Author's Note:
TW: Shoto 'Trauma Dumper' Todoroki talks about his past, so expect mentions of dehumanization and implied abuse. Thoughts of suicidal ideation.
I've made up some information on what it takes to become a pro. Expect some more revising and rewriting of these three chapters as I'm still unsatisfied with them.
As an aside, one of my favorite things about Shoto is that he'll just trauma dump on anyone, anywhere, at any time with little to no prompting as a roundabout way to explain things. Also, for those who may be disappointed that it isn't Midoriya getting the trauma dump, don't worry, I wouldn't rob him of that luxury.
Chapter 3: The Death of Peace of Mind
Since he ran away, Shoto grew amiable to the idea that fate was fucking with him around the third time he encountered a random mugging while just walking down the street.
Now he's positive there's some higher being pulling the strings to give him a headache. Only, this time it's not because he walked into an on-going turf war or anything of such nature. Rather, he hasn't seen a single illegal act since leaving his hideout. No shady drug dealers trying to peddle to middle schoolers. No tweaked-out carjackers. Not even a jaywalker. (Not that he'd do anything about that particular crime. If he called Eraserhead over for that, he's pretty sure the hero would arrest him on the spot purely on principle.)
For once, he's looking for crime.
For once, he can't find any.
He'd say it's fate's fickle whims, but he's pretty sure fate just wants to see him suffer in whatever mild and unobtrusive way it can.
In theory, it was a simple idea. He'll walk around downtown Shinjuku and wait for one of the criminals that like honing in on him like heat-seeking missiles to find him. Then, he'll radio over to Eraserhead that he has a situation on his hands. The pro will show up. The trash will be taken out. Then, he can corner the hero and make his absolutely insane request. An easy night of non-work.
In practice? Well, that's an entirely different story.
The veritable conga line of crooks that felt like testing themselves against his skill has all but vanished tonight. It's a little frustrating. He's pretty sure he hasn't knocked the crime rate down to zero around here. Must be a slow night, he supposes. Of all times, this is perhaps the most inconvenient. Appropriate, given his luck.
Twilight stretches closer and closer to dawn as he prowls across blackened rooftops. He stopped actively looking for crime just after midnight and instead took to the high ground in search of the hero. Far easier said than done. Eraserhead chose wisely with his uniform as spotting him from a distance in the dark is nigh impossible without the help of gadgets or enhanced vision. He feels like he's playing hide-and-seek with a shadow.
Shoto leans wearily against a large neon sign that's barely hanging on to life. It advertises a pawn shop that looks more suited for money laundering than any legitimate business, but maybe Shoto's just judgmental. He hadn't spent much time outside of Musutafu's upper-end district. Living in Shinjuku's equivalent of a slum has been eye-opening. A sigh escapes his lips as he gazes fruitlessly across the horizon again, hoping for a glimpse of the lithe hero but knowing he'd sooner see a shooting star through all the smog and light pollution.
Maybe this is a sign. Some divine intervention.
The odds of Eraserhead agreeing to this proposal are so astronomically low that Shoto should consider checking himself into the same hospital his mother's in for even thinking it might work. Insanity is the only plausible reason he finds himself now sitting on that roof, looking for the hero who threatened to arrest him for vigilantism. Asking said hero for help furthering his not-vigilante career? Absolutely crazy.
And yet, here he is.
Maybe he well and truly cracked from those minor displays of human decency, like the inverse of his mom. Maybe it's genetic. If he looks into the Himura medical history, he wonders if he'll find a predisposition to lapses in sanity or psychiatric concerns. It'd certainly explain a lot. He finds himself touching the mask where his scar is hidden. With an annoyed sigh, he lets his head fall heavily back against the sign. That momentary burst of inspiration and starry-eyed belief wanes.
"Why am I even here?" he muses aloud to the night sky. Predictably, there is no answer.
I should leave. Go back to the store and mind my own business.
It'd be the smart thing to do; the safe thing. But dissatisfaction curdles his blood at the idea. It reeks of cowardice.
How many other Ishikawa's are out there, crying for help? How many people can he be saving? How many kids could he protect? If the number is even one, then he has to keep pushing forward regardless of the risk. Becoming sedentary and hiding like a frightened little rat for the rest of his miserable life isn't an option. When he looks into the future and sees that, he sees someone so pathetic, so worthless that he might as well have never left home.
He'll just have to be smart about this. Somehow. He's still ironing out the finer details of his plan, but he'll need help first.
Help from a hero. Shoto doesn't even try to contain the derisive scoff. He'd been so confident earlier, but as time ticked by and the night stretched on, he felt less and less certain. Eraserhead has been the exception to the rule so far, but how far does the exception reach? How much faith can he reasonably put in the man before he gets hurt?
The only way to find that out, unfortunately, is to keep testing his luck.
He gets to his feet with a huff and tries to stop overthinking. What he needs is action, not introspection. He has plenty of time to deal with his complicated feelings later.
Much to his mounting frustration and uncertainty, he can't find a convenient reason to call Eraserhead to him. To make things more complicated he doesn't actually know Eraserhead's patrol route well enough to find him himself, either. Though, he's also not certain the hero would appreciate him popping up on him uninvited. It feels a bit like crossing an unspoken line, like entering into someone's house uninvited. So, he figures he'll do the next best thing: Sit in a very obvious location and wait.
It's not his greatest plan, he admits, but it's what he's going with.
