Two days of practice later, Rumi was adept enough at the delicate art of walking with only one leg that truly listened to her to make good on her promise.

It was a good thing, too, because by then, the media pressure had turned itself into a frenzy, like a dog chasing its tail. Rumi didn't watch much TV anymore-the last week had been such a whirlwind of revelations and healing and walking that she hadn't had time. Even then, she'd been constantly aware of it the way you were aware of a thunderstorm raging outside your calm, cozy bedroom, always present, but never really your biggest problem. Even as media stations howled "WHERE IS MIRUKO?" like she was some sort of precious jewel that had been stolen, Rumi had always been able to retreat into her quiet places, where steady hands and bright smiles and green hair were waiting to pull her, inch by inch, from the sucking quicksand of her grief.

But now, the media shitstorm waiting for her was Rumi's biggest problem. She'd known it was coming from the moment the hospital and the Hero Commission had helped set up this press conference in the hospital's press room, but it still felt like it had snuck up on her.

"How did I get here? What's going to happen next?" Rumi wondered as she watched the last minutes tick away before she had to leave.

At last, there was a knock on the door. Rumi smiler, because there was only one person it could be.

"Come in," she called, already rousing herself out of bed, thankful that she had already gotten dressed.

The door swung open, and sure enough, Izuku was there, his soft smile making the greyness of the rainy day outside seem a little less gloomy. His eyes twinkled with something that might have been pride. He didn't bring anything with him, no wheelchair or clipboard or barbed words on his lips. He just looked at her with the kind of admiration she was used to, tempered by the pride and friendliness she wasn't.

"Are you ready?" he asked her as she pulled on her prosthetics. The leg was sturdy and well-fitted, if simple and workmanlike; Rumi knew it would get her where she needed to be, because Izuku had given it to her. The arm, fitted loosely over her stump, was much less important and much less sturdy; it felt like a mannequin arm haphazardly stuck onto her body, gray and uniform, without joints or anything more advanced than the vacuum cup that kept it fixed in place. Rumi hadn't really cared one way or another about her arm, but it had been her publicist's one demand for this press conference, that she wear some kind of prosthetic arm.

Rumi could understand why, certainly; something inherent in the human mind always rebelled at the sight of a person who wasn't symmetrical, filling with a sense of wrongness when limbs ended abruptly in jagged stumps. Walking onto national television visibly missing an arm wasn't exactly great optics, especially when everyone was going to assume she was helpless anyway.

Rumi didn't give a damn about optics, though; she never really had. She hadn't hated the press, exactly, but she'd always seen them as an unfortunate obstacle between her and kicking more ass, kind of like paperwork. Ugh, paperwork.

But now, Rumi had to go deal with the press herself; she had no other option.

Rumi closed her eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. When she was done, she opened them again and told Izuku, "Yes. I'm ready."

Izuku nodded, offering her his hand. Rumi took it with her only good hand; flesh and blood met the metal and plastic of his advanced prosthetic. With a tug, Rumi was standing next to him, looking up at his smiling face with a pang of warmth she didn't recognize.

"Then let's go," Izuku said, "there are people waiting for you."

For a second, Rumi felt hollow; those people were waiting for Miruko, not Rumi. Nobody was waiting for Rumi.

But that was fine; she'd stopped being just Rumi a long time ago. Miruko was who she was, in both the easy times and the hard.

She nodded, agreeing, "Yeah. We shouldn't keep them waiting."

With one hand balanced on Izuku's shoulder, his hands hovering near her waist, not touching her but ready to catch her if she fell, Rumi walked out of her room under her own power.

She had promises to keep.

They made it through the halls of the hospital quickly and smoothly, passing closed doors and people in a hurry as usual. Rumi never faltered, not once. Her legs stayed strong and steady under her, and she walked with purpose, if a little less finesse than most people.

Soon, though, they were in the "backstage" portion of the press room, surrounded not by doctors and nurses but by PR people and Hero Commission employees, scurrying around in a different form of controlled chaos. When she saw the back of the stage and heard the eager, hushed murmur of a hundred voices on the other side, Rumi hesitated, her ears starting to droop. Izuku noticed her sudden uncertainty instantly.

"Rumi, you've made it this far," he reminded her, his voice low and certain, a lifeline to cling to, "you can do this."

