MHA : Shoto Todoroki - Modern-day Terrorist

A mass murderer, they called him. The modern-day terrorist.

Flash Info //Massacre of the Heroic Commission: The Judgment of Shoto Todoroki//

Zap.

"Rise in crime and decrease in jobs in Jobs: citizens leave the country en masse"

Zap.

"349 people murdered in 14 minutes"

Zap.

"Is a recession poss-"

Zap.

"Multiple repeat offender orchestrated the assassination of-"

Zap.

"National Guard deployed-"

Zap.

"- terrorist attack at the HQ of the Commission. Let's be clear, ladies and gentlemen : this boy is just a symptom of a sick society that has been derailing for a long time"

He stopped on this channel.

"When you have a prodigious individual born with the power of a god," the speaker explained. "It is only natural that, receiving attention only for what he is capable of and not for who he is, he ends up becoming what everyone expected him to be"

"What are you trying to say?" someone else asked, indignant. "That because he was a little bullied here and there, the Commission's massacre was justified?"

"What I'm trying to say is that you can use a knife both to slice and stab. It's the one holding the weapon that makes it what it is. This boy is a knife and instead of putting it in the drawer, he was asked to stab a select number of people. Is it surprising that the weapon turned against us ? Do not misinterpret what I am saying : this boy is as far from a victim as one can be. He is a murderer - a high-profile terrorist, even. What I wonder – and what I would like all our fellow citizens who are at home and watching us to ask themselves – is whether our fear of his potential has contributed to shaping him"

"So you think that our way of 'treating' individuals like Shoto Todoroki as a society can influence their behaviors ?" asked the anchorman

"I do not think it, I know it," he said. "Look at this press conference where he was absolutely demolished by the press for defending himself when-"

"He killed people", interrupted another guest speaker. "Let's not mislead the public, and let's call a spade a spade"

"I would ask you not to interrupt me, thank you", snapped the other one. "As I was saying, look at one of the few times he spoke in public and see how his expression changes as he lets himself – and his father, more specifically, because Endeavor took the brunt of the accusations – be insulted in public. It was a witch hunt. Now I can't help but wonder what kind of treatment he received behind closed doors, or how it goes for children who have, let's say, abilities that are not seen as Heroic, or the right Quirks but different aspirations. If a seventeen-year-old decides that his only outlet is murder then yes, I say it and I say it loudly, our society has a problem and that's what we should worry about"

His opponent clicked his tongue and shook his head.

Somebody knocked on the door.

"Come in", Nezu said, sipping his tea, not looking away from the TV.

Aizawa hovered at the room's entrance, his eyes flickering between the flash news and Nezu on his couch, his small legs dangling happily.

"Already up ?", he asked without looking back, as though he had eyes behind his eyes. "You shouldn't be standing so soon after the surgery"

"I'm fine", said aizawa. "I'm fine", he repeated, and he didn't know if he was trying to convince himself or Nezu

"Come here"

Nezu patted the seat next to him.

Aizawa hesitated but awkwardly did as told.

Sometimes Nezu still talked to him as if he were a kid, and most of the time he still saw Nezu as this looming mountain which shadow he was trapped in.

His eyes went back to the TV.

Shouldn't Shoto have tried to flee ?

He'd let aizawa easily handcuff him, hadn't muttered a word until he was brought to a cell as long as he could keep smoking.

There was nobody in this country who could've stopped him - should've stopped him - and yet he'd been so compliant, distant in a way that made it seem as if nothing and no one could reach him.

It rubbed Aizawa the wrong way.

"Don't blame yourself, Shota", said Nezu quietly. "No human could've predicted what happened"

If someone had asked Aizawa a few months earlier whether he believed the boy was capable of such violence, would he have said yes?

He had often seemed unstable, and he was as stubborn as a donkey – but was he necessarily bad ?

There'd been Kirishima, too.

A fucking murder at Yuei. There hadn't been one in half a century.