He ends up on the same rooftop they met last time. This is the most logical method he can think of to find the man, not counting just calling him on the earpiece, but he doesn't want to annoy the hero if he's busy for something trivial. The comm is for emergencies and he'll respect that. If Eraserhead showed up here the night he fought those goons, then odds are this is in his path. It's unlikely anyone had reported that initial fight, otherwise authorities would have arrived sooner. Or, rather, he hopes that's the case. The more time he spends doing their job for them, the less certain he is about the police's efficiency. Given that he had minimal expectations of them to begin with, they miraculously still managed to limbo under that bar.
Shoto paces atop the roof, eyes darting across the bleak horizon like he'll suddenly develop the ability to see in the dark. The night remains quiet, almost eerily so. He's grown accustomed to falling into near-nightly brawls and listening to the city's raucous residents. They have a degree of life and vigor he's unused to. Music blares from cars with enough bass to rattle the windows of the buildings they pass. People out at all hours, boisterous and chatty. It's so unlike the suburb he comes from. Everything there is neat and quiet and pointedly tame, especially with the hero Endeavor around. Shoto wonders fleetingly if their neighborhood associations are just as exuberant. His own family never bothered to take part. Endeavor hadn't seen a point. All of that's moot now, he guesses. It's not like he'd be able to join even if he wanted to. His residency isn't exactly fixed and he certainly couldn't afford the fee.
He wants to groan, long and loud, at his trailing thoughts. They're useless musings. He should be fine-tuning his talking points that he hopes will convince Eraserhead of the value of his plan. But, it seems like whenever he tries to focus on it, his mind wanders again, too busy looking into the distance for a sign of life to hold on to any actually important thoughts.
There's still no sign of the hero. Shoto, much to his own surprise and chagrin, is a little worried. It's ridiculous, he knows. Eraserhead is plenty skilled and experienced. The man took him down with barely a scratch on him. The odds of the crooks in this city besting him are quite low. He's likely busy or they might be moving parallel to each other. Shinjuku is large enough for Shoto to skate its entire length and never see the hero.
All those reassurances can't keep a pit from forming in his gut.
For a moment, he bounces on his toes and shakes out his hands to release some of the nervous tension brewing in his chest. Then, he resumes his stride.
Three laps across the roof later and there's still no sign of Eraserhead. Shoto sighs and settles against the access door, sliding down to sit on the gravelly roof. He hopes the hero shows up soon.
Shoto really would prefer not to be stuck on this roof all night. That'd be an unfortunate use of his time when he could be spending it with Soba or finding a secluded place to practice his quirk. A very secluded, very private, very far-from-Endeavor place. The little bits of training he's done pale in comparison to what he's used to. It makes him feel stagnant; like he's weakening. But, he doesn't have much choice until he finds said place. It's not like he can make a glacier in the middle of the city. That'd be a little conspicuous.
Hopefully, Eraserhead will be kind enough to point me in the right direction.
He's not confident in that, but it's worth a shot. It's one reason he wants to speak to the hero. If anyone would know of such a location, it'd be the man who patrols the city for a living.
While he waits, he starts to count the stars. Maybe he'll find his lucky one.
Shoto startles severely when a boot nudges him.
He hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep waiting on that roof until a pressure taps on his calf, jolting him like a bolt of lightning. Being stuck somewhere in the liminal space of dreaming and wakefulness turns him into a creature of pure instinct. For a moment, he doesn't remember where he is or what's going on. All he knows is that he's vulnerable and someone is over him. Like an animal backed into a corner, he lashes out.
He rolls out of the way and smashes a hand against the gravel to throw up a burst of piercing ice.
Nothing comes.
Panic slams into his chest before his sleep-heavy eyes land on the slouching figure before him. Eraserhead's hair is on end, but his hands are in his pockets. He looks entirely unbothered, as if this is a normal occurrence for him.
Right. Eraserhead.
Shoto breathes heavily for a moment to get his heartbeat under control. Somewhere, in the further reaches of his mind, it occurs to him how very odd it is that he should relax so quickly in the presence of the hero. That goes against his very nature. Like a feral dog being weened into domesticity, repeated and pleasant exposure has been turning him docile. Shoto isn't sure if he's happy about that. It makes him feel exposed. Unsafe. A thought to chew on, he supposes.
Then, once he sludges past that odd tangent and through his sleep-addled fog, it hits him that Eraserhead is here.
He jumps to his feet with fresh determination and takes two steps closer to the hero.
"Train me," he says, blunt as a brick to the head.
The hero's hair falls back into place. From the way his goggles shift, Shoto's pretty sure he raised his eyebrows.
"Hello to you too," the hero says archly.
Ah, right.
"Hello." Shoto gives a polite little bow as he speaks. It's entirely unnecessary and just this side of over-the-top as neither has been formal so far. It gets a snort from the hero. When he straightens up, he speaks in a voice just as demanding as before. "Train me."
Eraserhead stares at him with a flat look. Shoto stares back, blank mask doing well in depicting his own non-expression. Silence stretches on. If it had been any other duo, Shoto imagines someone would have started feeling awkward at this point. Between them, however, he wouldn't be surprised if they stood here for hours. Awkward silences didn't exactly work on either party.
He starts to think that maybe something is wrong when realization hits him.
Right. Manners.