Rumi nodded grimly, her chest rising and falling as she took deep breaths. She replied, "I know I can, it's just…"

"Just what?" Izuku asked gently, his hand on her shoulder.

Rumi exhaled, looking up and seeming to stare right into Izuku's soul. She explained, "I think that it's just...sinking in that this is the last time Miruko will be who she used to be. As soon as I walk out there with half the limbs I used to have, the old idea of who people thought I was will be destroyed. All that strength, that willpower and ferocity I used to have...it'll be replaced by the weakness I have now in people's minds. I guess...I guess I'm just not ready for that to happen yet."

Izuku's grip on Rumi's shoulder tightened, and Rumi winced a little at both the pain and the intensity of Izuku's burning gaze. His green eyes stripped away all the fear and darkness from her heart, left her feeling raw and bare and exposed before him. Izuku smiled, as if he had seen what Rumi was at her core and found it beautiful.

"Rumi, you and I know damn well that you're not weak," he told her, his voice resonating in Rumi's chest, "What you've done took the kind of strength that almost nobody has. How many people could have learned to walk again so soon? How many people would set their sights on becoming as great as they used to be, before they lost everything? Nobody, that's who. And yet, that's what you've done. Never forget that you're stronger now than you used to be, not weaker."

Rumi smiled, and her eyes were bright and hopeful, her ears pricked above her head.

"Thanks, Doc," she said, "I owe you a whole lot. Everything, in fact."

Izuku returned her smile, wide and proud. "Thanks, but you and I both know you did most of the work," he replied. His false hand patted her shoulder reassuringly, the dexterity unparalleled by anything Rumi had ever seen.

Rumi would have argued, but she knew that this was a fight she couldn't win. Izuku might never know just how much she'd clung to his certainty to drag herself out of the darkest moments of her life, the ones that still threatened her occasionally. She might never know where she would have ended up without him...and as far as she was concerned, that was a damn good thing.

At last, one of the attendants called Rumi's name, telling her that it was time to go talk to the press already.

Reluctantly, Rumi and Izuku let go of each other. With one last nod, Rumi stepped away, taking slow but certain steps towards the stage, the alternating soft footstep and loud clunk of her flesh and metal feet marking her gait.

She'd nearly made it to the stage when Izuku called out, and Rumi turned one last time to look at him.

His eyes shining, Izuku told her, "No matter what happens, I'm proud of you, Rumi. I'll be waiting right here when it's over."

Rumi's grin looked like it belonged on her hero persona, it was so wide and cocky. She drawled, "You better be."

Then, she turned and disappeared onto the stage, leaving Izuku to wonder which of his statements she'd been responding to.

Rumi wasn't sure what to expect when she walked onto the stage.

For a few precious moments, she was concealed from the press by a curtain, which meant that she got to watch and listen as the harried-looking Hero Commission representative standing at the podium faced an onslaught of shouted questions from the assembled journalists.

As Rumi watched, one of those journalists asked, "Can you really not offer us any information on the state of Miruko's health-"

"As I have now said multiple times," the spokeswoman interrupted, "the Commission has opted to allow Miruko and her office to release that information when and how they see fit. They have indicated to us that they wish to share certain details today, hence the press conference. Until Miruko arrives, I will not be saying another word on the matter."

"So what you're saying is that Miruko is healthy enough to give her own press conference?" another reporter asked, seemingly ignoring the spokeswoman's entire speech.

Before the Commission employee could reply, though, she spotted Rumi waiting in the wing, tapping her good foot impatiently. Rumi nodded, and from the look of sheer gratitude on the woman's face, you would have thought that Rumi had delivered her from hell itself.

Turning back to the array of microphones in front of her, the spokeswoman said, "Everyone, you can ask your questions now. Miruko is here."

In the silence that followed, the spokeswoman stepped down and away from the podium, disappearing into the wings as soon as Rumi had set foot on the stage, every camera instantly turning to her.

The silence seemed like it would end quickly, as the first heartbeat saw reporters opening their mouths to begin shouting questions. Then Rumi's false foot hit the stage with a loud thunk, and the room was as silent as the grave once more.

Rumi strode to the podium, her head held high, ears pricked defiantly, while the reporters just stared. When Rumi turned and grabbed the podium with her good hand, the fake one hanging stiffly by her side, she saw their eyes go even wider.

