The difference between preparation and practice was intention.
Dave understood this as he stood in the center of his room, three objects held loosely in his hands: a dense stress ball, a paperback novel, and his pencil case. The morning light cut a sharp line across the floor. His body was warm, his breathing even.
Hive was quiet, but present—not as a separate voice, but as the underlying architecture of his awareness.
He began to walk a precise, rectangular path along the edges of his rug. At the same time, he tossed the stress ball in a low arc from his right hand to his left. Simple.
Then he added the novel, its pages fluttering, its weight uneven. The pencil case followed, a clumsy rectangular shape.
His hands moved independently, but the focus was not on his hands. It was on the space between them.
Hive partitioned his perception. One stream tracked the parabolic decay of each throw, factoring in mass, drag, and the slight tremor of air from the open window. Another managed his footfalls, adjusting pressure to maintain absolute silence on the creaky floorboard near his desk. A third monitored his core balance, countering the shifting weight.
It was a live physics simulation, fed by the principles he'd internalized from his textbooks. Force equals mass times acceleration. Conservation of angular momentum.
The novel wobbled in mid-air, its spin erratic because of its flexible spine. A normal juggler would miss the catch, fumble.
Dave didn't move his hand. He focused a thread of intent—a calm, distributed command. A subtle, telekinetic nudge, not against the book's path, but against the spin. A correction measured in gram-centimeters.
The book stabilized. His left hand caught it cleanly. The stress ball and pencil case landed in alternating hands with soft, simultaneous thumps.
He stopped walking. The system had performed within calculated parameters.
It was no longer an exercise. It was a calibrated fact.
"You're chewing slower."
Dave looked up from his breakfast. Kenji was watching him over the top of his tablet, a faint smile on his face.
"Am I?" Dave asked, swallowing his rice.
"Yeah. Deliberate. Like you're… cataloging the texture." Kenji put the tablet down. "New project?"
"Refinement," Dave corrected gently. He took another bite, this time consciously letting Hive analyze the motion. Jaw tension, tongue movement, salivary response. It was data. "Optimal digestion begins with mechanical breakdown in the mouth. Most people rush it."
Aiko chuckled from the sink. "Spoken like a medical textbook. Or your father with a network router." She turned, drying her hands. "But he's right. You've been very… precise lately."
"Is it unsettling?" Dave asked, meeting her eyes. It was an honest question.
Aiko considered him, her head tilted. Her Quirk, Regeneration Matrix, was a gentle, biological optimization. She understood systems that worked quietly.
"No," she said finally, her voice warm. "It's focused. I see you thinking. It's different from when you were just quiet. Now the quiet has… direction." She walked over and ruffled his hair, breaking the analytical moment with a gesture of pure affection. "Just don't forget to taste the food, too."
"The flavor profile is pleasant," Dave said, a very slight, deliberate joke in his tone. "Sweet and salty are balanced."
Kenji snorted a laugh. "See? Textbook."
The morning continued, wrapped in that familiar, steady warmth. Dave left for school, his bag perfectly balanced, his posture aligned for efficient motion. He was a system in stable operation, departing one supportive environment for another, more complex one.
Middle school hallways had a different social algorithm. The clusters of students were more defined, their bonds reinforced by shared classes and nascent ambitions. The noise was less chaotic, more stratified.
Dave moved through the currents, Hive passively mapping the social topology. Bakugo's group was a loud, dense node of energy near the lockers, repelling and attracting attention in equal measure. His voice was a sharp ping in the audio landscape.
Izuku was a solitary point, moving along the edges. But his vector had changed. There was less cowering, more a kind of desperate, funneled intensity. He clutched a notebook to his chest, but it wasn't the hero-analysis book from elementary school. The cover read Structural Analysis & Urban Dynamics.
As Dave passed, their shoulders nearly brushed. A loose page, covered in dense sketches of building cross-sections and force-distribution arrows, fluttered from Izuku's grip.
Dave's hand shot out, not with enhanced speed, but with perfect predictive placement. He caught the paper before it touched the ground.
"Ah! Sorry, thank you so much, I didn't mean to—" Izuku began, his automatic apology software booting up.
Dave's eyes scanned the page. It wasn't fanart. It was engineering. A detailed sketch of a collapsed freeway overpass, with arrows noting probable stress failure points and tiny, neat script listing rescue priorities: "Civilian density highest in central bays… fire hazard from ruptured fuel lines takes precedence over direct debris lift…"
Izuku froze, his apology dying in his throat. He was being observed, and not in the usual derisive way. Dave's gaze was analytical, like a professor reviewing a thesis.