"Please," he finally adds on. It sounds less like a request and more like a command. Too late to fix his tone, he just grimaces and hopes the hero won't be affronted. There might be weight to some of those passing remarks on his spoiled nature after all. It's something he'd thought was beneath him, but now he's not so sure.
Somehow, that 'request' still prompts Eraserhead into action. The hero just sighs and rolls his shoulder.
"And why would I do that?"
As lackluster as the question comes out, there's just a mild hint of curiosity lying underneath. Shoto hopes that's a promising sign. He latches onto it like a lifeline.
One thing he's noticed about the hero is his concise and brusque disposition. So far, in their interactions, there's been no social padding or meager attempts at small talk. Every conversation has been practical exchanges, save a few bits of snark. It's something that Shoto appreciates, as he's of a similar nature. Though, his side can potentially be attributed to his stunted social life. Regardless of the origin, he likes that he can speak plainly with the hero and not be chided for his lack of awareness. So, he thinks the hero will appreciate his succinct explanations and reasoning.
"Well, it would be the most efficient way for me to get better," he starts, posture mirroring the other's easy stance. Old habits keep his spine straight, like his former etiquette teacher is hiding somewhere nearby with a ruler, ready to reprimand him. "You excel in close-quarters combat in a way that I lack. You can also help me deal with my over-reliance on my quirk."
After he finishes he stares expectantly at the pro. It's always like biting into lemon when he has to ask for help or confront his imperfect nature. Admitting his shortcomings is like taking a direct jab to his pride, but that's something he can get over. Growth is more important.
Eraserhead tilts his head a little, expression impassive. It'd make Shoto nervous if he weren't well accustomed to hiding his own thoughts behind a vacant expression. (That's a lie, he's still a little on edge.)
"You seem to have been doing just fine without your quirk," Eraserhead points out, breezing by the other particulars and request.
The hero isn't wrong by any stretch. Shoto's been handling himself admirably, given the situation, but he still isn't satisfied. Anyone with half-decent reflexes and a good enough right hook could have done what he has. After a lifetime of expectations, he can't let them go so easily. It's like when he flew from his cage, he dragged it along right behind him.
That's not even to mention that encounter with that group of well-organized thugs that had him on the ropes and a breath away from using his quirk. He wasn't ready for them or how much better they were than the rest of the rabble he's dealt with. It unnerved him to even think about it. How long can he keep going at this pace before his skills are dulled to blunt edges?
"I'd rather not let myself become complacent," he says tersely.
Eraserhead examines him for another stretch before huffing.
"You've given reasons why you want me to train you. You still haven't answered why I should."
That, Shoto fears, is a much harder question to answer. He's spent scarce enough time around the pro to come up with a concise and compelling argument. The truth of the matter is that he doesn't have a particularly good reason, not one worth the risk to Eraserhead's career. It's a blatantly self-serving proposal. The best he can do is appeal to the man's better nature, whatever that may be. As stated, he knows the man prefers curt answers and direct information. Beyond that, there's little else he can conjure. The man likes cats and he keeps his word. Not exactly a riveting amount of information to go on. He's also shown to be more sarcastic than Shoto expected.
While he isn't exactly a paragon of social grace, he knows he's capable of his own brand of sarcasm. It's something that's gotten him into plenty of trouble before. And isn't it common for others to bond over wit and similar senses of humor? Hmm...
"...Because you're a kind and benevolent hero."
It comes out so uninspired that it almost impresses Shoto himself. He can't tell if it amused Eraserhead like he was aiming for, but the man tucks his face further in his scarf for a moment before pushing his goggles up to his forehead and shooting him a look. It's hard to decipher, as most expressions on the hero are. Somewhere between exasperated and just barely homicidal. Shoto is not what one can call an 'Eraserhead Whisperer' but he thinks that might mean Eraserhead found it a little amusing. It's like the man gets annoyed at his own funny bone when it gets hit.
"I'm going to push you off this roof."
Shoto remains still, relatively certain this is one of those sarcastic moments he was just pondering about.
"That would be illegal," Shoto says, managing to make the monotone phrase still sound a little cheeky.
That gets him a withering glare.
Shoto is slightly less convinced this is sarcasm now.
"Do you know what else is illegal?" Eraserhead asks. He slows his speech so each word is pulled out and pointed like a knife aiming at the vigilante.
Is this a trick question?
"Murder…?" he states more like a question, as if he's uncertain that murder is really illegal. The look he gets for his less-than-stellar answer has him shuffling a step away from the hero.
"Vigilantism."
Oh, that again. Shoto rolls his eyes. He is starting to have trouble seeing what the deal is. It's not like he's causing any harm. To his knowledge, all those criminals he put down made fine recoveries. Being pushed off a three-story roof seems like the more egregious offense, in his opinion. Heroes and their hypocrisies, he thinks with no real heat. Eraserhead gets a pass this time because Shoto is self-aware enough to know he's being intentionally annoying now.
"...Murder is also illegal," he says and it comes out both utterly bland and blatantly petulant at the same time.
The man's eye twitches just a little. He holds up his hand and pinches his fingers together.
"This close. This. Close."
Shoto squints and leans forward a little to inspect the hand, like he can see his expected lifespan threaded between those calloused fingertips. He frowns.
"...Your fingers are touching, though?"
Eraserhead stares with bloodshot eyes like he can't believe his absolute misfortune to be stuck in this conversation. He drops his head in his hand and groans. If Shoto listens closely enough, he can almost hear the man grumbling to himself.