He could barely look himself in the mirror, and in his sleep he heard a perfidious imitation of Shoto's voice whispering in his ear three hundred forty-nine.

349 people killed in 14 minutes by a boy who had exasperated him and whose nonsense had sometimes made him smile, 349 people brutally and indiscriminately murdered, whether they'd known or hadn't. 

"Why ?", Aizawa asked quietly.

He looked at Nezu as he did when he was a kid and couldn't figure out his mind games even after hours of pondering.

"He may have thought..."

"He may have thought what ?"

"You do remember that the Commission was the first there when Endeavor died, don't you ? He may have thought they could've saved him but didn't, for whatever reason. He may have wanted to avenge him"

"Did they ?", asked Aizawa. "Refuse to intervene, I mean ?"

"...the ground was boiling", said Nezu, non comittal. "Even if they'd wanted to intervene, they had no one who could get down on this beach"

Aizawa frowned.

It wasn't Nezu's habit to give him half answers like that.

"Did Shoto have any reason to think they purposefully did nothing to help his father ?"

Was Enji still even alive at this point ?

"I think Katsuki… Right before he hurt Kirishima" That's a fucking euphemism, thought Aizawa "Shoto talked with Katsuki. He may have implied that..."

Nezu not finishing his sentences grated on Aizawa's nerves more than anything.

He felt he was being tricked, as if it were another mind game he couldn't disentangle the truth from the web of lies.

"He may have implied that what ?", frowned Aizawa.

His left eye suddenly hurt.

Aizawa brought a hand to his bandaged face, trying to keep the pain at bay.

"He told him that Enji was still alive when All for One left"

Aizawa's breath caught in his throat.

"Was he ?"

Nezu smiled, a tad sadly and a lot more deviously.

"That's the question, isn't it ?"

"Why didn't we tell him ?"

"If massacring the entire Heroic Commission is the answer he found for the murder of his father, which he considers 'orchestrated' by just a handful of people, what do you think he would have done to us if we had tried to stop him after revealing the truth to him ?"

Aizawa's anger was a pit of boiling lava at the bottom of his stomach.

"Is this what we have been reduced to?" he asked, incredulous. "Bowing down to avoid irritating the powerful at the risk of being crushed?"

Nezu fixed his irritating little black eyes on him, excessively clever and overly piercing.

"All Might was a godsend, Aizawa. He was powerful and most importantly on the right side of things ; he was the ultimate defender of good, a deterrent weapon all by himself. I have always dreaded the day when another All Might would come and what would happen if it turned out he was not on the right side : that day has arrived, and the answer to my question with it."

Aizawa clenched his fists.

"When you ask me if we should bow down at the risk of being crushed, I will answer yes. Look at yourself, Aizawa; look around us. We live in a society where individuals are born with the ability to reduce a country to ashes at their whim. All Might was someone good, but his mere existence forced everyone to bow before his power, whether he wanted it or not: thanks to him, we lived several decades in peace and prosperity, and I thank him for it even today. But if he had been on the wrong side, can you honestly tell me that you and all the other heroes and citizens of this country would have fought against him, at the risk of dying ?"

Nezu paused, waiting for an answer.

Aizawa bit his tongue, nails digging into his flesh.

Because we would all be dead, that's for sure.

"The truth is that you, me, and the ninety-nine other percent of the population born without powers capable of changing the world are condemned to live under the shadow of the powerful, hoping they are busy enough elsewhere to never look in our direction. Bowing down is nothing new. It is what we have always done and it is what we will do again to survive."

Aizawa stayed quiet for a while.

"Why did Katsuki tell Shoto his father was alive when the Commission arrived ?"

Aizawa's black eyes snapped to Nezu's.

For the first time in his life, the little rat was momentarily speechless.

He could see the cogs turning in his skull, felt how his body language shifted to accommodate the new turn of this conversation.

"Shouldn't you be more grateful?" he asked casually. "Now that you've got your eye back, you're not as useless anymore"

Aizawa laughed, startled, and it was a disbelieving laugh tinged with a bit of hysteria.