"You're factoring in material fatigue coefficients," Dave stated, his voice calm. He pointed to a small notation near a steel beam. "Most disaster models just assume failure at the impact point. You're calculating secondary collapse probability from repeated stress. That's advanced."
Izuku's mouth opened, then closed. The noise of the hallway seemed to fade. "Y-you… understand it?"
"It's a logical extension of Newtonian mechanics and material science," Dave said, handing the page back. "You're modeling the system, not just the event. It's efficient."
For a moment, Izuku just stared. This wasn't praise for a hero fanboy. This was peer recognition of a methodology. His eyes, wide behind his lenses, held a spark that wasn't admiration, but something closer to stunned solidarity.
"I… I have to," Izuku finally whispered, his voice firming. "If I want to help, I have to see what everyone else misses. All of it."
Dave nodded. A simple, acknowledging dip of the chin. "Continue, then. The model is robust."
He walked away, leaving Izuku standing in the stream of students, clutching his page like a lifeline. The interaction wasn't a friendship forged in emotion, but a protocol handshake between two systems that had unexpectedly found a compatible frequency.
The afternoon lesson was English. Dave sat by the window, his posture perfect for minimal fatigue over a 50-minute interval. His mind, however, was not on irregular verbs.
A portion of his focus—a dedicated Hive module—was replaying the morning's juggling drill, tweaking the telekinetic impulse parameters. Another was mentally reviewing a chapter on neuroscientific plasticity.
His primary attention was on the teacher, Mr. Saito. But he wasn't listening to the content. He was analyzing the structure. Mr. Saito's lesson plans followed a clear pattern: review, new concept, example, participatory exercise, summary. It was a reliable, five-step algorithm. When a student disrupted the flow with a question, Mr. Saito had a 70% probability of integrating it at the 'example' stage.
Social engineering, Dave thought. Predictable patterns create a sense of control and facilitate group learning.
His pencil, held loosely in his right hand, began to roll over his knuckles. Not a fidget, but a calibrated dexterity exercise. On the fourth rotation, he let it slip, a controlled "error."
Hive did not intervene.
The pencil began to fall.
Before conscious thought, a different module, primed by the morning's work, applied a minute kinetic force to the pencil's mid-point, altering its axis of rotation. It completed a neat, extra half-spin and landed back in the cradle of his fingers, tip pointing forward as if planned.
The boy next to him, Yuto, glanced over. "Whoa. Lucky catch."
Dave met his eyes. "Probability was on my side."
Yuto blinked, then grinned. "Weirdo." It wasn't mean. It was amused. Dave had successfully executed a minor, socially acceptable demonstration of unusual coordination. It registered as a quirk of personality, not power. The system accepted it.
After school, Dave found Kenji in the living room, staring at his laptop with the grim expression of a man battling an invisible foe.
"Packet loss?" Dave asked, setting his bag down neatly.
"Chronic. Intermittent. It's mocking me," Kenji grumbled, his Systemic Feedback quirk undoubtedly itching at the inefficiency. "The diagnostics show clear, but the latency spikes every ninety seconds like clockwork."
Dave sat beside him. He didn't touch the computer. He observed. He let a sliver of Hive's processing, modeled in part on his father's analytical quirk, interface with the problem.
"It's a cascade, not a single fault," Dave said after a moment. "The router is fine. The modem is fine. The issue is in the negotiation protocol between them. Each device's attempt to optimize creates a recursive loop. A classic feedback failure."
Kenji stared at his son. "You got that from… what, the blinking lights?"
"From the pattern of the problem. Ninety-second cycles suggest automated system handshakes failing." Dave pointed to the router log on the screen. "See these minor time-out errors here, and here? They're not causing the lag; they're symptoms of the repeated renegotiation."
A slow smile spread across Kenji's face. It was the smile of a craftsman seeing an apprentice grasp a fundamental truth. "You didn't just find the bug. You described the environment that created it." He clapped Dave on the shoulder. "Help me reset the negotiation tables?"
They worked in comfortable silence for ten minutes, Kenji inputting commands, Dave calling out timing and sequences based on his predictive model of the system's reset behavior. The lag vanished.
Later, Aiko returned, massaging her wrist. She'd had a long day of minor healing at the clinic—a stream of scraped knees and minor burns that, while small, required constant, focused attention.
Dave watched the slight favoring of her left hand. Hive, informed by his understanding of her Regeneration Matrix, extrapolated the likely muscle group fatigue.