Must've been a long night. Weird, I thought it was calm.
"Are you still on patrol?" Shoto asks, voice back to politely flat. He's willing to step back from his unfortunate attempts at teasing. The hero doesn't look really up for it at the moment, not that he ever does. His head tilts in concern.
Eraserhead glances up, looking nothing short of haggard. Perhaps he's been assigned a rough case or had a grotesque amount of paperwork to do.
"Shift already ended," he says roughly.
Then, he does something so unexpected, that Shoto can do nothing but stare in silence.
He sits down.
Eraserhead sits on the roof, leaning against the access door like he had done earlier, and relaxes. It's a show of trust that has Shoto's stomach flipping. No hero, especially one as vigilant as Eraserhead, would ever put himself in such a disadvantageous position unless they were sure they're safe. He trusts that Shoto wouldn't hurt him. Not that he couldn't, that he wouldn't. Something warm and kind unfurls in his chest.
"So, you're interested in heroics now," Eraserhead finally asks, tilting his head back to look up at Shoto.
The vulnerability of the position makes Shoto almost as uncomfortable as the question. Feeling like he has a station of power over the other makes his skin crawl for some odd reason. So, he sits down too.
He thinks over the inquiry for a moment and frowns a little. It wouldn't be wrong to assume he does have a renewed interest in heroics, but the truth of the matter is far too complicated for a simple 'yes' or 'no'. Yes, he wants to help others and be a hero. No, he doesn't want to be a licensed pro. Something more like a—
Shoto cuts off that train of thought and mentally groans. Eraserhead is going to give me so much shit for this.
"In a manner of speaking," he says instead because finding the right words is difficult.
Eraserhead just stares at him, dissecting him as well as he can.
"Clarify," he commands. It's calm but forceful. He needs an appropriate response before he's willing to even consider Shoto's request.
Words and reasons roll around like loose marbles in Shoto's head. He struggles to catch them all and place them in order. It'd be so nice if he could look at heroics with the pure, untainted enthusiasm that most civilians have. If he didn't have memories wrapped in barbed wire strangling each interaction with the profession, things would be so much easier. He tips his head back and looks at the sky as he thinks it over.
"I don't like the hero commission or how it's run," he starts conversationally. "I don't like most aspects of current hero society, to be quite frank."
His attention is momentarily caught by the huff that comes from Eraserhead. He tilts his head a bit to look at the hero. There's no judgment on the man's face. In fact, he seems to have a sliver of understanding. Somehow, Shoto figured he would. Eraserhead didn't seem like a conventional hero, avoiding the spotlight and peacocking that most get into the profession for.
"Admittedly, I never gave a fair, unbiased thought to underground heroics." And isn't that embarrassing? All his life, Shoto's been surrounded by nothing but heroics. His entire birth and life revolves around the concept. He's been taught what it takes to get his license and run an agency. But, in all his years, the very concept of going underground just slipped right by him. The brilliant blaze of Endeavor blinded him and burned the idea of 'heroes' into ash for the teen. To see someone new, someone who challenges his entire life's perspective, is greatly humbling.
"It seems...different. Better," he decides after a moment of thought.
The him from years ago would balk at the idea of ever admitting that any type of professional heroism is anything but vile. It's a concept he's still struggling with, but a small weight drops off his shoulders as he finally speaks his belief into existence.
Eraserhead is quiet as he examines Shoto, sleepy eyes far sharper than they have any right to be.
"Didn't expect to hear that from you," he says without any heat.
Shoto hums and looks back at the man who's given him a reason to start believing that good might still exist in these dreadful times. It's almost unfathomable to acknowledge, but he concedes that maybe, just maybe, the path of heroes isn't beyond saving. It has a long, hard road to go until it's back on track, but Shoto doesn't think the nuclear option is the only option anymore. Just...mostly. Hope is a rare commodity he barely ever got to experience but it seemed to crop up in bundles when he talks to Eraserhead.
"I've been given a reason to reconsider my stance as of late," he says. Then, because he doesn't want to give the hero too much expectation on how far his perceptions have changed, he tacks on a curt, "At least a little."
He'd hate for Eraserhead to think that Shoto is suddenly okay with the concept of hero society as a whole or the atrocious way the HPSC is run. That's a can of worms he isn't going to bother touching just yet. It's doubtful the hero wants to hear his particularly sharp take on all of that.
Eraserhead just stares for a moment longer before grunting and looking away. It takes a second but Shoto quickly realizes he never really answered his question.
"What I mean is that, despite my hangups, I want to help people. Properly." His voice is strong, unwavering. This is a point he isn't willing to back down from. If Eraserhead declines, he'll be more than disappointed. It'll actually hurt in that softening part of him, but it certainly won't stop him. He'll just have to be craftier. It could be another form of training to get around the erasure hero. If he fails, then he'll know for certain he isn't good enough. But, he isn't going to give up the ghost yet. He isn't down and out until they drag him away.
Shoto didn't want to be a hero, not since he was a toddler. He didn't want to follow Endeavor's plan and give in to that monster. Every little appeasement and concession felt like he was crawling further and further under Endeavor's boot. He's been so blinded by his hate and hurt that he's missed the smaller, less-trodden path. The one that can lead him to helping like he wants without giving in to his father's demands.