Nezu sipped his tea, unbothered by his reaction.

"It's hard to swallow, I know," Nezu reassured him. "But with time we-"

"I resign."

Nezu frowned.

He could see at his pursed mouth and the crease between his eyebrows that he hadn't considered this possibility and Aizawa liked that a lot.

"Are you sure?"

Aizawa couldn't leave : Aizawa was Nezu's.

That's what had been drilled in his skull during his whole childhood.

"Yes."

Nezu stared at him for a long time before answering:

"Very well."

Aizawa glanced around the room, still a bit surprised by the turn of events. Was Nezu truly letting him go ?

A surge of adrenaline pushed him to his feet.

He looked around, dry-mouthed, as though seeing this office for the first time. He had to get out before Nezu changed his mind.

Aizawa turned the handle, stopped halfway through the gesture before stepping back three steps to the nearest table.

He took off his capture scarf and placed it on the table, yellow goggles following. He grabbed his Heroic ID, freshly retrieved after the operation.

He squeezed it between his fingers until his knuckles turned white, his eyes fixed on the photo he had taken just after getting his license – barely eighteen, a head full of dreams and the feeling he could revolutionize the world.

Shoto's image flashed in his mind; Aizawa placed his card on the stack and left without looking back.

Nezu quietly watched him leave, gaze resting on the door long after it'd been shut close.

"…frankly utopian theory. Wake up, we are in the real world: if Shoto Todoroki killed so many people – including many innocents and he knew it, don't try to make viewers believe otherwise – it's because he's a deranged young man thirsty for violence and nothing else. His psychological profile proves that-

"Wait a moment" interrupted the anchorman. "It seems Shoto Todoroki has just arrived at the Supreme Courthouse to face his judgment; here are the live images from our reporters."

The screen showed the image of stairs leading to a courthouse.

The place was packed with people, journalists gathered on either side of metal railings and thousands of onlookers gathered in the streets leading up to it or standing on benches to get a better view of the murderer.

Police officers and Heroes were there to ensure security - and contain possible unrest.

A convoy of black cars drove down the street and a police officer removed the security cordon to let them through.

The cortege stopped at the bottom of the courthouse ; armed police officers got out, forming a narrow line in front of the central car. The door opened and, for a short moment, there was no sound except the crackling of camera flashes.

Close to 6 foot 4, the boy was taller than even the most intimidating police officers.

His face was uncovered, bare for the whole world to see.

It was unsettling to see how young he looked under his usual cover-up.

He was human, too. Just another person who'd done something unfathomable for reasons they couldn't grasp.

His manacles clinked as he walked forward, the chain linking his hands to his feet clinking because of his movements.

His eyes were on the courtroom doors. He didn't spare a glance to anyone.

His back was ramrod straight, his chin slightly up, a confidence to his demeanor that shouldn't have been there in a man on the verge of being judged for mass murder.

No one could deny he was Endeavor's rightful son, inspiring fear and demanding awe.

Even though searing anger alighted most people, no one dared speak when the murderer walked by them.

They hated him quietly, feverish gazes following him upstairs, lips pinched for fear of what might escape.

Everybody in the courtroom was grim-faced.

They all knew what fate would befall him before he'd even walked up the stairs.

The trial was quick and to the point.

Pictures of the massacre were shown until the chopped heads on the stomachs.

They took a break after this.

Shoto was brought to a small room during that time, for everybody was too nervous to have him nearby when they were supposed to relax.

A few police officers were in the room with him, more wallflowers than anything.

Someone suddenly opened the door.

This one was dressed differently from the others, a long black coat that made him look like a detective.

He whispered to the officers and a moment later both left.

The newcomer plopped his ass in front of Shoto's, hands clasped on the table between them.

He casually scratched his wrist, his sleeve slightly riding up his forearm, and Shoto easily caught the flame tattoo.

"One word and you're out of here this instant"

For a second Shoto's facade wavered, his gaze softening slightly.

