, curved like a skater's quarterpipe, grew against the walls as Shoto collided with them. The slick angles held his momentum, allowing him to circle around Thirteen, seeing her back before she'd even finished absorbing the flames. Now, he was a little to her left and behind, and it was all coming together.
The closer he got to her, the stronger her pull. As he was, Shoto was barely hanging onto his ice, the frost gripping his shoes holding him steady. Thirteen'd already devoured half the Flame Arc, and in seconds, he would be able to—
Thirteen's quirk exploded in strength, the pull growing exponentially greater. One of his feet broke free from their hold; the only thing keeping him safe was the far thicker protection he'd allocated to his other foot. As it was, however, he was left dangling and off balance. He scrambled, trying to secure himself even as his mind raced trying to figure out what had happened.
Slamming a fist into the wall, a burst of ice locked it in place. Though his other limbs were still dangling, the two-point security was enough to allow him some focus. Pushing his bangs out of his face, he was able to see what'd happened. For whatever reason, she'd cracked open all ten fingers, and only the embers of his flame arc remained. Fuck.
It was like a door slammed in his face. Shoto's perfect opportunity, curated by all the energy in his tank, gone and wasted. A ragged breath tore through his lungs; the pain in his core had magnified in his abuse. And for what? A whim of her own? To just flex on him?
Annoyance erupted in his gut, bordering on anger; simple chance had crushed his plan, and Inasa was going to take his top spot. Shoto didn't spend all those unforgiving hours with his damnable father just for second place. A wild idea took hold of him, fueled by all the pettiness in his stomach.
"Hey!" He screamed, drawing Thirteen's eye. "Catch!"
On a whim, he liquified his safety harness, allowing Thirteen's blackhole to rip him from safety. The next half-second of his life was sheer chaos. He tumbled through the air like a ragdoll, his body bouncing against the dirt as the woman's quirk pulled him in. One particularly hard bounce dislocated his shoulder, but even then, Shoto's mind remained focused. This was one opportunity that he refused to lose.
"Holy shit!" Thirteen screamed, mere milliseconds before Shoto's body collided with death itself. In her moment of panic, she slammed all the caps on her fingers shut, and Blackhole's pull diminished to nothing. "Are you insane—"
Frost devoured her suit, growing thickest around her gloves. Though he'd dislocated his shoulder, that was his flame's side, and his frost went unimpeded. His firm palm lay planted on the center of her chest, and with her gloves locked in place, she was powerless.
He didn't quite stop there. The frozen cubes sealing away her hands branched out, growing from the tips of her fingers to the arena's floor. Branches of his ice spread like weeds, encompassing most of her upper body. She could kick her feet all she wanted, but he'd captured her.
She was silent as he struggled into a better stance. When the prison was complete, he stepped back, gripped his elbow, and twisted. With a nauseating crack, his arm was back in its sockets. He raised the arm gingerly, but with purpose. All five of his digits spread out, his hand mere inches from Thirteen's helmet. In his palm, a tiny flame burned.
Shoto blinked, seeing his reflection. He was filthy; mud and scrapes littered his face, camouflaging his scar. His eyes held a wild energy, a smile tugging on his lips where once only a frown sat. It was his victory; a little less clean than Inasa's, sure, but far faster and more potent.
"I… concede." Thirteen whispered. The words flowed off her lips like magic, liquifying Shoto's ice the very same moment. Despite being the one imprisoned and beaten, however, it was Shoto who stumbled afterwards. His knees shook, his strength gone.
Before he could fall, however, Thirteen caught him. Holding him upright, she raised his fist like a referee; beside them, Present Mic announced his win. The stadium rumbled in his victory, claps and hoots and stomps showering him with acknowledgements.
"That was… foolish. Moronic. Stupid. But it got the job done. I didn't take you for the self-sacrificial type; but I suppose you showed me how you do things. Congrats on joining 1Z, Todoroki."
Intent. Respect. Sacrifice.