"You already know something of agency work. How much do you know about the actual process of getting licensed?" Eraserhead asks, following his train of thought.
The question sends him back to his home where he'd have to sit for droning lessons on the procedures involved with entering the workforce. It's one of his earliest and most oft repeated lessons. He sighs deeply.
"One must obtain a provisional license and graduate from an accredited heroics school with a minimum number of work-study hours completed to be eligible to enter into the profession," he states blandly as if reading off of a script. This has been drilled into his head so many times he could likely recite the process in his sleep. He stares off into the distance as he drones on, "After both steps are completed, two exams are given: a physical one to test the abilities of the aspiring hero, and a written one to test their knowledge of foundational laws and procedure. A score of eighty-five percent is necessary to pass and obtain an official hero license."
He finishes and looks back at Eraserhead with an empty expression – not that the hero can see it, but Shoto feels it might be a bit obvious from the absolutely unenthusiastic recount.
The hero stares at him, somewhere between tired and barely impressed.
"I see you've done your homework."
Shoto snorts indelicately. That's one way of putting it.
"I take it you don't have a provisional license," Eraserhead says once it's clear Shoto isn't going to say anything.
"No." Then, after a pause, he continues, "I didn't go to heroics school either."
That gets a visibly surprised face from Eraserhead. The hero's brows climb to his hairline as he looks at Shoto.
"Really?" he asks, not even bothering to mask his disbelief.
It's understandable, Shoto supposes. He hasn't exactly given the hero any reason not to think he's had a formal education in the subject. It's not everyday a random civilian can recite the tenets of procedural justice off the top of their head. (Not that Shoto showed him that particular trick yet, but it can be inferred.)
"Yes," he confirms.
Eraserhead hums then looks off to the skyline, scratching his chin in thought.
"You can take the equivalency test and get a diploma that way. The test is long, though. About five hundred questions." The hero grimaces as he finishes, no doubt thinking over how obnoxiously large the test packet must be.
Shoto stares at him for a moment, utterly confused. He'd have to be at least eighteen to take the equivalency test or have an approved age waiver, and even then he'd have to wait until he's sixteen. Why...
Then, it dawns on him.
Eraserhead thinks I'm older than I am. Oh. Oh, no.
He feels bad, like he's been purposefully lying to the hero this whole time. Would the hero treat him differently if he knew the truth? The thought makes him grimace and a sick feeling starts roiling inside him. The deception wasn't intentional, honestly. Now that he realizes it, though, he'll have to keep up the ruse. It's the only thing that'll keep him safe. If the hero knew his age - his identity - then Shoto is almost positive the man would turn him over, if not for clout then because it's the 'right thing to do' since he's a minor. He doesn't like lying. He isn't good at lying. If he's lucky, and history shows he's not, then he can just keep on acting the same and Eraserhead simply won't catch on. If there comes a moment where he's compromised, he'll have to make a run for it. Go to another prefecture. Maybe Toyama, there doesn't appear to be any super high-profile or particularly threatening heroes there.
Oh, he hopes it doesn't come to that. Odd as it is to admit, he's grown sort of attached to this shithole of an area. The whole of Shinjuku is quite nice, but Shoto settled into a rather ugly side. He found it has its charms. It'd be a shame to abandon it now.
What is he going to do? Eraserhead thinks he wants to get a license. That...is a safe assumption to have made, given the progress of the conversation, but Shoto can't for several reasons he would prefer not to divulge. That small weight that fell away is replaced by an overpowering guilt. He tilts his head down, the largest admission of discontent he's willing to give, and thinks.
What the hell do I do?
He doesn't want to fuck up whatever tentative truce the two have. Eraserhead, Shoto is abashed to say, has become someone he's started to look up to. There has to be a solution. I just need enough time. A few years and I'll be free of Endeavor. Perhaps I can give him reason enough to believe I can't take the test. I can't tell him the whole truth but maybe just a little? Just enough.
And so, Shoto, with all the verbal grace and tact bestowed upon him by his father, starts to talk.
"I'm the product of a eugenics project meant to create the perfect quirk," he says apropos of nothing.
Eraserhead does a violent double-take that'd be funny in any other context. The conversation whiplash hits the hero like several fully loaded freight trains. How it went from a chat about the licensing process to that is well beyond his understanding.
"What?"
It's as articulate as he can manage at the moment. The contrast between his bewildered tone and Shoto's underwhelming inflection is stark.
"My father bought my mother for her quirk. He wanted to create the ultimate quirk; one with no downsides and great power," he says as if talking about the weather. There's a low undercurrent of anger that bites at the end. Subtlety isn't a learned skill of his, so he lays his trauma across the table like a losing hand.
The hero opens his mouth and closes it. His brows pinch in thought. Somehow, he looks significantly more tired and yet more awake than moments ago. The reality of this situation finally seems to set in as he sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"There is a lot to unpack here."
Shoto gives him a moment to gather himself. Eraserhead huffs and sits up properly. He'd been tired enough to slide down, nearly laying on the roof, but this info dump straightened him into an alert posture.
"Why did he do that?" he asks, his focus entirely on Shoto.
He can imagine this is what Eraserhead looks like when starting a new case file; intense and completely engaged. This new scrutiny is nearly overwhelming. Shoto imagines the next answer will be sufficiently surprising.
"To beat All Might," he says, still as indifferent as if making idle smalltalk.
