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It was either too early or too late, depending on how one looked at it. Toshinori liked to think it early, blissfully choosing to ban his ever so frequent restless nights from his memory. It was a brand-new day and, he decided, so should be his attitude towards it; novel and unwearied. With that fresh thought playing in his hopeful mind like a scratched disc, the once number one hero found himself jogging in the UA yard.
Many years had passed since he last felt the need to care for his body in this way. His whole self had been, for as far as his remembrance could reach, defined by healthy strength and sheer power, especially once he acquired his quirk – or rather, a quirk he had made his own through no small struggle. But before that, he would run. As fast as his legs could bear him. Going against time, fighting all odds that seemed strategically designed to disturb his desired path and crash his dreams. Only to find there was no end to his pursuit, no matter if he was called a hero, let alone number one. Even as the indefatigable media and dry-cut history books branded him as the pillar of peace, a bringer of hope in a world so deeply rooted in chaos. And he had foolishly believed the tales, if not in themselves at the very least moved by the feeling behind them. Allowing himself to be what was needed of him without sparing a passing thought to the limits that time imposed. To the chilling reality of his own mortality.
A merciless thing now forced upon Toshinori’s existence. Declaring its presence in every pained step of his flimsy excuse of an exercise. Felt throughout the junctions of his shaking joints, of the miserable wetness of his ragged breath. Making him so very painfully aware of how he was now reduced to nothing but a sorry shadow of his old splendour; a fragile creature, stripped of anything he once understood as intrinsic parts of himself. An antique in his own right. His body so unrecognizable to him as it was a stranger, a thing more dead than alive, glued together entirely by angled bones, stale blood and deep regret. The sudden notion filled him with unbearable anxiety, scratching him raw from the insides of his already too bleary structure.
He stopped then, battling to breathe, to stand. To be alive. Unsure on whether his struggle arose from the physical effort or the oblique fear he so wanted to deny. It was truth too: long had passed since he felt afraid, so much so he had barely lost grasp of its meaning. He couldn’t say he missed the emotion.
Dry leaves crackled a soft sound under his body as he sat gingerly on the grass. Resting. Regretting. Every contained movement an apology, as if abashed for the space his existence occupied in the world. Dawn approached timidly enough, traces of light prying holes through the dense clouds. In his current state of mind, the golden hero felt it was a fitting mirroring of his own soul; it laid helpless while dark thoughts hammered it with unforgiving fervour.
It was decidedly a bad space of mind to be, and he would have likely been stuck on that miserable vicious cycle for a long – well, longer – time, weren’t for the curious sounds. Subtle and distant, masked by the gentle ruffle of leaves and careful bird’s twitting. Out of place and yet familiar. Immediately recognizable despite its faintness, like a road travelled often and again as to be found even if blindfolded.
He got up, painstakingly and insecure on these foreign limbs, and followed the invisible trail, finding his way through air rather than soil. Sure enough, there it was. The source of the sounds stood tall amidst the hidden training ground, the unmistakable energy of a striving hero surrounding the young girl’s body; much more telling than the evident exercise could ever be. And Toshinori had some pride in his ability to recognize a hero’s soul at first glance. Something that proved useful on his particular line of work. Or what used to be, he corrected himself hurriedly, with no shortage of shame.
She hadn’t noticed his presence, and he was thankful for the small blessing. The slender girl was deeply engrossed on her own exercise, which seemingly consisted of eradicating a piteous wooden dummy existence to no more than shreds and broken pieces. An objective, he was quick to realize, she was failing at. She staggered on her feet, all movements uncertain in nature, uncoordinated jabs and kicks throwing the promising strong body off balance, uneasy, coy. Lacking the motivational energy he could so clearly see she possessed. As if her soul and body were in disarray, somehow disconnected from each other.
When the growing frustration apparently reached a marked limit, the youngster let out a fiery scream, her quirk lashing out in chaos. An invisible force throwing all the training equipment far and high, the shocking crashing sound putting to flee all the poor unsuspecting animals on the immediate vicinity. The so-called symbol of peace had approached – or so he must, at a given point, since he found himself close to the border of the training ground, staring at the wreckage it had become. In plain sight for the student to see him, which promptly happened, her body turning with impressive smoothness despite the anger, and haunting suddenly, shakenly.
He could have understood – was in fact half expecting – if the girl had blown up on him, seeing his presence as prying and as added pain to injury. Or maybe she would shy away, embarrassed to have had a witness in that singular moment. Or, more irrationally, somehow starstruck by being face to face with no one other than All Might. Instead, he was humbled. In an impressive demonstration of self-awareness, she stood still, silent. Chin up and clenched trembling fists the only indications of possible nervousness.
He bowed his head slightly and forced a smile, raising his hands in peace. Attempting to ease the situation. “That was a nice quirk, indeed, young student! I’m impressed I haven’t noticed you in training before with the rest of the class.”
Immediately, he realised he had said the exact wrong thing. Instead of relaxing into casual conversation, she kept her position, something like hurt moving behind her eyes and then hidden masterfully. He would have been impressed, had he not been busy feeling terrible.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” She answered dryly, resenting. “You all only look at heroics. I’m with general ed.”
Giving himself a metaphorical slap, he grimaced. The girl wasn’t wrong. However, typical of its dry nature, plain truth tended to be a hard pill to swallow. He opened his mouth. Changed his mind. Closed it again. Was no matter; she wasn’t paying attention.
“I don’t care about how difficult it is. I have my mother’s quirk, and I will become a hero just like her.” The bold statement carried within an odd note, almost as in a rehearsed conviction. If you repeat it enough times, it becomes true.