It excited him, to know the lengths he was willing to go for something. To test his limits, and to surprise even himself. Yet he still wondered: What did he want? What did respect mean to him? He had taken a step forward, but the mountain of questions still towered overhead. And at the very summit, the greater question of all: What kind of person did he want to be?
Shoto nodded at her, shaking her hand one more time. There was a fire in his chest; a physical, aching sign of his own exhaustion, but also a satisfied warmth. His gaze dragged itself across the stands, locking onto where he knew his friends still sat.
He gave them a single incline of his head. Their turn.
[x]
Setsuna stared, bug-eyed as Shoto almost killed himself for the win. Even with his confidence, it'd never processed that he'd actually do it—at least, it hadn't occurred to her that he'd win like that.
He was in. It felt so surreal, watching Thirteen accept him. He was in. He'd accomplished something she'd been working towards for the better part of five years, and she wasn't far behind. Izuku wasn't far behind. They were inches away; no further than a month from starting their new academic lives. Where had the time gone?
A nudge brought her out of her thoughts, Izuku's elbow grabbing her attention.
"He's looking at us." He said.
It was true. Far below; filthy and exhausted, Shoto's eyes settled on theirs. From this distance, she couldn't make out his movements well; but it seemed he gave them a nod. The act struck a chord through her; now that he'd finished, it was just them. He held the gaze a moment longer, then took his leave.
Shoto was on Thirteen's heel as she left, going deeper into the building rather than retreating to the stands. She understood why; he'd taken a nasty hit to the shoulder, and the Space Hero probably just wanted to get him checked up. Still, his hasty exit only encouraged an even hastier entrance; something which Present Mic wasted no time in ushering.
"What an incredible show from our number one hopeful! Little Todoroki has just as much fire in his belly as pops, but twice the icy calm! I daresay he's a clear rival to our other Legacy Hero, Inasa Yoarashi! Listeners, let me be honest. I'm just a man, like you, and right now, my blood is pumping way too fast to just let us sit still! Vlad King! Get on down here!"
A bubble formed in Setsuna's belly; anxiety ballooning out against her organs. They were the last two, her and Izuku, but who would go next? Did she really have to do this all now? Her fingernails dug gouges into her knee. Maybe they could take a raincheck, and reconvene after she felt more prepared—
Izuku's callused fingers wrapped around the back of her tense hand. Finger by finger, he pulled each stressed digit up, loosening her grip. The act sent thunderous strikes of warmth ripping through her body, heat flushing her cheeks. His touch was delicate, and her heart fluttered alongside it. She could only thank the darkness of the stands for hiding her blush.
"Don't worry, Set." He whispered, leaning close so as only she could hear him. Endeavor and Gran seemed none the wiser to his actions, and for that she was grateful. "Vlad King may seem big and mean, but he's a notorious softie. We've trained hard for this. He will give us our chance, and all we have to do is take it."
Ba-dump. His warm breath against her ear relaxed her, shrinking that balloon in her gut. Feeling bold, she flipped her hand over, grabbing his own before he could escape. He was warm; strikingly so, like a kerosene heater in a winter cabin. She closed her eyes, leaning the side of her head against his.
Izuku went stiff for a second, but relaxed into her touch. It was nice of him, she thought, to indulge her in this moment. She took so much, expected so much, yet he let her stick around and bother him at her leisure. For that alone, she appreciated him; yet it was only the cherry on top of a far sweeter cake.
Ba-dump. They were close to their dreams; closer than they'd ever been, and the next step was mere seconds away. As if feeling her emotions himself, Izuku gave her palm a small squeeze.
"He's out." He whispered, narrating the arena even as her eyes remained closed. "Vlad's in his suit; big and red, remember? We'll need to watch out for those gauntlets—that's where he releases his blood… Even though he's huge, he fights like an immobilizer. He'll start by—"
"Izu." She interrupted, tightening her grip on his hand. He fell silent. "We'll be fine. Just… let me focus, like this, until either of us are called. Kay?"
She felt his head nod, rather than see it.