Eraserhead stares at him with an expression so vacant it's a little worrying. Shoto remains silent and watches as the hero clicks the pieces of his past into place.
"You were created to beat All Might?" he asks incredulously.
Shoto sighs but nods. "That sums it up, yes."
The hero rubs his hand down his face before looking properly at Shoto, as if trying to see just what it is about him that can possibly compete with the number one hero. He is left severely wanting.
"That is easily one of the stupidest ideas I've ever heard," Eraserhead says with exactly zero delicacy. Shoto would laugh if his life weren't so shit because of it, because he agrees. It is. It's the most idiotic, harebrained scheme his father could have cooked up. He would have had better luck trying to create the future president.
"Tell me about it," he grouses. The idea that anyone can even touch the hero's legacy let alone beat him is absurd. He's more myth than man, at this point. "I've spent my entire life being trained for it because I'm 'the Masterpiece.'"
He spits the title out like it's a piece of rancid meat. If Eraserhead could see his face, he'd see it twisted into absolute contempt. Shoto can't even enjoy a damn museum trip - not that he's allowed to go on them - because just hearing that phrase in the context of a painting triggers a deep-seated anger response. No part of his life was his until he ran away. It was all for Endeavor. All for his goal to surpass All Might. He was nothing more than an object, a means to an end, to the man that should have been his father. But Endeavor didn't want a son, he wanted a tool. The thought hurt so deeply when it first came to him, that he doubted he'd ever fully recover from it. Being raised as a thing instead of a child ruined him in ways he isn't sure he can fix.
"I never wanted to be a weapon for him," he says spitefully, desperately, like he's trying to convince Eraserhead. His fingers claw at the gravel on the roof and his limbs quake with the urge to let his anger and pain explode out in a torrent of ice. "Once I realized that I'd lose my humanity if I stayed, I left."
He had to. He had to. If he stayed, who knows what would have become of him? How much more dehumanization could he take? How much longer could he handle being a vessel for another man's dreams before there's nothing left of himself? Or would he end up just another photo on their shrine? Another broken, failed arts-and-crafts project.
Once he started, it's like he can't stop. All this has been building in him, like water against a failing dam. Just a tiny crack and it comes rushing out. His grievances hit the air and it's less about explaining his motives now. He needs understanding.
"My brother died and my mother was driven insane for his ambition," he says. It comes out angry and flat but there's a wetness in his eyes that he can do nothing about. He takes a deep breath and forces away that urge.
Eraserhead is silent as a the grave now. His expression is empty but his eyes hold such intensity, they seem but a moment away from glowing. Shoto can't meet that look. He stares at fixed point in the distance, well beyond reality and down the halls of history. The doors there are battered and closed off with police tape.
"I resent him. I resent him and his ego and this damn quirk he gave me. It's all I am in his eyes," he finishes, hands shaking in anger and hurt. It's sickly thick, leaving him nearly breathless. The gravel in his right hand is stuck together from the thin layer of ice he accidentally coated them with.
Shoto hates him. He hates him so fucking much that it burns away any good he feels. It's like an inferno that he can't escape. He shouldn't have brought this up because now all he can think of is his father and those hateful blue eyes that look through him like he's not real. He thinks of his mother and the tears she couldn't stop shedding. The sobs and screams. The scalding water. He has to pace his breathing before he begins to hyperventilate.
"Is that why you wear that mask everywhere, so he can't find you?" Eraserhead finally asks. He'd been so quiet that Shoto nearly forgot he was there, too stuck in his thorny thoughts.
Shoto blinks at him, takes a deep breath, counts to four, and lets it out. He slowly unclenches his aching fists, relishing in the slight sting of pain echoing from his abused joints. It helps ground him in the moment.
"Yes," he says, far calmer sounding than he feels. "I'd rather die than end up back in his clutches. If I have to live in this mask to be free, then I will."
And he means it. Oh, does he mean it. Suicidal ideation isn't a new concept to him. The thought of what it must be like to die, how pleasant it would be. How he wouldn't mind a beam in the house falling, bringing the roof down on his head. How he sometimes thinks about crossing the rode without looking and hoping. It's always there, in the back of his mind, like a pervasive demon on his shoulder. Even miles and miles away from the hell, it's still there, urging him toward the edges of roofs and giving into l'appel du vide. It isn't rational nor is it healthy, he understands. It's the only thing that kept him from acting on these wretched impulses. Logic dictates that he is suffering from some type of mental disturbance. Therefore, he will not entertain these thoughts, even if every impulse in his body demands otherwise.
He is thankful once more for his mask and disturbingly monotonous voice, because he would rather if Eraserhead didn't realize the depths of that statement. Becoming intimately familiar with the process of involuntary hospitalization isn't on his bucket list. Having a secondhand experience was more than enough for him.
Eraserhead stares at him, searching for something, face still pointedly blank. If he's frustrated at not being able to read Shoto, then he does well in hiding it. He looks away after a moment and rubs his tired eyes.
"Why tell me?" he asks. His voice sounds rough around the edges, worn in a way that goes beyond sleep deprivation.
He looks away, not wanting to see if the hero is disappointed by this admission.
"So you understand why I can't take that test or get my license," he says.
There is no response. Shoto isn't sure if that's good or bad yet.
"I...I used to want to be a hero. It was my dream," he admits softly. It hurts to confront that childish fantasy of his and see where he is now, homeless and on the run with an anger in him that he can't suffocate. "If I take that test, my identity will be revealed and it'll only be a matter of time until he comes for me."
