While Midoriya was with Stark, Todoroki had settled into the common area with the historical materials Romanoff had provided. The tablet contained an extensive overview of this world's major events, cultural developments, and current geopolitical landscape—information he absorbed with his characteristic focus and efficiency.
He was so engrossed in reading about something called the "Cold War" that he didn't immediately notice Steve Rogers entering the room, fresh from what appeared to be his own training session.
"Interesting reading?" Rogers asked, breaking Todoroki's concentration.
Todoroki looked up, nodding politely. "Very. Your world developed differently without quirks, but many underlying patterns remain similar."
Rogers smiled slightly, grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator before joining him in the seating area. "History does tend to rhyme, if not repeat exactly. Any particular era catching your interest?"
"The Cold War," Todoroki replied honestly. "The concept of superpowers in balance, using proxy conflicts rather than direct confrontation. It's... familiar."
Something in his tone must have communicated more than he intended, because Rogers studied him with sudden perceptiveness.
"Familiar how?" he asked carefully.
Todoroki hesitated, unaccustomed to discussing personal matters with relative strangers. Yet something about Rogers invited confidence—perhaps his straightforward manner or the genuine concern in his expression.
"In my world," Todoroki finally explained, "there was a similar dynamic between top heroes. Competitive rather than cooperative, using others as proxies in their rivalry." He paused, then added quietly, "My father was... is... one of them."
Rogers nodded, neither pushing for more details nor dismissing the comparison. "Difficult position to be in," he observed simply. "Being caught between powers beyond your control."
The understanding in his voice suggested personal experience rather than mere sympathy. Todoroki found himself curious despite his usual reticence.
"You speak from experience," he noted.
Rogers smiled ruefully. "I was a soldier first, created as part of my country's efforts in a global war. Then I woke up to find the world had moved on to a different kind of conflict entirely. Powers in balance, using others as game pieces—I've seen the pattern from multiple angles."
The shared understanding created an unexpected connection. Todoroki found himself relaxing slightly, his customary guardedness easing in the presence of someone who seemed to genuinely comprehend complex loyalty without demanding explanations.
"Does it get easier?" he asked after a moment, the question emerging before he could reconsider it. "Being pulled in different directions by competing powers?"
Rogers considered this with appropriate seriousness. "Not easier, exactly. But clearer, over time. You learn to distinguish between others' agendas and your own values—what you're fighting for versus what someone else wants you to fight for."
The distinction resonated deeply with Todoroki, echoing his own ongoing journey to separate his father's ambitions from his personal hero identity.
"In our world," he said slowly, "I'm still figuring that out. What parts of my power—my quirk—belong to me versus my heritage."
Rogers nodded understanding. "The dual nature of your abilities. Ice and fire, right?"
"My mother's side and my father's," Todoroki confirmed, unconsciously touching the scar that marked the left side of his face. "For a long time, I refused to use my fire in combat. To reject his influence."
"And now?" Rogers asked, his tone indicating genuine interest rather than mere politeness.
"Now... I'm learning that rejecting part of myself doesn't hurt him, only me," Todoroki answered, surprising himself with his candor. "That my power is my own, regardless of its origin."
Rogers smiled, the expression warming his usually serious features. "Wise realization for someone your age. Took me considerably longer to learn similar lessons."
Todoroki felt an unfamiliar warmth at the simple praise—so different from his father's demanding expectations or even Aizawa's measured assessments. There was a straightforward sincerity to Rogers that made his approval feel genuine rather than calculated.
"Thank you," he replied quietly. "I'm still working on it."
"Aren't we all," Rogers chuckled, the sound surprisingly youthful from the otherwise old-fashioned man. "The day you figure everything out is the day you stop growing."
They lapsed into comfortable silence, Todoroki returning to his reading while Rogers retrieved a sketchbook from a nearby shelf. For several peaceful minutes, the only sounds were the turning of digital pages and the soft scratch of pencil on paper.
"May I ask you something?" Todoroki finally inquired, curiosity overcoming his usual restraint.
Rogers looked up from his drawing with an open expression. "Of course."
"How did you adapt? When you woke up decades in the future, how did you find your place?"
The question clearly struck a chord. Rogers set down his pencil, considering his response carefully.
"One day at a time," he answered honestly. "By accepting that while I couldn't change what had happened, I could choose what to do next. By finding new purpose, new connections." He paused, then added with gentle emphasis, "And by recognizing that carrying my past with me doesn't mean being defined by it."
The wisdom in those words settled deeply into Todoroki's consciousness, resonating with his own ongoing struggle to honor his mother's legacy while moving beyond the trauma of his childhood.
"That's... helpful to hear."