"Alright, folks… the second to last match! In the red corner, we have Vlad King! He may look like a hulk of muscle, but he's flexible! Malleable to a fault, there's no one more reliable! He's anything you need him to be and more, he's the Blood Hero of U.A.'s 1B!" Present Mic said, his words rebounding through Setsuna's ears.
Ba-dump. Call it a guess, a hypothesis, or even a woman's intuition, but she felt a sudden calm overtake her. It squashed the growing anxiety in her lungs, just as it pushed aside the warm affection in her heart. It didn't happen fast, like tripping into cold water. Rather, the realization came to her slowly, like easing oneself into a warm pool.
She pulled her head from Izuku's, letting go of his hand in the process. Swinging a leg over the back of her old seat, she stood between Endeavor and Gran once more. Gran gave her a glance; but didn't stop her.
"Go on, Girlie. Remember, it's not about winning or losing, it's about the show; and you've got a helluva lot to show. Give 'em hell." He said, pushing her closer to the edge with his cane. To her side, Endeavor grunted, drawing her attention.
"Tokage… I still remember what you said on that bridge all those years ago. You've got a good head on your shoulders; better than most. Take your place by your friends' side."
Setsuna looked at him, staring him up and down, and nodded. Even now, those memories were fuzzy, but that didn't matter. She had his approval, and that was a good enough confidence boost for her. Imbued with their approval, she planted a foot on the railing that overlooked the arena.
She teetered, wondering if she was right, wondering if she was ready. An echo of that earlier doubt crept back into her, making her hesitate on the precipice.
"Hey!" A voice said; turning, she saw Izuku up and behind her. In the dim reflection of his eyes, she saw the certainty that had occupied her mere moments ago. "You got this! Get on out there!"
With that, he pushed her into the ring.
"And in the blue corner!" Present Mic said, pausing as Setsuna floated down to the ground opposite of Vlad King. "Setsuna Tokage! Get a good look at her now, folks… you might not later!"
Vlad King's expression was intense, but Setsuna returned it tenfold. He offered a handshake, twenty feet away, but made no move to step closer. Raising her chin, she accepted his challenge.
Her wrist broke off, her hand flying across the arena to meet his own. If that surprised him, it didn't show on his face. She didn't twist her palm, giving him a lady-like shake. Setsuna applied every ounce of pressure she could manage into the tug she gave him, squeezing like her life depended on it.
Even if her ability didn't surprise him, her strength sure did. His eyes followed her hand back to her wrist, then dragged up her form to meet her eyes.
She gave him her best grin; her pearlescent razors bared to the open air. For fun, she threw in a wink.
"Ten!"
Something in Vlad King's expression changed; like the light hitting his face shifted. As Present Mic's count drew closer and closer to one, the man seemed to grow more serious. His thick, hulking deltoids pulled back, his chest bared in her direction. The man's center of gravity lowered, his legs dropping into a defensive position. Crimson life pooled out of his arms like in zero gravity, globulous drops hovering close to his frame.
Not to be outdone, she matched his seriousness with an intensity of her own. Like breaking down an action figure into parts, she popped all her limbs off in chunks. From there, she split even further, dividing each appendage into a dozen pieces by itself. She was like a general here, organizing her parts into platoons. Only her torso stayed whole, and that was to preserve her modesty.
She'd even divided her head. In the past, her sensory abilities became garbled when split; but with intense drilling, that was behind her. Now, splitting her sensory organs apart was almost mandatory for her fighting style. Her vision spanned double the space, allowing her to see things from two sides at once. She could hear over a wider range, smell twice as much, and taste a dozen things at once—not that that was particularly useful. Still, her head was in half a dozen pieces, floating as far apart from the others as possible.
Each limb-group moved as a unit, almost never mingling. Idle, the limb-groups revolved around her torso like planets.
"Three!"
Across the arena, Vlad's floating blood spasmed. Its shape grew inconsistent; sometimes, it was round like a shield, but other times it elongated, giving her the impression of a spear.
"...Two!"