Rumi could practically hear their thoughts already.

"Oh no."

"Not her too."

"Well, there goes another top hero."

"How could they have kept this hidden from us for a MONTH?"

"God, and she's so young, too…"

Rumi let their disappointment and grief and pity wash over her like the tide, without touching her. She'd had enough of every single one of those things for a lifetime.

Rumi leaned close to the microphones, and let the side of her that always came out when she was a hero flow freely. She snapped bluntly, "I'm here. Ask your fucking questions."

There was one last beat of silence, and then it was as if the reporters collectively shook their heads free of paralysis and got back to work. They may have been shocked, but they were still professionals, and they were confronting one of the juiciest stories in recent memory.

Rumi saw several people force themselves to stop looking at her prosthetics; she couldn't care less if they stared. She'd gotten these injuries protecting them and their entire society from unspeakable abominations. The least they could do was look at what it had cost her.

As the press gathered themselves, Rumi only had eyes for the television cameras in the back, returning her gaze impassively and unblinkingly. She wondered how many kids were watching right now, hungry for news of their favorite hero. She wondered how many people that looked up to her were staring in shock and horror at her injuries, at the plastic arm that couldn't fill the space her flesh had. She wondered how many were staring with hope or admiration instead. She wondered if those expressions would change by the time she was done.

At last, the first question was asked by a man with greying hair and gill slits on his neck, who asked, "Can you give us more information about the nature of your injuries?"

Rumi nodded curtly. Taking a deep breath, she launched into a prepared explanation, the kind she always hated giving, but could never deny the usefulness of.

She explained, "During a battle with several High-End Nomu similar to the one that injured Endeavor a few months ago, I sustained serious injuries, including the loss of my arm, and leg wounds severe enough to require amputation, on top of internal injuries. I've spent the last month in recovery."

As soon as Rumi had finished her answer, another question came at her. A woman with glowing spiderweb patterns across her skin asked, "Why the radio silence? Why have you not allowed any information to get out about your status?"

Rumi sighed, knowing that she was out of prepared answers. She replied, "Because I was told that I needed to stay focused on my personal health. I didn't want any distractions."

The reporter didn't look satisfied by that, but Rumi didn't really care. She moved on, pointing to the next journalist with her good hand.

This man bore an elaborate pompadour, and seemed as greasy as his hairdo as he stood and asked, "When can we expect an official announcement for your retirement?"

For a second, Rumi stared blankly at the reporter, trying to process his words. She blinked a few times, searching for the right way to respond.

After a moment, she gave up and snapped, "I'm sorry, who said anything about retiring?"

A murmur went through the journalists at that, but the man who had asked the question seemed unmoved. He simply replied, "Forgive my presumption, Miruko, but I had assumed that this was an announcement of your retirement, due to the career-ending nature of your injuries-"

Gripping the podium tightly with her good hand, Rumi interrupted, "My injuries are not career-ending. Severe, yes. But I refuse to retire because some monster got a lucky shot."

Rumi thought of Hitomi, refusing to let her dreams die because of childhood losses. She thought of Izuku, who had turned the worst moment of his life into the seed of a new life, rebuilding his own hope.

Rumi may have inspired millions, been an idol for countless people, but she could never stop admiring those two for their drive, a drive they'd never lost, while she had had to learn all over again how to throw herself into the teeth of despair, trusting in her own spirit to carry her out the other side. They were her heroes, because they were the reason that she might become a hero again.

"With respect, Miruko," the reporter protested, "you have suffered a double amputation! How can a close-range fighter like yourself reasonably expect to return after such a loss?"

Rumi felt her patience snap, and fury roared through her, held back only by sheer force of will. She leaned closer to the microphones, her eyes blazing, and hissed with absolute certainty, "I am not going to stop being a hero. I am never going to quit, give up, or surrender. I won that fight, and I am not going to let this slow me down. Mark my words, I am coming back. And I'm going to be just as good when I do."

At last, the man fell silent, perhaps ashamed, perhaps convinced by Rumi's boundless spirit. Either way, nobody else raised a hand to question her. They seemed to accept this as a natural continuation of who Miruko was; of course she wouldn't let even a double amputation slow her down. Of course she would overcome any challenge.

If only they knew how close she'd come to failing. But she hadn't failed, in battle or in healing. Now, she was standing as tall as ever.

