Sometimes I wondered if anything made sense.

We were born, grew up, worked, consumed, consumed, consumed, died.

If I assumed that nothing made sense, that our lives meant nothing, that our thoughts and actions meant nothing, then freedom became the scariest concept of all.

To be free to do whatever you wanted in a world where nothing was worth anything and everything was worth everything was the scariest thing of all.

Helping and killing would have the same value, suffering and inflicting suffering would have the same value.

If nothing made sense, then that meant I could do anything I wanted.

The memory of my clone standing up in nighttime Tokyo, of fluorescent lights and cars honking and windows coming on and off and people walking and running in a cacophony of sounds, smells, life, rolled over my mind like a wave over sand.

If nothing made sense, then it didn't matter what I was doing.

I looked down at my hands, my own perfectly clean, perfectly smooth hands, but they were also his, stained with ink and blood and the blood I might one day spill.

I breathed in, and the air was as much that of fresh, sickening exhaustion as it was the familiar smell of home.

I blinked, and Tokyo faded away, the decor of my room overlaying it, then asserting itself like a water stain on an oil painting.

I forced myself to slow my heartbeat, to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, telling myself that it was okay, that everything was fine, that I hadn't done anything, not yet, and maybe I never would.

There was a knock on my door.

I smoothed my suit jacket, took a few seconds to compose my expression.

I was Shoto Todoroki, the one who was afraid of nothing, the one who never backed down and always moved forward, no matter if the world was collapsing around me.

I opened the door.

- Mr. Todoroki, the car is waiting for you.

We walked through the corridors, the living room, the kitchen, and suddenly I remembered years ago when Rei had tried to bring me back to her, to offer me to eat with her children in the same kitchen.

I wondered what she thought of me, the acquitted murderer she'd given birth to.

The drive to the conference room went without a hitch.

I got out of the car, my eyes scanning the crowd of hysterics and supporters, chanting and shouting my name, holding up signs of support and insults, clashing behind the metal barriers like two parts of the sea separated by the will of the gods.

The cordon of policemen could barely contain the chaos, which only grew as my presence was noticed and yelled at, and orders, words of support, cruelty and benevolence were hurled at me.

I hurriedly climbed the stairs to the Tokyo courthouse, a squadron of policemen following me like a swarm of hornets, and for a split second my eyes landed on a tiny ochre painting, a circle filled with indecipherable writing at the foot of one of the pillars.

I looked away as the great wooden doors behind me opened and closed with a thud, as if something heavy and metallic had been thrown against them.

The chaos subsided.

I was ushered into a room packed to the rafters with journalists, construction workers huddled against the walls muttering in hushed tones, important looking men and women with embroidered handkerchiefs.

Everyone was dressed in black, as if it were a funeral.

The thought almost made me smile.

My father and All Might stood on the stage to the left of the lectern, dressed as heroes, exuding confidence and power.

The Japanese flag hung behind them.

They put me between them, leaning forward so that the murderer could be more easily seen.

All Might looked me in the eye and looked away, but I didn't care - my eyes met my father's, who met gaze and beckoned me to look forward.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

The Prefect entered, all the journalists stood up, then he arranged the microphone and spoke about the verdict of the trial.

When it was announced that I'd been acquitted, I saw the shudder of anger that ran through the room, as if they were all one, a 'one' against me, against us.

Questions flew, first about me, a little about All Might, then focused on my father.

- Endeavor, you were the one who contacted the Prefect to ask him to cover up the hangar incident. So you're the instigator, but not a single investigation has been opened regarding your actions. Do you think that's preferential treatment on the part of the authorities?

- Endeavor, why are you trying to protect a criminal when you're supposed to be serving justice? Isn't it a fair statement that if you have enough power, you can do whatever you want? Do you think you can do whatever you want just because you're a hero?

- Endeavor, what do you think about the protests around the country calling for your resignation?

Standing behind the lectern, he calmly answered, deflecting when necessary, not responding to the verbal abuse hurled here and there.

I felt sick watching him crumble in front of this army of ants that didn't even deserve to breathe the same air as us - all because of me.

Suddenly a bottle of water was thrown at his face.

The sound was like a slap, and for a second there was silence.

Jaws clenched, sharingan spinning dangerously in my eyes, I pushed away the vicious claw All Might had put on my shoulder and crossed the stage to the lectern, picking up the bottle without taking my eyes off the man who had thrown it.

