Chapter Text
Shoto Todoroki was holding himself back. For the untrained eye, it was unfathomable.
Shoto excelled in his cryokinesis, and though he seldom ran his mouth to claim it, his technique spoke for itself; he knew how to force his enemies into a corner with a perfectly timed ice spear, and how to manipulate frost to create a heavier atmosphere.
Rosalyne prided herself on being flawless in her judgement.
However, in the training grounds that marked the third day of Shoto Todoroki’s internship, she found herself skeptical.
She watched as Shoto broke into a sprint, dodging the craters of Artur’s electrohammer and resulting quake. Twisting his body to a stop, he slammed his hands to the ground. An ice wall rose and separated them both, followed by a blizzard of ice shards that smothered them in frost.
Meanwhile, Eduard the Cryogunner Legionnaire blasted a string of sheer cold that merged with the blizzard; invulnerable as he was to the cold, he had no trouble in navigating it and targeting Shoto Todoroki.
From within the blurry ice dome, Shoto emerged from it. He sprinted toward the Cryogunner, even as his left side grew paralyzed from layers of ice and frost.
Rosalyne narrowed her eyes, unimpressed, and she moved to call an early recall—
A flash of orange, and Shoto’s right side surged with flames.
He pushed his fire into a sweeping arc that smothered the blizzard. Sparks ignited—pyro meeting electro—but Artur kept his grip steady, while Eduard took multiple steps in retreat.
Artur pushed forward to strike.
And Shoto froze.
His flames sputtered before going out, revealing burnt clothes that were not completely ripped apart.
“Enough.”
The two men stopped as commanded, while Shoto Todoroki slumped and rubbed at his arms.
She could not tell if it was from the cold or the improper conduct of his Pyro. Either way, it was a problem that needed to be rectified immediately for a student under her tutelage.
“You have outlasted your usefulness, Artur, Eduard,” the Fair Lady glowered at them. “Now get out.”
They rounded up their weapons and left quickly, knowing what would happen if they did not obey fast.
Rosalyne strode towards the boy, who stared off into the wall across from him, blankly. With a flick of her wrist, a flaming butterfly emerged and settled itself on his forehead.
His gaze was drawn to it.
“Shoto,” she called, and his gaze met hers, slowly. “You possess one of the rarest Quirks I’ve ever seen, yet you insist on fighting as though half of it is a mere afterthought.”
“I’m sorry, Signora-san,” Shoto said quietly, moving to hang his head low.
Rosalyne refused to have this pathetic display. Was Japanese Culture this spineless?
No student of hers, temporary as they were, will be seen pitifully cowering from even the slightest taste of failure. She crossed her arms, and the butterfly on his forehead dissipated into ashes, stinging him.
Shoto looked up at her.
“Tell me. Is this internship beneath you? Should I interpret that act as mere arrogance—” she glared down at him. “or foolish incompetence?”
Shaking his head, Shoto said, “Neither, Signora-san. I’m sorry. I’m just… unused to it, that’s all.”
“You mean to tell me that you are inexperienced in using your fire.”
“I did not train with it, usually.”
“Not even with your father?”
“...No, Signora-san.”
“Truly? What a waste,” Rosalyne seized his arm, still heated from the lingering effects of an improper Quirk technique. “Your constitution will be harmed more than benefited if you remain unused to that side of yours.”
“I’m aware, Signora-san. It’s why I chose to intern under you.”
Rosalyne paused. Then, she scoffed.
"Flattery has no place in training.” She released his arm roughly. “By all means. Whatever absurd rationale you've devised for shackling your own strength is no concern of mine, but I have no intention of indulging trainees with such a cowardly mindset. So unless you want to be sent back to Japan, that attitude ends now.”
Rosalyne was hardly a patient woman when it comes to people without enough discipline to handle themselves.
Shoto Todoroki has chosen to intern under her tutelage, but they both know that Rosalyne can just as easily terminate the offer if he does not meet her standards.
Humiliating, on the part of U.A. High School, and more so on Shoto himself.
“Am I understood?”
Shoto Todoroki finally lifted his head, a fresh new look of resolve on his face—a burning in his eyes.
“Now. Back into position,” Rosalyne said, moving to assume a fighting stance.
But Shoto cleared his throat, and said, “...Can I at least change my attire—”
Rosalyne rolled her eyes.
“You will do so once you survive this session.”
“Is that your natural hair color? How exotic!”
Rosalyne looked on, disgusted, as a wild mob of Russian reporters and photographers shoved at each other just to get a glimpse of Shoto Todoroki.
They’ve just wrapped up an operation involving a couple of low-grade villains. As expected, the press descended upon the aftermath the moment the ringleader was taken into custody—some masked man with an unregistered Dendro Quirk.