Another reporter stood up, and Rumi's scorching gaze turned to her. Unflinching, the woman asked, "How do you know you'll be back? What gives you so much confidence?"

Rumi didn't respond for a moment. Her mind was too busy running through memories, of a green-haired man with a vicious grin and taunting eyes and steady hands, and a smile that could light up a room, and pain in his past. He'd shown her that there was a path back from rock bottom, a trail he'd blazed himself once. He challenged her and refused to let her languish in despair, cutting through all the scar tissue and right to her heart every time. His secrets, and the familiar pain in his eyes, drew her in, made her curious about this man as young as she was who had risen through his field just as fast as she had. Without him, she'd be lost.

Rumi's smile was wide and bright, her teeth bared and her eyes glittering as she met the reporter's gaze. Rumi said, "How do I know? It's simple: I've got the best doctor in Japan on my case. If he can't help me, nobody can."

There, let them chew on that. Rumi's brand may have been standing alone, but she couldn't do that anymore. Without Izuku, she would have still been lying blank-eyed on a hospital bed, wondering why she was still alive when so many other heroes were dead, thinking that she might as well have been, too.

But Rumi wasn't dead; she was still breathing, still kicking, still fighting. That wasn't going to change any time soon.

Rumi had no patience for anything that wasn't the truth; she cut through lies and bullshit as easily as Izuku had cut through her own fears and pains.

And the truth was, Rumi was only going to be able to rebuild herself if Izuku showed her how. But he would show her how, because he knew exactly what it was like to need help so desperately, and have none available. He would be that help, if nobody else would.

Rumi didn't think she could put into words how thankful she was that Izuku Midoriya had been there for her when nobody else would. For now, though, she had a press conference to finish. After that, it was time to get to work.

Across Japan, people of every description watched the Miruko press conference. No matter their reason, none could deny the determination blazing in every fiber of the rabbit-eared woman's body. Most of them could see a familiar light in her eyes, and the vast majority of them recognized it as the same light she'd always had, a light that promised relentless, unyielding victory at any cost. The wisest and the most perceptive, though, knew that this gleam was different; it was the unshakeable confidence of someone who had been weak and wasn't anymore, who was familiar with all the pits and dark places until they were no longer places of fear, who had shattered and put their pieces back together. This strength was to Miruko's old strength as steel was to iron.

The strength of steel, after all, is only known after it is tested.

Children clutching Miruko toys jumped for joy as they learned that their favorite hero was as strong as they'd always known she was. As they always did, the children accepted hope the easiest, put their faith into those they believed in without reservation.

Worried families breathed a little easier. All Might and Crust and so many other heroes may have been gone, but here was one hero that refused to go down, a hero who would stay planted between them and evil no matter how many times they were on the brink of death.

In the dorms of Japan's most prestigious hero school, bright-eyed first year students turned hardened combat veterans too soon wondered if they could ever be as fiercely, unstoppably determined as Miruko. They hoped that they could, because how else could they keep everyone safe from what they knew lurked out there?

Elsewhere in that Tokyo hospital, a little girl with black hair and silver eyes and an indomitable soul stared in shock at the familiar face on the TV screen. Even as her heart lifted and she wanted to jump for joy, the girl was bursting out of her bed and racing into the maze-like halls, not knowing where she was going, but knowing what she had to do when she got there.

Backstage, a green-haired man rubbed the fingers of one hand over the plastic and metal forearm of the other, fighting the urge to mutter anxiously. He was too far away to hear the words his patient spoke, but if he had heard them, he would have recognized them; he had inspired them, after all, given them to a woman who's hopeless eyes had reminded him of his own, once upon a time. How could he possibly have turned his back on a woman who needed his help?

In other places across Japan, a hidden group greeted the news with grief and hope at the same time. Miruko was far from the first to have her life forever changed by the tragic whims of fate and villainy, after all, and she would certainly not be the last. But for those who had lost limbs and suffered much like she had, perhaps Miruko was a symbol of something; perhaps that something was hope. After all, if she could show such relentless determination and spirit even after losing limbs, why couldn't they?

And in a dark place in the hidden underbelly of Japan, a dusty, shambling thing that might have been a man once looked at the broadcast and hissed. His madness turned Miruko's determination to desperation, twisting everything in his hatred. And in his hatred, he saw opportunity.