Hawks knew something was wrong the moment he saw Shoto burst into his office.

The day had begun like any other.

Hawks had gone to Nagano, both to reassure the civilians and to make sure his apprentice was doing his job properly.

And the boy was doing well, from what he'd been told: apart from some grumbling, he didn't bat an eye at the workload, didn't refuse orders, and wasn't too unpleasant with his colleagues.

Hawks had lunch with some of the top brass at the city's hall, then returned to Tokyo to catch up on some paperwork at his office.

As the next day was Shoto's day off, Hawks, in a merciful mood, decided to leave the boy alone and spare him another long meal where he would (presumably) get more than a little drunk.

Thus he was in his office, filling out incident reports for the minor interactions he'd had with villains, a document of an entirely different nature - and of an entirely different gravity - in his hand, when Shoto had barged in unannounced.

Hawks had been working on his weekly report to the Commission for nearly half an hour.

Usually all he needed was a few lines - usually summed up in 'r.a.s.' - which were supposed to summarize events or information likely to be of interest to the Commission, but since he'd taken Shoto under his wing, his superiors had become much stricter.

They wanted information about the boy and had openly asked Hawks to establish a relationship of trust with him.

Which Hawks had done, like the good, loyal little soldier he was.

"A power like his... we don't want to rush him, but you know what I mean, don't you?", Ryota had told him, "He has to be on our side, first to clear our conscience, but most importantly to prevent anyone else from getting their hands on him".

Hawks understood, of course.

If he'd been any other Hero - say, a civilian who'd acquired a Hero licence at the age of seventeen through a Hero training school - he'd have thought the Commission paranoid, perhaps even abusing its powers for obscure purposes.

But Hawks had seen the world, the real world, the one that wasn't shown on television, the one that didn't revolve around costumed Heroes parading with movie stars on red carpets or in perfume ads.

Beyond the countries that had managed to pull themselves up by their bootstraps after the Quirks' arrival, there was chaos.

Small factions fought over land and resources, human trafficking and slavery were rampant, civil wars broke out here and there, and blood and despair spread like the plague.

Hawks wasn't there to say who was right or wrong : no one had that right.

What he could say was that he had seen children of six or seven born with powers capable of rivalling the gods and single-handedly overturning the balance of power in a region.

He had seen their innocent hands spread death like divine judgement, felt the terror and hope that the existence of even one such being could inspire.

First, you tried to control them - and when you couldn't, you killed them.

The first time he'd seen one of these children, Hawks was fourteen: the girl, standing on a desert dune in the blazing sun, had her arms outstretched, her eyes fluorescent, and suddenly a thousand men had fallen to the ground, dead.

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No one had tried to control her.

"Men are born equal, but some are more equal than others", Ryota had told him when he was younger.

Hawks understood immediately what Ryota had meant.

If the girl's country had been stable and she'd been able to grow up in safety, then she would have had the right of life and death over all the other children in the world.

Hawks couldn't say whether that was the solution or not.

What he did know was that he was born in Japan, that he loved the customs and traditions of his country, the festivals and temples, the rich history of his ancestors, the smiles on the children's faces and the sense of security their society brought to so many.

He also knew that if children like the little girl were allowed to grow up and live, the world would be doomed.

Hawk tapped his pen on the paper, undecided.

He knew what lurked in the shadows of the spotlight, behind the swirls of glitter and flashes of fame.

Hawks fully understood the concerns of the Commission - the government's - about Shoto Todoroki.

The boy was a potential mystic rank without creed who had practically reached adulthood : he could either propel Japan to new heights, or destroy the country.

Hawks - and many others - could, however, credit him with the ingenuity that had enabled him to live peacefully until very recently.

If Shoto hadn't decided to reveal himself to save his father - no, if Endeavour hadn't been half the Hero he was, and Shoto hadn't decided to save him from death by stopping the Tokyo Giant - no one would have ever known.

Hawks was aware that the fact that a potential weapon of mass destruction had been living under the country's nose without anyone being the wiser had frightened many of his superiros.

It was the boy's loyalty to his father - who was loyal to Japan - that had prevented widespread panic and drastic action.

That, and the fact that the two most powerful men in the country supported the boy.

Hawks sighed, leaned back in his creaking chair and turned to look out over the city below.

Night had recently fallen and Hawks knew the building must be empty except for himself.

He glanced treacherously at his blank sheet of paper.

He knew better than anyone how well-founded the Commission's concerns were.

His conversation with Shoto in the bar a few days earlier came to mind.

Logic would dictate that he transcribed the conversation word for word - he'd been trained to do that - but Hawks felt that would be a betrayal of the teenager's meagre trust in him.

The fact that he had negative feelings towards Touya Todoroki was not revolutionary information: everyone knew that.

On the other hand, the fact that he wanted him dead was prime information.

The Commission could use it to bring the boy to them and force him into debt.

An equivalent exchange : such were the laws of the world.

Worst of all, Hawks was sure that the boy would accept without batting an eyelid, provided the Commission did not tell his father about the arrangement.

It would be easy: Hawks could write the few fateful lines, send them to the Commission, and on Monday, a meeting would be arranged with Shoto, so that on Tuesday, Touya would die at the hands of a designated culprit.

Hawks had the impression that Shoto would be delighted, and that frightened him.

Once the Commission got their hands on him, they'd never let him go: never.

He'd probably be asked to commit himself to the Commission for at least a year: then he'd be worked to the bone, would spread terror in the name of Japan.

Then, when his contract would expire, it would be casually mentioned that Endeavour might find some startling information about Touya, and Shoto would be trapped, because if he could lie to his father about the nature of his powers since he was three but sacrifice everything the second he was in danger, he would surely rather die than see the day when his father would hate him for fomenting the death of his own brother.

It was easy, really : all Hawks had to do was write a few lines.

Hawks bit his upper lip. The tip of his pen trembled on the paper.

Shoto would be no better than a dog tied to a post and thrown into an unmarked pit once he'd lost his utility.

Keigo, shoulders slumped, put down his pen with a heavy heart.

He wouldn't wish this life on anyone else.

Suddenly, the door to his office opened wide.

Hawks pushed his chair back violently, knocked it over and found himself hovering a few centimetres above the floor, his wings outstretched menacingly, sharp feathers already detached and floating around him.

Then he dropped gently to the ground, his adrenaline plummeting as quickly as it had risen.

- Shoto ? What's wrong ?

The teenager stood in his doorway, his hair a mess, his clothes rumpled, his eyes panicked.

He ran a trembling hand through his hair to smooth it back.

- It's- it's Touya

*

Author's note :

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