He stares into the horizon and tries not to get swallowed by the ghosts of his past. Maybe Eraserhead would reconsider shoving him off the roof. That seems preferable to dealing with all of this. He thinks of asking, maybe phrasing it as a joke, but eventually decides against it. It likely wouldn't be well received.
"And I take it you won't tell me who your father is?" Eraserhead asks, even though he knows the answer. Shoto just shakes his head. The hero sighs.
"So, you want me to train you so you can continue vigilante-ing."
Shoto looks at him from the corner of his eye and sees the hero watching him carefully. And here it is.
"That's not a word," Shoto points out.
The hero very maturily throws a piece of gravel at him. Shoto dodges and huffs, chest feeling a little less like it's getting stepped on by an elephant. He isn't sure if that was the planned effect, but he appreciates that casualness regardless. Big emotions and big responses never really sat right with him. "And I'm not—"
"—A vigilante. So you've mentioned," Eraserhead cuts him off with a glance that gave the distinct impression he was rolling his eyes without actually doing so. Shoto takes the opportunity to fling a piece of gravel back at the hero, who catches it without batting an eye. "But you want to become one."
If it weren't for the multiple bombshells Shoto just dropped on him, he imagines that the hero would look obnoxiously smug right now. Unfortunately for him, Shoto excels in exceeding social expectations in the most awkward and inconvenient ways possible. It's hard to say, 'I was right,' to the guy who just revealed his horrific childhood trauma to you.
"Possibly," Shoto reluctantly concedes, because he does not want to give the hero the satisfaction of a full 'yes'.
Eraserhead still manages a scoff, smirk tucked away behind his scarf.
"Still illegal," he points out.
Shoto flicks another piece of gravel at him childishly. Eraserhead catches it without even looking.
"So is aiding and abetting an alleged vigilante," he says, stressing the word to annoy the hero. It's his turn to catch the gravel that gets flung at his face.
"Don't you have a random crime to stumble into?" Eraserhead asks, sounding much less serious than he'd like his grumpy face to convey. Definitely sarcasm.
"If you did your job today, then no, I don't," Shoto retorts nonchalantly.
It's impressive just how much emotion the hero is capable of putting into the tiniest shifts of his features. With just the slightest slant of his brows and narrowing of his eyes, he levels Shoto with a look that can rival Endeavor's most venomous of glares.
"Don't think I can't strangle you from this distance," Eraserhead says as he lifts his scarf.
Blessed with a brief moment of wisdom, Shoto decides it's time to stop prodding the exhausted man. He raises his hands in surrender like some sort of white flag. As much as he trusts Eraserhead - and that is strange enough for him to admit, trusting a pro - he doesn't want to push his luck too far and genuinely anger the man. Based on their previous encounters, Shoto believes pride isn't a sore point of his, but there are only so many friendly jabs one can take before that spot gets sensitive. The idea of pissing the man off is frightening for several reasons, only some he can equate to Endeavor.
They lapse into familiar silence. Shoto sits for a few moments longer, just enjoying the cool morning air. It's not something he'd ever really been able to do before: stop and smell the roses, so to speak. His life had been scheduled all the way down to what he was allowed to eat. Sitting around and doing nothing is a bizarre luxury, one he thinks many people take for granted. It's...nice. He's still getting used to it, the lack of responsibilities and expectations. There's still a small, waspish voice in the back of his mind that tells him he should be doing something. Time is precious and should not be wasted lazing about. It's gotten easier to quiet that voice, but after a few minutes, he can't keep the anxiety at bay any longer.
He's had his downtime, now he can go do...something. Clean his hideout, maybe. Keep scouting training locations. Exercise. He'd passed some cinderblocks behind a decrepit garage before that he could use as makeshift weights.
With a sigh, he gets up and pats down his clothes. Another habit he hasn't quite broken yet, presentability is fundamental to establishing a strong first impression. As if there's anyone around who'd care that my pants are wrinkled.
As if that were some cue, Eraserhead gets up as well. He's slower to rise, pressing a hand on his knee as he stands up with a grunt, clearly still tired from his shift. Shoto feels bad keeping him here so long when he could be sleeping.
They look at each other for a moment, neither particularly inclined to pleasantries but they've reached the point where it feels a little odd not to at least acknowledge one another upon arrival or departure. Or, it could just be the awkward bonding moment Shoto foisted upon the poor, socially drained man.
"Think it over," he says as a way of a goodbye. "Please."
Eraserhead grunts ambiguously, which doesn't raise Shoto's hopes too high. Then something over Shoto's shoulder catches his attention. His brows knit in concentration.
Shoto turns to look behind him. Nothing is obvious until he looks down. On the sidewalk, just in view of them, is a woman staring up at them. Her expression is hard to make out but it's very clear she's looking at them. When she realizes they're looking directly at her, she startles, attention bouncing between the two like a ping pong ball. She seems drawn back to Shoto over and over, like a moth to a light, but glances nervously back at Eraserhead every few moments. A man is beside her, gesturing, but his back is to them so Shoto can't even begin to guess what he's saying.
"What?" he asks as he watches the two. Her behavior is odd, yes, but not entirely unexpected from a civilian looking at a hero – even an underground one - and spotting a supposed vigilante is a rare spectacle. It could explain the staring. But, it still rubs Shoto the wrong way. Has he seen her before? He feels like he has.