Rogers seemed to understand the significance behind the understated gratitude. He nodded once, then returned to his sketch—which Todoroki now realized was a surprisingly skilled rendering of the New York skyline, damaged but enduring after the recent battle.
The parallel wasn't lost on him. Damaged but enduring—an apt description for both this city and the people within it, himself included.
*********
Meanwhile, Bakugo had grown restless after merely thirty minutes of reviewing historical documents. His mind, always demanding action, rebelled against the passive absorption of information. After Todoroki had departed for the common area and Midoriya had been summoned to Stark's lab, Bakugo found himself wandering the tower, eventually making his way back to the training facility.
To his surprise, he found it already occupied. Natasha Romanoff was engaged in what appeared to be a complex training sequence, moving through combat forms with fluid precision that immediately captured his professional interest.
He stood silently in the doorway, observing her technique with analytical focus. Unlike All Might's power-based approach or Aizawa's calculated efficiency, Romanoff's fighting style was adaptable and unpredictable—a constantly shifting blend of multiple disciplines that would make her movements nearly impossible to anticipate in actual combat.
"Are you going to keep lurking in the doorway, or would you like to join me?" Romanoff called out without breaking her rhythm or even looking in his direction.
Bakugo scowled, annoyed at being detected but not particularly surprised. "Wasn't lurking. Just seeing if the space was free."
"It's not," she replied simply, completing her sequence before turning to face him directly. "But I'm happy to share it. Might be more productive than you destroying another set of punching bags."
The reference to his earlier solo training session—during which he had indeed demolished two reinforced punching bags with precisely controlled explosions—made his scowl deepen.
"Those were defective," he muttered defensively. "Poorly constructed."
"Of course," Romanoff agreed with such perfect seriousness that Bakugo couldn't tell if she was mocking him or not. "Still, living opponents tend to be more durable. And educational."
The implied invitation hung in the air between them. Bakugo hesitated, pride warring with practical consideration. She was offering to spar—to test his combat skills against hers. The opportunity to learn from a professional with an entirely different fighting style was objectively valuable, regardless of his personal feelings about being instructed.
"Fine," he finally conceded with poor grace. "But don't hold back because I'm younger."
Something dangerous flickered in Romanoff's eyes—not anger, but a predatory focus that reminded Bakugo that beneath her controlled exterior was a trained operative who had faced threats he could barely imagine.
"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied coolly, moving to the center of the mat. "Though I suggest we establish some ground rules. No quirks, no weapons—hand-to-hand only. This is about technique, not power."
Bakugo opened his mouth to object, then closed it again, reconsidering. His instinct was to reject any limitation on his abilities, but the strategic part of his mind recognized the value in what she was proposing. Without his explosions, he would be forced to rely on pure combat skill—an area where he was confident but not exceptional.
"Fine," he agreed again, moving to face her on the mat. "Hand-to-hand only."
"Three-point contact system," Romanoff continued, settling into a neutral stance. "First to land three solid hits wins the round."
Bakugo nodded, dropping into his own fighting stance—the foundation he'd learned at U.A., adapted through practical experience. He noted with irritation that Romanoff showed no outward reaction to his positioning, neither impressed nor concerned.
"Begin whenever you're ready," she invited, her posture deceptively relaxed.
Pride and impatience propelled Bakugo forward immediately, launching a direct attack with a speed and precision that would have overwhelmed most of his classmates. His right fist shot toward Romanoff's midsection with controlled power, his stance balanced to follow with a secondary strike.
He never connected. With a fluid motion that seemed to require minimal effort, Romanoff redirected his momentum, stepping aside at the last possible moment. Before Bakugo could recover, he felt a light tap on his lower back—her first point, delivered with such controlled precision that it registered as instruction rather than domination.
"Telegraphing your attacks," she commented mildly, already reset to neutral position. "Again."
Frustration flared hot in Bakugo's chest, but with it came a grudging recognition of skill. He reset his stance, more cautious now, circling slowly as he reassessed his opponent.
This time he feinted first, a move Aizawa had drilled into them during counterstrike training. Romanoff didn't bite, her expression remaining impassive as she tracked his movement without overcommitting.
Bakugo launched a more complex combination, using his right as a distraction while his left aimed for her exposed side. For a brief moment, he thought he had her—until she dropped lower than should have been physically possible, sweeping his supporting leg in a move he hadn't anticipated.
He caught himself before falling completely, turning the momentum into a controlled roll that created distance between them. Impressive recovery, but not before she had landed another light tap, this time on his shoulder.
"Two-zero," she stated neutrally, though Bakugo thought he detected a hint of approval in her tone. "Your recovery instincts are good."