Despite that, the criminals themselves were hardly noteworthy; one beam of fire from La Signora had burned their creations holding the local police hostage. Moreover, Shoto only needed to barricade them in a wall of ice to reduce them into trembling, paralyzed cowards.
Far more scandalous was the municipal deputy, a middle-aged woman who had financed their activities for years by digging her filthy hands in the funds of the public.
The press was seldom disorderly. They knew better than to test La Signora’s patience; one overzealous reporter had suffered a vivid tongue-lashing, when he dared to push and ask irrelevant questions that ignited her rage. The Fair Lady’s harangue made headlines for days, yet public opinion had largely sided with her; most agreed the reporter had overstepped.
Since then, the press has been restrained with her.
But it seemed as though that restraint did not yet extend to Shoto. Now, as shouts in English and Russian surrounded them, Rosalyne could feel her composure running thin.
"Would it be fair to say your decision to intern under our esteemed La Signora has caused friction between you and your father?"
La Signora looked at Shoto, whose mouth had yet to utter a single word, even with the number of mics being pushed onto his face.
Rosalyne had the brief fantasy of leaving him to it, electing not to intervene; let this be a practical evaluation to gauge how he handles the public.
Predictably, he looked back at her. His face remained as stoic as ever, but Rosalyne had colleagues with faces far less exposed.
She glided forward, intending to relieve him of the spectacle.
Then—
A blonde male pushed forward, eyes glinting.
“Shoto! Where did you get that scar?”
His head snapped toward the reporter.
“That’s none of your business.”
Rosalyne’s smile twitched.
“What my student means to say,” Rosalyne interjected smoothly, a flaming butterfly coming to rest on Shoto’s nose. “Is that the circumstances surrounding his scar are both unique and confidential; he cannot currently discuss them freely, however, that is not to say that it will remain a mystery forever—it is likely that he will be able to satiate your curiosity when he is older.”
The reporters quieted, as always, when La Signora was the one to speak.
She inclined her head ever so slightly and smiled coldly. “If you’ll excuse us, Shoto and I have somewhere else to be.”
Windows spanned from the floor to the ceiling, overlooking most of the city of Saint Petersburg. A pale blue sky reflected back at her, as ivory sunlight spilled across the marble floor.
With a flick of her wrist, curtains fell to block most of it from view, shrouding the room in near darkness. On cue, the circular lights adorned on the ceiling lit up and blanketed Rosalyne’s office in an orange hue.
She sat on her throne—a black and velvet cushioned chair. In front of her ebony desk, Shoto stood, hands folded behind his back.
They did not speak on the way here; though he was her student, she was not interested in exposing his weaknesses for the whole agency to hear.
She was cruel, but only to those who deserved it.
Rosalyne regarded him coolly, and Shoto returned her gaze, unblinking. It was a far cry from last time, where he could hardly meet her glower.
As he should.
Rosalyne leaned back into her chair, folding her leg above the other.
“Today’s mission was satisfactory. You have improved considerably compared to the last time.”
“Thank you, Signora-san.”
She inclined her head slightly. “Of course, we can finally concern ourselves with your more glaring shortcomings.”
Shoto’s jaw ticked.
“Public relations.”
His gaze drifted to the floor.
“Of all the trivial questions… you chose to respond to that one. With that attitude,” Rosalyne said flatly, unimpressed. “Have they taught you nothing in that school of yours?”
Shoto did not react. “I’ll do better, Signora-san.”
“Though I suppose I should have tempered my expectations. With Endeavor as your father…” she scoffed. “Abrasive and unpleasant, and lacking enough tact to conduct himself as a noteworthy role model; rather, he is an example I would give for what you would not do when faced with a microphone.”
Shoto Todoroki let out an aborted cough, and Rosalyne could hardly be blamed to interpret it as anything else than a laugh.
She hid the curl of her lips behind her palm.
“Naturally, a pro hero must not merely rely on Quirk and abilities alone. Above all, the public must be your greatest ally.” She steepled her hands together. “Earn their respect, and they will offer you their trust; loyalty will come not long after.”
Shoto finally straightened up to meet her gaze. “So… I need to be likeable.”
“Not necessarily.” Rosalyne rose from her seat with unhurried grace. “If you wish to gain the public’s respect, you must first understand them, and what type of public they are.”
She sauntered toward the ebony bookshelves lining the walls, their polished surfaces crowded with leather-bound volumes, neatly stacked paperwork, and framed portraits collected over the years.
“That includes knowing their values, their principles, and the convictions they hold most dearly.”
Her eyes lingered on one: a man with midnight-black hair bound loosely with a violet ribbon. Gilded pauldrons weighed his shoulders.
Rosalyne still held grudges for the soil that had claimed him so.
“Then what the Russian public finds ‘heroic’ may not be the same with the Japanese public, Signora-san?”