Deciding that whatever he was up to wouldn't end well for her, she halted her legs' revolution. Dissolving their group, she willed her quads to form a flesh-wall between Vlad and her torso. Only by someone seizing her heart or brain could someone truly capture her, and she'd made sure to send her graymatter out of the equation. As of now, it was sitting comfortably in Izuku's lap.
Though anxiety still filled her chest, she stayed strong. Vlad King was a veteran hero, but it was as Izuku said; the man was a known-gentleman. Though his lower canines sprouted out of his lips like a bulldogs, sharp teeth weren't a sign of viciousness.
At least, in his case. Her disembodied tongue ran across the backend of her teeth, feeling the predatory grooves. A thousand times, she had wondered where her sharp teeth came from, and a thousand times she'd gone unanswered. They weren't a trait found in either of her parents; and the explanation of a micro-mutation always felt unsatisfactory. What made her this way? What good were sharp teeth, when all you ate was plant burgers and tofu?
Ba-dump. Far away, in the stands, she felt her scalp relax as Izuku ran his fingers through her hair. It was impossible to say if the intent was to calm his nerves or her own, but the outcome was the same.
Setsuna stopped running her tongue over her teeth, stopped worrying about the little things. She was here for one reason and one reason only: to prove herself. For a moment, as Present Mic dragged out the tail end of "Two," she allowed herself to enjoy Izuku's touch, wrapping herself in it.
Spinning one eye away from Vlad for a second, she gave one last look at Izuku. Though it was dark, she had good night vision, and could make out the barest hint of his mossy head. On the opposite side of the arena, a smile tugged at her lips.
She wouldn't lose, she decided. She'd win—and dedicate it to everyone who helped her. The old man, who trained her. Her mom, who took care of her, and her dad, who supported her through it all.
Ba-dump. And to Izuku. Her deceitful, overly-private crush, who was so full of secrets he was bursting at the seams. She'd win, and prove that she deserved to know whatever it was that clung to him like a second, heavier skin.
"One!"
Present Mic's countdown stole her attention back, her eye swiveling to catch Vlad's first move. It was a good thing she already had an eye dedicated to him, otherwise she might've lost in the first second.
The shapelessness of Vlad's blood disappeared, a ruse. It burst out of his gauntlets like a capture net, intricate and lined with confidence, aimed straight at her torso. Unwilling to sacrifice any pieces, she flew back, moving more as a swarm of bees than a bird. Though it snagged the tip of her heel, she was able to break free before it congealed.
Vlad's blood net came back to him in strings, reeled in like a measuring tape. It was seamless in the way it sucked back into his gauntlet, purifying the blood and forcing it back into his body. Old videos flashed past her mind, reminding her of his cool-down time.
Not wasting a moment, the swarm that made up her left calf recombined over his head. The wind whistled as she swung against his head like an ax, cutting through the air with ease. Though the strike lacked the weight of her quad, the telekinetic strength more than made up for it. He took the hit on his gauntlets, but in doing so, left himself open.
Both her fists, fully formed to the tricep, slammed into his lower abdomen. The impact bent him over like a futon, loosening his block and stealing the breath from his lungs.
Her other heel came in then, slamming into the back of his head. He thrashed, knocking her legs away from his head with one arm and pushing aside her fists with the other.
Before she could wind up for another attack, however, Vlad's crimson weapon burst forth again, this time in as a lasso. It flew out of his arm like a canon, the speed giving his arm some recoil to deal with. The difficult end of his blood-lasso shot towards a half-formed chunk of her elbow. Before it could hit, she broke into pieces—but that wasn't what he was aiming at. The blood-creation curved in midair, not bound by conventional momentum, and completely circumvented her quad-wall.
The lasso wrapped around her torso, floating behind the wall. The blood-rope wrapped around her waist, congealing and hardening on contact. She only had a moment to realize how blisteringly hot it was before Vlad pulled, yanking her down to the ground.
"Ack!" Her mouth exclaimed, just as her chest collided with the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Never slowing, Vlad pulled on his lasso, retracting it back into his arm like a measuring tape.