"Tell her thank you but I'm not done yet"

The man nodded, all business-like, and left. Moments later the officers resumed their duties.

Back in the trial room, Shoto was called to testify.

For the first time in the entire session, Shoto's eyes left the invisible yellow dot he pictured on the farthest wall. His eyes swept over the room, reading the emotions he saw easily : fear, disgust, pity.

He lingered longer on this face, a cold anger taking over his entire being.

People shuffled as they heard the judge's order. It wasn't supposed to happen.

Shoto rose and swiftly did as asked.

They asked him how he went about his murder spree and he explained thoroughly.

He told them how he'd gathered information about everyone working at the Commission's HQ, what he learned about their security protocols and how he'd worked around the Knox configuration. He said he'd repeatedly messed with their power sources during the last month and especially the week preceding the murders so security would be lulled into complacency. He described with vivid details how he'd killed the first security guard, why he'd chosen to burn to death everyone on the ground floor because he couldn't be bothered running behind a meager fifty people, the route he chose to get upstairs unnoticed, and how he'd cleaned the place room by room, person by person, slash by slash, before the judge interrupted him.

He took off his glasses.

He was clenching his fist, one eye narrowed and the other comically bigger, as though it would pop out.

"Why did you kill them?"

Again not a question that should've been asked, but Shoto's face was cold, gaze dull as he bent towards the mic, looking through everyone as though they weren't there.

"Because I could"

The faces changed; fear, disgust, anger, and he knew that this sentence had finished Shoto.

They'd forget everything he'd been, everything he'd done, and when he would die, nobody would mourn him.

He wished Katsuki was watching.

The sentence was pronounced: lifetime imprisonment, not because they were lenient but because they were afraid that had they pronounced a death sentence, he'd kill them all right there and then.

Whatever his reasons were for complying, he'd let a Hero handcuff him.

If he were playing a game, there was nothing they could do but dance to his tune.

Ten minutes later he was on his way back to the oil-slicked car.

It was eerily quiet.

His feet brushed softly against the ground, lighter than feathers : the staccato of his jailers' footsteps echoed like drums.

Even though he was manacled, surrounded by tens of police officers and the cream of the crop of Heroes, the murderer Shoto Todoroki was too terrifying of a sight.

They walked past a couple of journalists.

One of them let her mic fall next to his shoe.

Shoto stopped. The entire procession stopped. Everyone froze.

Her hands were oily with sweat. She shrunk on herself as he looked at her.

Calmly, Shoto spread his hands apart: the handcuffs shattered with a blood-curdling clac.

The officers' hands rose to their guns.

Icy sweat rolled down the nearest Heroes' necks.

The civilians were petrified, not daring to breathe for fear of attracting the monster's attention.

Everybody was ready for hell to break loose.

Then – slowly, carefully – Shoto bent.

He picked up the fallen mic and, just as slowly, stood up.

He handed it to the petrified journalist.

She didn't react, as still as a deer caught in headlights.

He put it in her half-opened pouch, patted it three times – she trembled.

He spun towards the nearest officer, hands raised.

A moment passed. Two. Three.

The officer flinched.

People were barely starting to react to Shoto's swift gesture, so painfully slow he could've killed half of the civilians here before any of them managed to draw their gun.

"It's broken"

It took him a moment to realize what Shoto meant.

He wiped his sweaty brow with an unstable hand, took out another set of manacles from his back pocket, and clasped them on Shoto's wrists.

He took a step forward and everyone fumbled to catch up to him. Moments later he disappeared behind one-way windows.

If before the efforts of the police and Heroes had been praised in apprehending the murderer, now everyone knew that the only reason Shoto Todoroki had been arrested was because he had allowed it.

There were four platoons of soldiers waiting for him on the island.

Everyone was armed to the teeth, so nervous they could've shot by accident.

They'd expected him to bolt at that point, leave and never come back, tell them he'd just wanted to mess with them before never being seen again.

Shoto paused. The sky was stormy gray.