“Correct.” Rosalyne turned to face Shoto again, her hands folded behind her back. “Building reputation requires deliberate influence. Although, Pro Hero rankings in Russia differ greatly. We serve for Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, our benevolent leader, so our rankings are not… wholly dictated by public popularity. Unlike Japan.”
Shoto blinked.
“Nevertheless, appearances must be maintained. After all, even the most disciplined nation expects its heroes to conduct themselves with dignity.”
Rosalyne’s lips curved ever so slightly. She prowled around the desk and continued:
“Unfortunately, that expectation is routinely broken by a certain puppet whose social graces are… nonexistent.” She glanced at Shoto. “He’s also from Japan. Perhaps you may learn a thing or two, but it is not recommended that you interact. He's considerably more talented at delivering insults than instruction, but I digress.”
“I see. I understand now, Signora-san.”
“Oh, don’t be so ahead of yourself. We are not yet done.”
Humming, Rosalyne waved a hand. She then gestured to the cushioned, maroon seats tucked to the far wall.
Despite being only five days into his internship, Rosalyne derived satisfaction in the fact that she needn't utter words for Shoto to fathom an unspoken command: that he take a seat and brace himself.
Shoto complied, sitting stiffly as his palms rested on his knees.
Rosalyne took the seat in front of him.
“Tell me, Shoto,” she drawled. “Of all the questions directed at you, why choose to answer that one in particular, and with such vehemence at that? In Japan, the public wouldn’t have been as merciful. Moreover, you do not know a lot about the Russian public, so you’re quite fortunate that I was with you.”
Shoto’s eyes stayed glued to the table.
Rosalyne could see just how much the cogs were turning in his mind. To have the boy overthinking it was an answer in itself; the question had touched a nerve, and he was debating the merits of revealing the full truth or burying it beneath half-truths or plain omission.
Neither would be desirable outcomes.
Before he could settle on either, she pressed on: “It was about your scar, correct? In my days of training you, I have known you to be adept in keeping your composure. Tell me why it was different for that.”
Shoto Todorki finally met her gaze, eyes cold. “I don’t think this is relevant to my training, Signora-san.”
“You are mistaken,” Rosalyne raised a brow. “A hero who fails to understand the cause of his own foolish mistake is destined to repeat them.”
“It’s just a personal question, Signora-san. It simply caught me off guard.”
“And do you still resent your father for that?”
“I—” Shoto’s brow furrowed. “...Excuse me?”
“The scar concerns your father in some way,” Rosalyne said evenly, bored.
It was a strength as much as it was a weakness; Shoto reacted to shock the same way he would react to normalcy. Barely a twitch in his expression, expertly masked.
But eyes always failed to distort the veracity of a feeling, and Shoto’s eyes sharpened like fractured glaciers.
Taking a deep breath, and later exhaling through his nose, Shoto inclined his head. “Yes, Signora-san.”
“Tell me how you came by it.”
“...My mother…” His voice grew quieter, like the first day of his arrival in Russia, of his internship. “She poured boiling water over my face as she mistook me for my father.”
Rosalyne regarded him for a long moment.
“And why,” she asked, “did your mother mistake her own son for her husband?”
Shoto looked at her, then at his hands. “She was… unwell.”
“In what way?”
“She was unwell… mentally.”
“Because of your father?”
His lips parted, only to press into a thin line once more. The answer seemed to catch somewhere in his throat.
Unfettered, Rosalyne said, “Tell me more.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You mistake my intentions.”
“Pardon me,” Shoto said, straightening. “You may be my mentor, Signora-san, but you are asking me very personal questions that are irrelevant to my internship.”
“I beg to disagree.”
“I believe I’m just bad at wording things. My father is—” Shoto swallowed. “He is what you would expect from a typical father.”
“Indulge me, then. What does a typical father do?”
Shoto did not answer.
Rosalyne held his gaze, wavering between ice and fire, now.
“I have no need to manufacture leverage against Endeavor. Nor will I build a case upon only the testimony of his fifteen-year-old son.
“I require only the barest information—to warrant… investigation, if you will. Accountability against an accuser, despite being family, has always been the way here in Russia.
“Your father’s fate will be decided upon objective evidence, and not solely on what you choose to share. You have my word.”
Perhaps an eternity had passed, indeed. Shoto Todoroki spent a long time contemplating within the realms of his own mind. However, Rosalyne was nothing if not patient—particularly when waiting for something worthwhile to come to fruition.
A fickle thing it was, to decide what was fair and what was not. To decide if one’s perception and understanding was enough evidence to label it as abuse. To realize that, it would take a single admission from him, to tarnish the reputation that his father has built for all those years.
Shoto Todoroki may think of him as a father, may equate his ruination to his family’s doom, but resentment and spite had a way with you.
Rosalyne understood it quite intimately.
At last, the frost in his eyes gave way. Beneath it nestled a burning flame she recognized all too well—
And finally, Shoto Todoroki began to speak.