"I recognize her," Eraserhead says. From his tone, it's not entirely good. The fact he hasn't descended to apprehend her means she isn't a villain on the loose, but something is still off.
What is it?
"From where?"
Eraserhead grimaces and fixes his goggles into place. Gone is his relaxed slouch and abrasively amicable expression. He's shifted back into 'on duty' mode. It's an almost surprising contrast as Shoto hadn't initially noticed a change in his demeanor until this very moment. "I saved her from a mugging the other day."
That weird feeling clicks into place.
Wide, amazed eyes flash in his memories.
"That's why she looks familiar," he says to himself.
Eraserhead tilts his head questioningly at him.
"I also saved her," he explains. "A purse snatcher targeted her."
He remembers how odd it was that she seemed so awed by his simple act, like there was something decidedly divine about him. Thinking back on it now and seeing the way she's staring at him like a hawk makes his skin crawl. The fact that they both saved her doesn't sit right with him, especially now that she's here.
"Odd coincidence," he says in a way that makes it clear he doesn't think it's a coincidence at all.
Eraserhead snorts. Shoto gets that familiar feeling the man is judging him again.
"I want to say you're the last person who should be talking about 'odd coincidences', but I agree this time," he says, almost begrudgingly.
He'd like to defend himself from the toothless jab, but there isn't much he can feasibly say in his defense, so he focuses on the more important part of the situation.
"Think it was a setup?" Shoto asks.
That notion makes him grimace. If it's true then there's something dangerous at play here. It'd be one thing if it only happened to Shoto, but Eraserhead is a pro hero. Involving him adds so many different layers and stakes to the situation that it nearly gives him a headache just thinking about it.
The hero hums in thought.
"Potentially," Eraserhead says, not wanting to commit to the answer but believing it's the most likely option.
"But what's the goal? To get close to us? She isn't exactly hiding now," Shoto muses aloud. It doesn't make sense. If she has an ulterior motive, why end up here? Why risk being seen?
"She do anything to hint at her quirk when you encountered her?" Eraserhead asks, formulating his own theories.
Shoto recounts the moment. She'd been enthusiastic, yes, but that's it. He hasn't felt any lingering effects from any type of quirk. There have been no odd symptoms he can recall. Usually, there'd be some sort of sign that he's been affected by a quirk by now. It's been days since their encounter.
"No. She just thanked me," he finally says after running through the mental checklist of potential signs.
Eraserhead hums, lips downturned in a slight grimace.
"I'll be back," he says and launches himself from the roof to swing down in front of her.
Shoto watches from the edge of the building on high alert. That man she'd been talking to is gone. He'd left while they were theorizing, but that didn't mean he wasn't hiding just out of sight, waiting to ambush them. If she tries anything, I'll turn her into an ice cube, warrant be damned. Granted, he knows Eraserhead doesn't exactly need the backup for one target, but he'd rather be safe than sorry in this unknown situation.
From his angle, it looks like a simple conversation. The woman is wringing her hands and her attention keeps darting up to Shoto. It's making him exceptionally uneasy. There's something about her that lights a warning sign in the back of his mind. What does she want with me? And he's certain there's something she wants. He can't imagine she'd be eyeing him up so fervently if there wasn't.
As quickly as the conversation started, it ends and Eraserhead is back on the roof. His expression is grim, displeased with whatever they spoke about.
"She said she noticed us here and wanted to thank us for helping her," he says blandly, not believing it for a second.
Shoto raises a brow at that. How very convenient that she just so happened to spot them on this roof.
"I'm not very good at reading emotions," he starts tentatively, "but she seems especially nervous for someone so thankful."
"Yeah, she does," Eraserhead says as he eyes the direction the woman hurried off in. Any trace of exhaustion that weighed the pro down evaporated the moment he noticed her. Then, he looks back at Shoto. "I didn't get a good look at who she was talking to, but I think I can identify her later."
Either he has a fantastic memory or... Shoto looks more closely at Eraserhead, namely his gear. Does he have cameras in his goggles?
"Those aren't basic goggles, are they?"
A sly smirk pulls at the hero's lips.
"Wouldn't be very effective at night if they were."
Very true. He isn't sure what sort of support gear he has, especially since his quirk leaves him little in the way of offensive or defensive capabilities. He imagines there must be even more supplementary tools on him.
"Keep your comm on. If you encounter her again, let me know," Eraserhead says, turning on his heel and heading toward the edge of the roof. This new mystery has lit a fire under him, it seems. Shoto wishes he could help him investigate, but there isn't much he can offer that wouldn't hinder the hero's progress. He'd only just started shadowing his father and begin learning about investigative procedures when he ran away. He'd be about as useful as a wet-nosed intern.
"Alright," he says, already fitting the piece into his ear. "Stay safe."
Eraserhead just raises a hand in an unspoken, You too. Then, he's off.
Shoto turns and starts on his way back to his hideout. It feels like eyes are following him, so he takes a convoluted route that stretches his path out half an hour past his usual time. A little disappointing since he wasn't able to grab those cinderblocks. Ah well, next time, he thinks dryly as he dodges into a crowded street market. It isn't until he slips into a particularly dirty konbini and darts out the employee exit in the back that the feeling of being watched disappears. His hands buzz with nerves.
He checks again to make sure the comm is on, just in case.