The man, his mouth hanging open, was pale as death, his shoulders thrown back, his legs stretched out as if he were about to run, his right hand - the one that threw it - shaking as if it wasn't his fault, as if it had acted on its own.

The bottle exploded like a bomb between my fingers, the water splashing onto my suit and the shiny parquet floor, the torn plastic sinking into my skin, and already I contracted my arm, ready to hurl the projectile back at the man with a hundredfold force.

Then my eyes caught a movement to the right and I saw a woman who looked like nothing and who was guilty of nothing, shaking like a leaf.

With a quick glance, I surveyed the room and noticed that everyone was pale, motionless, and staring at me with wide eyes.

They're afraid of me.

I met father's gaze.

My sharingan deactivated.

Slowly, I lowered my arm.

Someone exhaled loudly, then the pages of a notebook began to turn.

- Mr. Shoto, many of us would like to know what made you use such violence in the hangar. Many of us have seen the video - at least part of it - and we'd like to know why you didn't just choose to immobilize your attackers.

A small man with a forgettable face and an old black press cap, no longer worn, was sweating profusely, his legs wobbly, but his eyes bright with that vibrancy and need to know why.

I crushed the bottle between my fingers.

Sound of crushing bones filled the room as I stood there, dry-mouthed, unable to react.

The tension eased, but I saw many people staring at Dad, as if my behavior was his fault, as if he'd taught me wrong, as if he should have controlled me better.

And suddenly I realized that no matter what I did, no matter what I did, everyone would make sure it would always fall on him.

I felt the need to justify myself, to explain, to make them understand that he had nothing to do with it, that it wasn't his fault, that it was just me - and suddenly I found myself behind the lectern, in front of the microphone, my eyes sweeping over the wary audience.

I didn't know where to start explaining the whys and wherefores, so I decided to keep it simple and tell the story from the beginning.

- When I was three years old, my brother tried to kill me.

I saw amazement and surprise, and I was amazed and surprised myself.

My palms were sweaty, but I refused to wipe them so as not to show them how much I hated the idea of telling a crowd of strangers what made me who I was.

You’re giving them your weaknesses and they'll use them against you.

A chill ran down my spine.

- It was in our bathroom at home. He tried to drown me. Dad saved me. By that time, I'd already survived one kidnapping attempt - from which my dad also saved me. When I was four, my brother tried to kill me again in a fire. My father saved me again.

The camera flashes crackled and the yellow light from the spotlights hanging from the ceiling blinded me.

- When I was five, I went to a special school for children in close contact with heroes. There, we weren't taught to paint or play hopscotch. The first thing we were told was that fifty percent of us would never live to see our tenth birthday.

I heard gasps of astonishment.

- We were told that if we were lucky, we'd be killed. We were children, and we'd rather die than be among those who 'disappeared'.

I remembered Anton Prager, the first to disappear, and the way the class had emptied out over the years, and the collective efforts to ignore the deadline that loomed over us all.

- When I was nine, I was kidnapped. They contacted my father and told him that if he didn't give them unconditional access to the classified files of the Department of Defense, they would mail him my fingers one by one and then move on to my feet, my eyes, my tongue.

I'd burned them alive, roasted them like pigs.

After that I wasn't able to eat for a week.

- When I was ten, two hundred men were sent to kidnap or murder me. They killed my bodyguard in front of me. I saw the bullet cross his forehead from one end to the other, right there, between his eyebrows.

I remember the fly on his glassy eye.

I can still taste his blood on my tongue.

- I knew my father was too far away. That he wouldn't make it back in time. I knew I'd end up like another statistic, another one of those kids unlucky enough to die right away.

I stopped for a second to collect my thoughts.

If nothing is meaningful, does that mean that all my suffering, all the tears I've shed, all the blood I've spilled, are meaningless?

I suddenly felt dizzy.

- I was a child. I was afraid. I just did what I had to do to survive, that's all.

Nobody said anything.

I blinked, looked back at this audience of strangers who knew too much about me.

No one said anything.

Dad put a hand on my shoulder.

Someone asked the journalists if they had any more questions.

No one said anything.

The conference ended.

No one said anything because there was nothing to say.

*

Author's note :

250 power stones = sunday bonus chapter

If you want to support me/read ahead of schedule, you can do so on my P@treon, Nar_cisseENG

See you in the next update everyone !