Her quadriceps saved the day. Slamming down over the lengthy part of the lasso, the heavy piece pinned the blood in place, giving her torso enough time to split along her waistline. Her torso zipped away, free, but not without cost.
Pinning Vlad's lasso may have saved her heart, but he wasted no time in taking his due payment. From where she had pinned his lasso grew a cage, imprisoning her legs. With a single tug, he had almost a quarter of her muscle mass under his control.
Though he'd taken her legs, she made sure to give him hell for it. Splitting her thighs into a dozen pieces required more focus than the others—she was already spread thin, and her telekinetic strength diminished with each division—but it was worth it. The smaller the piece, the smaller the gaps in his cage had to be.
Eventually, she got to the point where she could divide no more. Almost forty pieces, each no larger than a quarter, squirmed, thrashed, and otherwise dedicated every ounce of their being to breaking free. Of course, she understood there was no chance of that, but…
She'd forced the cage to transform into a full-on bubble, and that required far more blood. Blood wasn't the only thing that she forced him to waste—rather, she wasted his focus and stamina. Holding such a large blood bubble was like losing a full cup of blood, and that'd make a normal man nauseous by itself. Force that man to act carefully, be alert at all times, and stay physically strong, and they'd fall apart.
Fortunately for Vlad, he was far more adept at this sort of warfare than her. Though his blood was, at the end of the day, his most precious resource, he seemed almost generous in its use. Shoving Setsuna's wrangled quads to the floor, he poured more blood over it, congealing and locking it to the floor. He stood back up slowly, his frame wracked with obvious exhaustion, but his eyes stayed knife-sharp.
"You don't look so good, Mr. King!" She said, speaking from behind him. The man didn't bother turning around to find the source of her voice, instead settling for meeting her right eye's gaze above him. In silence, a blood-hammer formed in his hand. With his other, he siphoned off the extra fat on her thigh's prison, replenishing himself enough to silence the shaking in his shoulders.
"...Perhaps. But you seem to think you have gained some sort of advantage."
Her mouth circled around to his front, a frown on her lips.
"Haven't I? That's quite a lot of blood to waste on just my legs, sir." She said, bringing her jaw back to her torso, hovering above it like a phantom. At that, Vlad King took a step forward, the first he'd taken the whole fight.
"Sure, I've lost a lot of blood…but you've lost your legs. What happens if a villain, far stronger than I, does what I just did? Are you going to fight to the bitter end to retrieve them, or are you just going to let him escape, taking your legs with him? That's a risk you've chosen; a choice—or rather, an ultimatum. Abandon your legs and save your life, or risk your life to retrieve your legs."
With his off hand, he gestured for the blood prison to raise her legs to eye-level.
"Even the ultimatum is an illusion; you're a hero. You fight to the bitter end. That's what we do—so now you've put yourself in an inevitable situation where you either lose your life… or your heroic aptitude, not to mention your independence. That's not a loss you can recover from—I've heard amputees have a very difficult time just living a normal civilian life. They can't be heroes."
She winced. The words washed over her like a frozen river's waterfall, flooding her core with a cold shock. Not only that—but the ever-present, soothing sensation of Izuku's fingers running through her scalp ceased, turning hard and almost painful.
Izuku had heard him; presumably everyone heard him. Vlad's words rang like a gong in her mind, angry and ceaseless, repeating itself until becoming unintelligible. It felt like something expanded inside her, the corners of her vision going red.
"The fuck?"
Vlad King stumbled in surprise, hearing her response. Setsuna didn't even consider the risk; in one gargantuan pull, she recalled all aspects of her head together. She felt Izuku's surprise as her scalp flew from his hands, and saw Vlad's shock as she drew every piece of her skull and face into one place. They came from everywhere, drawn to her center like a whirlpool.
Planting her skull back on her shoulders, she withdrew her arms as well, leaving her missing only her legs. She hovered higher than she stood, just tall enough to tower over the Blood Hero.