Conveniently saved from giving a proper answer about the failed school system, he lashed onto the opportunity. “Is your mother a pro, then? What’s her hero name? I might know her.”
A head shake. Firm, emphatic. “No. I said she’s a hero, not a pro. My father is a pro, but he’s not a hero.” Her voice raised slightly at that, hard with challenge. “Do you know the difference?”
The sudden serious topic caught Toshinori unawares. A kind being, he took no offense from the remark, allowing it to simply exist instead, harmlessly floating in the air between them. Of more importance was the feeling behind it, he decided. Because he could see the apprehension, the sad belief driving the words. The adult in him very much conscious of the surprisingly complicated anguish he could see on the youngster’s expression. It clenched at his heart, a feeling of protection rising there, as vivid as it was strange.
“He doesn’t deserve to be called a hero.” She went on. Maybe to fill the silence. Or maybe to assure herself. And then raising her head, sudden and abrupt, looking at him with something like sorrowful acceptance. “But you don’t believe me. No, you wouldn’t. Nobody does.” Her voice faltered, its shakiness being covered by a flimsy laugh.
He smiled softly, somewhat saddened. Dropping altogether the attempts of redirecting the conversation towards safer topics. She was having none of it, and he too had to admit he lacked the will to keep the pretence. Toshinori struggled. Lost in the situation and yet the need to help overcame him, despite not quite knowing how. The way he knew wouldn’t work anymore. Those days were over.
He reached a hand, placing it awkwardly on her shoulder, hoping it would bring comfort.
“I believe in you, young lady.” He said then, finally. The honesty of his words matching hers. “I still have enough integrity within me to recognize the truth when it stares me in the eye. Or so I like to think.” And that was, perhaps, the only honest thing that passed through his lips in a rather long while. Such recognition shook his structure to the core. What a hero he was.
Her eyes widened, unbelieving. And then, simply and acutely, filled up with raw emotion. She looked as surprised as him by the sudden outburst, but the intensity of it overcame her with such power he could clearly see it was beyond of her control.
He squeezed her shoulder gently, in assurance. “It’s okay. You can let go.” And she did, burying her face in both hands and allowing the feeling to cleanse away, escaping through her fingers and dripping onto the earth, like pure offerings of liquefied frustration.
This he could handle. This he knew, maybe a bit too much, he thought with no small amount of endearment, remembering the kind boy he had chosen as his successor. So Toshinori stood close, solid and understanding, hoping that would be enough as he, too, was depleted of much more to give.
Slow and sure the shaking under his hand subsided to smaller intervals, until all that was left was the relieved weakness that usually followed breaks of such strong nature. She took a step back, sniffing through the emotional hangover and wiping clumsily at the wet cheeks. It did not escape his eyes on how she now looked lighter, as if the irons trapping her limbs had been removed at once. He sighed, relieved.
“Do you think I can make it?” The girl asked then, somewhat shyly, eyes cast down.
“Make it?”
“Into heroics. With my quirk, I mean.” She clarified, looking up and facing him directly. “You are All Might, right? So you should know. If it’s possible, for me.” She finished, lamely.
Toshinori looked into the youngster’s dark eyes, sparking with the threat of controlled tears, recognizing in its depth the longing so akin to his own; bridging past, present and future. The hardship and fear. And the buried hope, hidden in such a way as to not show itself overmuch. Dreading what would become of it if her dream got pulverized to dust by the cruel mortar of reality. Because so he could understand, some things didn’t change.
“Well, I’m not very mighty right now.” He said for lack of something better, scratching the back of his head, at a loss. Feeling thoroughly inadequate for what this one child needed; all too aware of how little he was reduced to. How less of anything he currently was.
“You are still All Might.” Came the answer. Not surprise, nor judgemental. Rather she sounded puzzled, almost delicately curious. As if pointing out an obvious answer. “Nothing is ever created or lost, only transformed, right?”
That took him aback. A deep part of him – a fearful one, always ready to hold onto self-depreciation – reacted strongly, prompting him to reject the wild notion at once. Holding his stand, he looked at his hands instead, pensively. They were big and callused, angled and rough around the edges, used and abused for many years to count, winning against a multitude of enemies. Keeping the piece through sheer strength and peril. While still the same size, they were now frail things, almost disconnected from the rest of him, a reminder of what he could never do again.
But as the girl stared at him expectantly, he thought that maybe it was less a matter of fact and more of interpretation. Free transformation. Perhaps there were people he would never be able to reach as his old self that he could in his current form. With these very same hands. And perhaps a little too late in his life, he came through the rather rattling realization that some things could only be effectively handled through a more complex touch than a shallow-minded punch could ever allow. He closed his fist slowly, considering the perspective that there was something else his fists could hold onto. And protect.
Well, wasn’t truth found in the oddest of places? But Toshinori has never been a picky one.
“The problem” He began, decisively. She raised her head in interest, her ears metaphorically peeking up to absorb whatever he was about to say, while carefulness and fear still lingered in her eyes. “Is not your quirk. But your fighting ability. If you train that and master how to use your quirk alone, you can become a powerful hero.” He said, meaning every word. “I could teach you some of the basics.”
She smiled then. Finally. It was a bright thing that he would like to see more of. Yes, this was the right decision. Maybe there was more to him, and to everything he had gone through, than the ability to defeat new villains with mindless power. He could still do things that would bring meaning to the world, even if not in the straightforward and simplistic way he had grown used to.
Hope had not been born with him, and wouldn’t die with his last breath either. If he could make sure that it would live through and be translated with the next generation of heroes then maybe, he thought, a single Symbol of Peace would no longer be necessary.