Without a word, he fetched the therapeutic gel pack from the freezer, warmed it in his hands for precisely forty-three seconds (optimal temperature to avoid thermal shock but promote vasodilation), and wrapped it in a thin towel.
"Here," he said, guiding her to the couch. "Lateral flexor strain. The pack should be applied at a fifteen-degree angle to the wrist, not flat. It mimics the enhanced blood flow pattern of your quirk, supporting the natural process."
Aiko let him position the pack, her eyes soft. "You… calculated the angle?"
"I observed the axis of your discomfort and correlated it with the common stress points for pediatric fine-motor assistance," he said, his tone factual. Then he looked up, and the clinical precision melted into something softer. "Does it help?"
She placed her free hand over his. "It helps perfectly."
That night, after homework, Dave sat at his desk. His UA analysis document was open. It was no longer a dream board. It was a strategic dossier.
Parameter A: Combat Performance. *Sub-variables: Strength (calibrated), Speed (efficient, not peak), Reflex (enhanced), Tactical Adaptation (Hive primary function). Current rating: 71% of estimated UA entrance threshold.*
Parameter B: Rescue Aptitude. *Sub-variables: Structural Analysis (see Izuku's models, integrate), Medical Triage (from Mother's work), Calm Under Duct (system stability), Resource Optimization. Current rating: 68%.*
Parameter C: Intellectual/Social. *Academic score (100%+), Systemic Thinking (primary strength), Social Camouflage (effective), Leadership (untested).*
He wasn't daunted by the percentages. They were targets. Variables to be adjusted. The path was clear: intensify physical calibration, begin practical rescue scenario simulations, and…
A soft chime in his mind—a Hive notification. It was a probability alert, based on cross-referencing local news feeds and traffic patterns. *High probability (82%) of minor civilian hazard on route to store. Temporal window: 18:45-19:15.*
He had planned to go to the convenience store for Aiko. The system had identified a potential test environment.
The evening was cool. Dave walked the familiar route, a reusable bag in hand. Hive was in a state of low-grade readiness, like a background security program.
He saw the hazard unfold not as a drama, but as a fluid mechanics problem.
A small terrier, off-leash, shot from an open gate after a bright blue ball that bounced into the street. A compact car was approaching at posted speed. The driver's attention was divided, a phone faintly glowing on the dashboard.
Variables:
Canine mass: ~8 kg.
Velocity vector: Erratic, but primary direction is toward ball trajectory.
Automotive mass: ~1200 kg.
Velocity: Constant, 40 kph.
Time to intercept: 2.3 seconds.
Human reaction lag (driver): Estimated 1.5 seconds.
Braking distance insufficient.
Options:
Shout. High probability of startling dog, increasing vector unpredictability. Inefficient.
Physically intercept. High personal risk, moderate success probability. Social attention maximum. Undesirable.
Redirect the attractor. Modify the ball's path. Lowest energy, lowest visibility, high success probability if precision is sufficient.
Decision: Option 3.
The ball bounced once on the asphalt. As it reached the apex of its second, lower bounce, Dave focused. It wasn't about grabbing it. It was about applying a gentle, lateral impulse at the precise moment.
A thread of telekinetic force, refined over weeks of calibration, touched the ball. Not a shove, but a skillful tap on its north-eastern hemisphere.
The ball's trajectory curved subtly, veering ten degrees back toward the sidewalk.
The dog's head turned, its body following the new path in a frantic, joyful arc. It scrambled back onto the curb, pouncing on the ball as the car whooshed past, the driver finally looking up, oblivious to the averted micro-disaster.
Dave continued walking. His heart rate had increased by 12%. Adrenaline was present. Hive logged it, categorized it, and began dampening the response.
The dog's owner, a flustered woman, ran out, scooping up the terrier. "Bad boy! You scared me!"
She didn't look at Dave. He was just a boy walking past.
He reached the store, bought the items, and started home. The evening was quiet.
Event Logged, Hive reported in his mind. Unplanned real-world test. Objective: Civilian preservation. Method: Indirect environmental manipulation via applied telekinesis. Result: Success. Casualty count: Zero. Social exposure: Zero. Data acquired: Confirmation of field efficacy under low-stress conditions.
Dave looked up at the darkening sky. A feeling, warm and solid, settled in his chest. It wasn't the fiery thrill of heroism he saw on TV. It was the profound satisfaction of a complex system functioning as designed.
He had not used great power. He had applied precise understanding.
He had not become a hero. He had successfully solved a real-world problem.
It was, he thought, an excellent start.