What constituted her knees and below orbited around her in chunks; some small, some big. They churned amongst themselves, restless in her growing anger. Setsuna didn't know what was worse; his audacity, or her protectiveness. She thought of Izuku: all of his efforts, his struggles, his virtues, his everything. The images came unannounced, from deep within her memories, repeating themselves as Vlad's words echoed in her skull. Of him shielding her from a live gunman, of training endlessly together, of his visage battered and bruised, comatose in the hospital. Even beyond Izuku, she remembered her own struggles: of losing a leg, of regrowing and rehabilitating it.
Ba-dump. Her heart burned, like being dunked in gasoline and held over a match. She didn't know how long she held herself back for—but when that wrathful cavern in her chest was full, the seal on her self-control broke. Like a volcano with far too much magma in its chamber, she did what was natural: she erupted.
Vlad stood stock-still, eyes wide as she rocketed toward him, the air screeching as she danced with the sound barrier.
Her fist rocketed into his guard; shattering the outermost gauntlet he used to block. It fell from his forearm in pieces, his stored blood spilling out in rivers. Her knuckles were mush; her own blood mixed with his, her cartilage and bone exposed to open air. The sheer force of her hit knocked him off balance—and the disembodied leg sweep finished it. Vlad fell hard, landing on his spine like a sack of concrete. His blood-hammer turned to mere goo as she shook his focus; but the prison on her legs was solid, and needed active attention to liquify.
She hovered over him, fist outstretched so even his dazed eyes could see. Focusing every ounce of her will, she pooled all of her regeneration's strength into her busted hand. It knit over in seconds, leaving her whole once more.
He could only watch as that same arm popped off her shoulder and ripped the remaining gauntlet off his fist. She ignored the sick squelch as the needle in his vein popped out, but no blood squirted out. The man had at least that much control still.
Setsuna pulled her knees to hover beneath her shorts, approximating where they would've been had she still had thighs. For a second, he squirmed, but she couldn't allow that; not after the nonsense he'd spouted. Baring her teeth like a predator's, she planted a foot on his chest. He made no move to fight back.
"Never underestimate an amputee, Vlad King. Not everyone is dependent on having all their limbs; something you'd understand if you took the time to step into their shoes."
It was like the colosseum had caught its breath, watching the exchange. Even Present Mic was silent, an alien intensity in his usually cool eyes. Below her, Vlad King raised an arm, gesturing at the hole in his arm that released his blood.
"...Had I wanted to, I could've captured you here, as you gloat."
"And had I wanted to, I wouldn't have stopped hitting you when you went down. You're better than me, sir, but you underestimated me—us. In any case, your ultimatum was dumb."
Vlad, despite himself, furrowed his brows.
"In what way?"
"I can just regrow my limbs if they're destroyed. It wouldn't be the first time."
He blinked, staring at her. His eyes trailed across her, from her amputated nubs to her razor-sharp teeth. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his arm back into the dirt. Neither said a word, staring at each other.
Her tongue ran across the grooves of her predatory teeth once more, seeing him squirm below her. She considered the oddness of her jaws—of how viscous their nature appeared, contrasted against her animal-loving sensibilities. Perhaps, had she been a true lizard-lady, she'd have more enjoyed the sight of blood everywhere. As things stood however, she was more repulsed by the blood than enticed.
Still, even if she wasn't a true predator, her fierce teeth had their uses. She almost drifted away, pondering their scope, but pushed aside such thoughts as she felt Vlad's diaphragm exhale.
Vlad seemed to study her in turn, but what he decided, he kept to himself.
"...Welcome to 1Z."
Acquiescing his silent request, she removed her boot from his chest. Setsuna stared down at him, not wanting to help him up, but settled on doing so. Slapping her palm against his forearm, she pulled him to his feet her telekinetic strength. The man was simply too heavy to lift with her human muscles—but she didn't quite let go when he was able to stand on his own. She pulled him in close, whispering low enough so as for only him to hear.
"If you're still harboring those outdated biases, stick around for the final fight. The last match might break your brain."