Bakugo rose, frustration warring with a grudging respect. In a real fight, with his quirk, the dynamic would be entirely different—but he couldn't deny her pure skill was beyond anything he'd encountered at U.A.
"Again," he demanded, resetting his stance with renewed focus.
This time he was purely defensive, waiting for her to make the first move. Romanoff obliged, coming at him with a straightforward attack that he immediately recognized as a test. He blocked correctly, countering with a strike that she easily evaded, but maintaining his defensive posture rather than overextending.
For nearly thirty seconds, they exchanged probing attacks and counters, neither landing a solid hit. Bakugo felt his frustration giving way to a different sensation—the focused intensity of a true challenge. Without his quirk to rely on, he was forced to think differently, to assess and adapt in ways his usual overwhelming offensive approach didn't require.
Then Romanoff changed tactics, her movements suddenly incorporating a fighting style he didn't recognize—more fluid and unpredictable than before. He blocked the first two strikes but missed the third entirely, her knuckles tapping lightly against his ribcage.
"Three-zero," she announced, stepping back. "Round one to me."
Bakugo scowled, but there was more calculation than anger in the expression now. "What was that last style? I didn't recognize it."
"Systema," she answered, seeming pleased by the question. "Russian martial art. Focuses on controlling tension and movement through breathing."
Bakugo nodded, filing the information away. "Again," he requested, the word less demanding and more focused than before.
Romanoff smiled slightly. "Best of three?"
For the next hour, they continued training—Romanoff winning consistently but by narrowing margins as Bakugo rapidly adapted to her techniques. By the fifth round, he had managed to score his first point against her, the achievement more satisfying than he would have expected from such a minor victory.
"Not bad," she acknowledged after their final round, which she'd won by a single point. "You learn quickly."
Coming from her, Bakugo recognized this as significant praise. He nodded curtly, accepting a towel she tossed his way. "Your style is... different from what they teach us."
"I imagine so," she agreed, stretching casually. "I wasn't trained in a hero academy. My methods were developed for survival and mission success, not public safety or showmanship."
The distinction struck Bakugo as important somehow. "In our world, heroes have to consider their public image. Fighting style, costume design, even the names of our special moves—everything is part of establishing a recognizable brand."
Romanoff raised an eyebrow, seeming genuinely intrigued by this insight. "Professional heroes as entertainment celebrities. Interesting system."
"It's not just entertainment," Bakugo corrected sharply, defensive of his chosen profession despite his own misgivings about certain aspects of hero culture. "Public trust is essential for heroes to operate effectively. People need to feel safe, to believe someone will come when trouble starts."
"Valid point," Romanoff acknowledged. "Though there's something to be said for operating in the shadows sometimes. Less pressure, more freedom to do what's necessary."
Bakugo considered this perspective, so different from the hero ideology he'd been raised with. In his world, underground heroes like Aizawa were the exception rather than the norm—respected within the industry but largely unknown to the public they protected.
"Maybe," he conceded reluctantly. "But I'm going to be the number one hero someday. Can't do that from the shadows."
Instead of dismissing his ambition as childish, as many adults might have, Romanoff simply nodded. "Admirable goal. Requires both exceptional ability and public recognition."
"I have the ability," Bakugo stated with his characteristic confidence. "The recognition will come."
"Confidence is good," she replied, her tone shifting slightly to something more instructive. "But remember—the most dangerous opponents are often those nobody sees coming. Sometimes being underestimated is a tactical advantage."
The advice, delivered without condescension, gave Bakugo pause. Throughout his life, he'd always pushed to be acknowledged, to have his abilities recognized and respected. The idea of strategically allowing himself to be underestimated ran counter to his instincts, yet he couldn't deny the tactical wisdom.
"I'll consider it," he finally responded, surprising himself with the concession.
Romanoff smiled slightly. "That's all I ask." She glanced at the time display on the wall. "We should head up soon. Team dinner tonight—Rogers is insistent on building 'cohesion through shared meals' or something equally earnest."
The mild mockery held no real bite, Bakugo noted. Despite her deadpan delivery, there was underlying affection in how she referenced Rogers' old-fashioned team-building efforts.
"Fine," he agreed, gathering his things. "But tomorrow I want to incorporate quirk usage into training. Hand-to-hand is useful, but my fighting style depends on explosive maneuverability."
"Fair enough," Romanoff nodded. "I've been curious to see how you integrate those explosions into close-quarters combat anyway."
As they headed for the elevator, Bakugo found himself unexpectedly comfortable in the assassin's company. Unlike most adults, she didn't talk down to him or attempt to soften her approach because of his age. She treated him as a serious combatant with skills worth developing—an approach he found far more respectful than coddling.
It was, he realized with some surprise, the first time since arriving in this dimension that he'd felt genuinely at ease.