Raindrops fell on his cheeks, rolled down his jaw.

He'd been soaked since he got to the tribunal.

Everyone was too scared to ask him to start moving again.

Shoto walked forward of his own volition, his chains clanking as he did so.

It took a moment for everybody to fall in line behind him.

They got him down the narrow corridors that led to Tartarus.

This time Shoto got to use the trapdoor with the special staircase.

He did notice that the hole he'd made before had been completely refilled.

The walls shuddered as he walked by, like a giant flower whose petals quivered under the breeze.

A couple of tendrils tried to sneak up on him, yet they shrunk and retracted when his gaze landed on them.

The two guards accompanying him exchanged glances.

There was barely anyone at the lowest level.

A couple of skeletons here and there, half absorbed by mucus walls, rib cage protruding from it as though they were puppets, head lolled, and arms dangling limply.

His cell was peculiar, more so than any other.

It was a mucus den, a hole carved in the ground at the end of a corridor, a whole other level under the other cells.

Blood was still seeping from the hole making the entrance, as though Tartarus had hurt when it'd been carved.

One of the guards brought a scaffold that had been left nearby for this very purpose.

Once inside, both men took Shoto's manacles off, careful not to turn their back on him as they climbed out.

They slid a lid shut on the entrance, effectively sealing him inside Tartarus' bowel.

The lid's interior side had been sprayed with animal blood; tentacles shot from the walls and lapped it, spreading on its surface until it was no different from the other walls.

Shoto leaned against the wall, arms on his raised knees, eyes closed even though it was dark.

An undersized tendril slowly crept up on Shoto's clothes.

It wrapped around his neck, sucking drizzles of his energy.

More tendrils came forward : Shoto's fire-lit finger pushed away some.

The wall hissed in pain then hummed, understanding, and didn't push further, only sucking on what it'd been authorized to.

Something moved behind the walls, its surface rippling like water.

Shoto's eyes snapped open.

On the wall before him, outline bulging under the shiny mucus, was a grotesque imitation of a human face.

Had it been real it would've been a giant's, for both head and chin touched respectively ceiling and ground.

There were two eyes – not even at the same level, not even the same size, lids opening on rosy globs without iris or pupil.

The mouth was open in a grotesque scream, mimicking horror well enough to pass for disturbing but not enough to be believable.

It was emulating the prisoners' agonizing faces, the only thing it knew.

Shoto watched it quietly.

Silence was not as grating here as it'd been in the silent room for here he heard the walls breathe and ripple, veins pumping blood under the skin-like surface. He heard how it ate the prisoner, so slow you wouldn't notice unless you knew what to search for, a colony of ants that nipped you with hundreds of thousands of mandibles.

Hours passed by, night arrived.

Most of the soldiers brought for his arrival had vacated the island.

They may have thought once he'd reached Tartarus he wouldn't want to stay anymore and they'd need to force him down, for Tartarus was their only hope to get rid out of him once and for all.

The giant head was still peering curiously at Shoto.

Slowly, its features morphed.

Hair grew and the face thinned, though the jaw grew squarer.

In moments only a giant replica of his face stood before Shoto.

The doppelganger wore a mask, at first, then it was shed, and Shoto was met with his bare face. He cocked his head to the side.

"You remembered me?"

Slowly, the head in the wall cocked too, though it had no neck.

Something gleamed in Shoto's eyes.

"Sentient," he murmured.

It hadn't been how he'd wanted to go with that one, but his plans had changed.

He'd just need to get out of here quickly enough.

Holding his left palm towards the ceiling, Shoto carved his flesh with his nail.

Blood rolled between his fingers, dripping on the ground. Small holes opened and greedily drank it.

Shoto carved a circle in his flesh, muttering under his breath, adding various unintelligible symbols.

The wall watched him quietly, the head even rising as though it was craning its non-existent neck to follow his gestures.

Shoto's eyes glowed red as he held the carved palm towards the giant head.

"Shinra Tensei"