With that, she broke away from him—literally. In pieces, she flew back into the stadium, straight towards Izuku. After a moment, when her legs were free, they followed. Along the way, she pushed aside all congratulations, all distractions. The surprise of her victory reverberated around the audience, but she suffered none of its echo. Even the old man, whose congratulations held an uncharacteristic enthusiasm, fell deaf on her ears. All she could see was Izuku's smile, beaming like a lighthouse on a foggy night.
"Good job, Set. You did great."
A smile tugged at her lips. For a moment, she continued to float there, not moving, before the dam. She rushed him down in a hug, an excited giggle following her.
"I did, didn't I?" She said, her face smooshed into his neck. His warm arm hesitated, unsure where to hold, but settled around the small of her back. She relaxed into the touch, loving every second.
They stayed like that for a second, then two, until Setsuna remembered where they were. Peaking behind herself, Endeavor and Gran were doing their best to look anywhere but them. A blush crept over her face—but with all the adrenaline in her head, her face couldn't get any redder.
She was in. It'd taken her almost five years, two near-death experiences, and borderline-torturous training, but she'd did it. She was in—and now all that remained was him.
Pulling away in a hurry, she grabbed him by the hand and hauled him to his feet.
"Woah!" He said, startled, but she didn't show him any mercy as she began dragging him down the aisle.
"You're the last up, big guy! Hurry up and win; your mom's making cake, right? The faster you crush this, the faster we get cake!"
Whatever Izuku might've said next, she would never know. Like Izuku before her, right as he hesitated on the threshold, she took charge. With one movement, she imparted upon him every ounce of confidence he'd ever earned from her—and shoved him over the railing. Present Mic hadn't even finished his speech on her victory when he landed in the arena, feet first.
As he stepped into the light, the gossip over Setsuna's victory hushed.
"Wait, is that the last one?" A spectator whispered, speaking to their companion. More comments like that came and went, floating past her ears ignored.
"His arm?"
"Who let some disabled kid in here?"
"Youch, what happened to that kid? I mean, Endeavor's kid wasn't exactly pretty, but at least he was whole…"
Setsuna didn't bother going back to her seat. Though it was only a few levels from the innermost row, the distance was still too much for her happy brain to tolerate. She wanted every detail of his fight—she needed them, almost at a physical level. They'd trained like crazy for the last eight months, harder than ever before, and this was the ultimate culmination of their efforts thus far.
"What a fight, folks! Though I knew Ms. Tokage was a bit of a monster, that was just in theory! To see her match up close… well… I dang near fell to pieces over the end there! What an admirable perspective—huh?"
Izuku didn't seem nervous as he walked up to Present Mic, stopping less than an arm's length away. Curiosity gnawed at her; what was he doing?
In an almost random burst of respect, Izuku bowed to the man, bending his head deeper than the waist. Her jaw fell slack in her mouth. The microphone couldn't pick up what he said, but by sneaking a detached ear across the stadium, she could just barely make out the gist.
"Thank you. I still remember what you did for me; without your help, I might not have gotten here in the first place."
Setsuna blinked, confused. Did they know each other? Present Mic seemed equally as shocked, but even from this distance, Setsuna could make out the markings of a growing smile. The Radio Hero placed a palm over the mic, effectively blocking out what he said next from the crowd.
"Izuku Midoriya… Mr. Future Hero, right? The one who likes mint with the second scoop, right?"
Izuku inclined his head. Present Mic laughed—not an artificial one, like his rambunctious persona liked to do, but a real, light chuckle.
"Well I'll be damned. I didn't actually think it was you when I read your file. I'm glad to see you here, little listener; what you've accomplished so far has been incredible. Simply getting here… you're a real piece of work, y'know?"
Izuku's own laugh blessed her ears, as short as it lasted.
"Thanks, I owe a lot of it to you. I still listen, by the way. The last episode was pretty funny."
Another genuine, personal laugh. Overhead, confused mutterings spread throughout the crowd. Present Mic was known for being unprofessional, but this was pushing it.
"Thanks! I thought it was funny while making it; I'm glad that translates. Anyways, you got a test to do, don'tcha…"
Another nod from Izuku.
