The remainder of their first patrol day passed with a flurry of minor incidents – a pickpocket here, a traffic snarl there, a lost child – all handled with swift efficiency by Mirko, with Souta providing competent, if sometimes overly powerful, backup. There were no more bank robberies, much to Mirko's slight disappointment and Souta's quiet relief.
Later that evening, back in his spartan room at Mirko's house, Souta lay in bed, his phone still in hand. It wasn't particularly late, merely 21:00 (9:00 PM), but the day of high-speed travel, intense training, and actual villain engagement had left him pleasantly tired.
The Class 1-A group chat was, predictably, still exploding with messages. Students were bombarding it with tales of their first day: Kirishima enthusiastically described Fat Gum's hearty appetite and cheerful demeanor during a surprisingly busy patrol; Yaoyorozu reported – almost ranting – her day that was merely one giant ad campaign at the Pro Hero Uwabami's agency; Kaminari bemoaned the amount of paperwork even heroes had to do, interspersed with jokes about his own agency's mascot.
Souta had initially only sent a brief, factual account of the bank robbery and Mirko's... energetic approach to his few closer contacts – Kirishima, Kaminari, Ashido, and a separate, even more concise message to Shoto. Predictably, Kaminari, unable to contain such exciting news, had promptly – and with much dramatic flair – relayed Souta's "insane takedown with Mirko" to the entire class chat.
This led to a fresh wave of impressed reactions and a few students lamenting that their own real first days had been mostly observation and fetching coffee. Some, like Shoji who was with a very by-the-books average hero, expressed slight disappointment with their current level of activity but remained optimistic.
Around 21:30 (9:30 PM), the messages began to dwindle. One by one, his classmates started signing off with goodnights, acutely aware that another demanding day of hero work awaited them, a routine most were definitely not yet accustomed to.
Just as Souta was about to put his phone away for the night, a new private message notification pinged. He tapped on it, a slight frown creasing his brow when he saw it was from Izuku Midoriya. They had developed a tentative camaraderie during their shared training sessions leading up to the Sports Festival, particularly around One For All, but they weren't exactly close confidants.
Midoriya's message was characteristically earnest and slightly anxious:
"Hey, Souta-kun. Sorry to bother you so late. I had a quick… hypothetical question, if you don't mind. If you knew a friend was definitely about to make a big mistake, a really dangerous one, but you didn't know all the details, like how or even if you could stop them… what would you consider? What would you do?"
Souta stared at the message, his expression skeptical. "Hypothetical," he murmured to himself with a wry twist of his lips. Midoriya wasn't exactly subtle. This clearly wasn't about some schoolyard squabble. He thought for a moment, his mind quickly running through logical assessment trees. He typed out a reply, pragmatic and to the point:
"Midoriya. Regarding your 'hypothetical' situation:
Could this friend commit a crime in the process of making this mistake?
Could they, or others, come into a situation of life and death because of it?
Are you, personally, able to help or intervene in a direct or indirect way, without significantly endangering yourself or others unnecessarily?
And lastly, if direct intervention to stop them is not possible or fails, would you support their actions, stand against them, or remove yourself from the situation?"
Souta hit send. He didn't really expect a detailed answer, nor did he particularly want one. It wasn't his nature to meddle deeply in others' affairs unless they directly impacted him or a clear injustice was occurring that he felt compelled to address. His questions were designed more to force Midoriya to assess the variables himself.
A minute later, his phone pinged again. It was Midoriya.
"Thank you, Souta-kun. That... helps a lot."
Souta read it, nodded once to himself, then placed his phone on the small nightstand. He switched off the light, the day's exertions finally catching up to him. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.
---
Miles away, in a different city bustling with its own nocturnal rhythm, Izuku Midoriya sat on the edge of a simple cot in the small, cluttered apartment of the retired hero Gran Torino. The dim room was quiet, save for the old hero's occasional snore from the other side of a thin partition.
Midoriya stared intently at his phone screen, Souta Todoroki's pragmatic questions still illuminated there. His brows were deeply furrowed in concentration, his gaze distant as he replayed the "hypothetical" situation – Iida's pain, his brother's fate, the chilling image of the Hero Killer – over and over in his mind.
He slowly clenched his free hand, the one not holding the phone, into a tight fist. Souta's questions hadn't offered easy answers or comfort, but they had provided something else: a framework, a stark series of choices. They had cut through his emotional turmoil, forcing a colder, more critical assessment of the danger Iida was running towards, and his own potential role in it.
A new resolve settled in his green eyes, hardening his expression. The path was still fraught with danger, his own ability to help uncertain, but the indecision that had plagued him was gone.
Thank you, Souta-kun, he thought, his grip tightening almost painfully. You've shown me the questions I needed to ask myself. Now... now I know what I have to do.
---
Wednesday morning found Souta back in Mirko's expansive garden, the early air still carrying a cool bite. The previous day had been a whirlwind of settling in, the explosive initial spar, and then a surprisingly calm evening.
Mirko was already there, stretching her powerful limbs, radiating an untamed energy that even the dawn couldn't dull. "Alright, Axiom Peak!" she called out, her voice sharp and clear, a signal that training mode was engaged. "Yesterday was just shaking out the cobwebs. Let's see if anything actually stuck!"
She didn't wait for a reply, launching into an immediate, feinting jab followed by a high kick.
Souta met her advance, One For All: Full Cowling flaring to life around him in its now familiar blend of orange sparks and the faint, shimmering blue mist of his developing ice technique. He felt his body respond, the 20% output already feeling more natural, more an extension of his will than it had on the first day.
He knew, with a growing certainty, that he could likely push the percentage higher, tap into a greater reserve of One For All's strength. His muscles were adapting rapidly to the strain, the initial unfamiliarity with sustained output lessening.
Yet, as he sidestepped Mirko's kick and parried a follow-up punch, he consciously held the power at that 20% threshold. True mastery, he reminded himself, wasn't simply about escalating raw force. It was about achieving perfect, unwavering control within a chosen limit, making every action precise.
Besides, Mirko was an exceptional sparring partner. At his current output, she was thoroughly challenged, forced to use her full repertoire of speed, skill, and instinct. Her reactions were lightning fast, her counters insightful. Pushing his power significantly higher might overwhelm her ability to consciously adapt, turning their spars into less of a learning exchange and more of a raw power struggle. He was here to refine his combat skill with Full Cowling, not just to overpower.
"Better!" Mirko barked, deflecting one of his mist-wreathed strikes that left a bloom of frost on her forearm guard. "You're less clumsy with that speed today, kid!"
He pressed his attack, focusing on fluidity, on the seamless integration of his enhanced speed with the contact-freezing effect of his ice mist. The patches of frost he managed to land were still erratic in size and intensity, a testament to the technique's infancy, but they were a constant, unpredictable nuisance for Mirko.
She'd yelp with an annoyed grunt when a larger patch formed, momentarily numbing a section of her leg or arm, but her recovery was instantaneous, her offensive pressure never truly ceasing. They moved in a blur, a dance of orange sparks and blue mist against a whirlwind of white and brown fur, the packed earth of the garden thudding under their impacts.
Souta knew he was still far from perfect, but the awkwardness of the previous day was indeed fading, replaced by a growing confidence in this new synthesis of his abilities. Control was key.