"Yeah, I'm ready." He said, pumping his fist. Present Mic's smile dimmed, his spiked hair turning a little limp.
"...Good luck, man. You're gonna need it."
Izuku didn't get a chance to question what the hero meant before his palm flew off the microphone, his announcer voice re-equipped.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let me say, it's been a wonderful afternoon. U.A.'s first 1Z exam has been a smashing success so far; and with over fifty applicants out of the way, we're almost finished. We've seen some incredible things, folks, and some even more incredible kids. Nine have passed—through their blood, sweat, and tears—and one final decision stands before us. Will he turn 1Z into an even class of ten, or is 1Z best left as a multiplication of 3!?" He said, screaming into the mic. His enthusiasm was as evident as ever, but there was a change. Something in Present Mic's voice had warped; like the tail end of his vernacular had turned… apologetic.
The whispers of the crowd broke out once again as they realized that Izuku really was the last challenger. This short, lopsided kid was the final event, the encore to last fight's incredible performance. Few seemed happy—but Setsuna tuned out their negativity. She dedicated her whole attention to the way Present Mic's tone had turned somber in the twilight of the exam. His odd shift put her ill at ease.
"In the blue corner!" He said, turning a sweeping hand to Izuku. "Izuku Midoriya, student of Sir Nighteye, and our final challenger! Don't let his frame fool you; he may be missing an arm, but he makes up for it with double the spirit! He's rough, he's tough, he's the most dedicated kid in this room!"
Present Mic didn't sugar coat it. Izuku wore his disability with confidence, and ignoring that fact did him a disservice. Nothing he said was wrong, she thought. He was tough, rough, dedicated and every other good thing Present Mic could've said. Even still… something was nagging her.
The man held his breath for a second, drawing the crowd's attention. The sway of his free hand had shifted, tilting towards the dark tunnel of the teacher's entrance. A pit was forming in Setsuna's gut; her woman's intuition rearing its ugly head for a second time.
"And in the red corner…" Present Mic started, before trailing off. Eyes all across the stadium singled in on the teacher's tunnel, a tense silence stealing the whispers of the crowd. For a moment, nothing happened. Then two moments passed, and by the third, Setsuna almost convinced herself no one would come, and Izuku would get a free pass. Of course it couldn't have been that easy. After the most intense ten seconds of her life, that pit in Setsuna's stomach magnified tenfold.
Almost like he couldn't be bothered to be there, a shabby, long-haired man stepped into the light. From his greasy hair to his boots, he wore black. The exception was a long, silver scarf draped lazily across his neck and a golden pair of goggles that sat on his head like a lopsided crown. He looked like the king of the homeless, and something about him made her want to throw up.
"Lord," he said, scratching at his own scruff. "These dramatics are too impractical. We're a school, not a fighting ring, Hizashi."
Present Mic almost seemed to flinch at the words, but dutifully fulfilled his job as an announcer anyways.
"...is Shouta Aizawa. Otherwise known as Eraserhead."
[x]
AN: Chapters are hard to come by, now that I have to use my brain. 33 was a slog to finish, and I don't even want to think about 34. ANYWAYS! This is by far the longest chapter, about twice as long as the shortest chapter. I try to stay in the 4-5K range, as per a normal chapter book, but I typically go as far as 7. In any case, it took me three hours to copy-edit, so thank me later. Sometimes I wonder how good this story would be if I put every ounce of effort I could into every chapter, but if I did that, we'd barely be on chapter ten lmfao. As it stands, 68% effort suffices.
Don't worry. Setsuna will get her get-back on Shoto eventually. Probably. If I remember. If you couldn't tell, this chapter was long as hell without her gloating at him.
Shoto is definitely the hardest main character to write. All my notes are loose as fuck, especially for characters, and his are the most barren. BTW: Who's your favorite character?
Review! The story officially hit 100k views! And this chapter will probably push us into the 600 FAVs mark! To celebrate, I think I'll cross-post to AO3. Look for "Unlikely" under Mercury_Milkshakes! Throw a nice comment my way!
(Six words to hit exactly 10,000k)
