The theory had been absorbed. The diagnostics were run. Now, it was time to build.
Dave sat at his desk, the engineering software from Mrs. Shirogane's drive open on his screen. It wasn't a game; it was a professional simulation suite, all stark lines, stress diagrams, and material property tables. On one side of the screen, he had the blueprints for a common, pre-Quirk era apartment building—the kind that still made up most of his neighborhood. On the other, Hive ran a live model, applying simulated stress vectors: a villain's shockwave here, a fire-induced structural weakening there.
He wasn't playing hero. He was learning how buildings fell.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, spinning a pencil between his fingers. "Primary load-bearing wall compromised. Support fails here... then here. Debris cascade follows this path. Highest probability of civilian entrapment... in these rooms."
Hive highlighted the zones on the blueprint: the bathrooms and under reinforced tables. The 'triangle of life' theory, quantified. It was grim, practical knowledge. He saved the simulation parameters. This was just the first one. He needed a library of failures.
The transition from screen to reality happened in a forgotten corner of a municipal park, where a retired concrete jungle gym, slated for removal, sat like a decaying skeleton. To the city, it was trash. To Dave, with his new models, it was a perfect, non-living training dummy.
He stood before it, a backpack at his feet containing a few simple items: a compact hydraulic jack from Kenji's old toolkit (borrowed with permission), several lengths of high-tensile strapping, and a first-aid kit. No costume. No grand statements.
"Drill parameters," he said softly, his breath fogging in the cool morning air. "Simulation: Partial collapse of light commercial structure. Two casualties pinned in void space. Mission: Stabilize structure, assess casualties, prepare for extraction. Constraints: No superhuman strength application. Prioritize structural integrity over speed."
Hive acknowledged, shifting into a state of focused readiness. It wasn't about boosting him; it was about becoming a perfect real-time consultant.
He approached the jungle gym. One of its main horizontal beams had rusted through at a joint, sagging to create a low, unstable cavity beneath it—his 'entrapment zone'. He placed two weighted sacks from his bag inside to represent casualties.
Step One: Scene Safety. Hive overlaid his vision with a ghostly grid, analyzing angles and load points. The sagging beam was supported poorly by a bent vertical post. Applying force directly to lift it could cause a total buckle.
"Right. Can't lift the problem. Have to support the system," he thought. He unpacked the jack. Not to lift the main beam, but to carefully straighten the bent vertical post, redistributing the weight along its original path. He worked slowly, making micro-adjustments, listening to the groan of metal. The jack creaked. The post shifted a centimeter, then two. The sag in the main beam lessened slightly. Stability increased from 42% to 65%.
Step Two: Void Access. The opening was still too small for a safe 'extraction'. He needed to create a safe passage without destabilizing his new support. He used the strapping, lashing the wobbly beam to a still-secure anchor point on the jungle gym's frame, creating a secondary load path. It was engineering with ratchet straps.
Step Three: Casualty Assessment. He crouched, peering into the dim space. Hive, referencing the first-aid manuals he'd digested, prompted a checklist. "Simulated Casualty A: No visible crush injury. Airway clear. Casualty B: Limb under light debris. Circulation check." He mimed checking pulses, clearing airways, calling out reassuring, calm phrases. "Hold on. The structure is stable. Help is coming."
The entire process took twenty-three minutes. He was sweating, his hands smudged with rust and dirt. No explosions, no flashy powers. Just leverage, geometry, and calm systematic action.
He stood back, reviewing the stabilized, safer 'collapse'. Hive provided a summary. Drill complete. Structural integrity improved by 58%. Extraction pathway created. Simulated survival probability increased from 31% to 89%.
A quiet, solid satisfaction settled in his chest. This was a different kind of strength. It was the strength of a keystone, holding weight not by being unbreakable, but by being perfectly placed.
Later that week, Dave found Izuku in the library, but not studying structures. He was deeply engrossed in his hero notebook, sketching what looked like an elaborate sequence of a pro-hero's movement - Gunhead, if Dave remembered the distinctive style correctly. Izuku's tongue poked out in concentration as he tried to capture the fluid martial arts transitions.
Dave slid into a nearby chair with his own book - a dense volume on material science. After a few minutes, Izuku let out a frustrated sigh, erasing a portion of his sketch vigorously.
"Joint mechanics not cooperating?" Dave asked mildly, not looking up from his book.
Izuku jumped slightly. "Oh! Dave. Yeah, I'm trying to diagram Gunhead's close-quarters tactics, but the way he transitions from a wrist lock to a throw... the physics don't seem to add up unless he's applying rotational force mid-pivot that shouldn't be possible given his stance."
Dave marked his page and looked over. Izuku's sketch was impressively detailed, with force arrows and movement vectors. "You're analyzing the kinetic transfer."
"I... try to," Izuku said, deflating a little. "But sometimes I hit these walls where what I'm seeing doesn't match what should be physically possible, even with quirks. It's frustrating."
Dave considered for a moment. "You're starting from the wrong foundation."
Izuku blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You're trying to understand advanced combat by analyzing the flashy end result," Dave said, his tone casual, like he was discussing the weather. "That's like trying to learn calculus before you understand algebra. Before you can understand how a hero moves through a collapsing building, you need to understand how the building collapses. Before you analyze a throw, you need to understand leverage, center of mass, and structural weaknesses in the human body."
He slid his material science book over, open to a chapter on stress distribution. "The principles are the same whether it's steel or bone. A building collapses along predictable failure lines when overloaded. A person falls or gets thrown along predictable vectors when their structure is compromised."
Izuku stared at the diagrams, then at his own sketch, then back at Dave. "You're saying... I should study engineering? To understand heroes?"
"I'm saying the foundation matters," Dave shrugged. "Heroes operate in a physical world. Understanding that world - really understanding it - gives you a better lens to view what they do. Why they succeed. Why sometimes, they fail."
He could see the gears turning in Izuku's head, a new perspective slotting into place. Not replacing his hero analysis, but underpinning it. "Do you... have any books you'd recommend?" Izuku asked hesitantly.
"Start with basic physics and biomechanics," Dave said. "The library's got decent introductory texts. It's less glamorous than hero journals, but it's solid ground to build on."
Izuku nodded slowly, a determined light entering his eyes. He didn't thank Dave, but the intense focus with which he began gathering introductory physics texts from nearby shelves was gratitude enough.
That Saturday, Dave was in the backyard with a new kind of drill. The duffel bag swung from its pulley, but today's exercise was different. He'd been experimenting with his telekinesis, and something unexpected had emerged.
Initially, he'd assumed his ability to nudge objects was simply an extreme extension of Hive's motor control - a hyper-precise manipulation of his own bio-electric field to interact with the environment at the quantum level. But recent tests suggested something more.
As the bag swung toward him, Dave didn't just nudge it. He focused, and the bag slowed against its momentum, as if pressing against an invisible cushion of air. Not much - maybe a 10% reduction in speed - but measurable and repeatable.
Telekinetic interaction analysis suggests field projection capability, Hive reported during a post-drill review that evening. Not mere manipulation of existing kinetic energy. Actual force generation at a distance. Hypothesis: Hive modules are coordinating to generate a coordinated bio-electric field that interacts with ambient electromagnetic forces, creating micro-force vectors.
Dave sat back, surprised. He'd thought of his ability as "telekinesis" for convenience, but he'd assumed it was essentially very fine physical manipulation - like having invisible, super-precise hands. This was different. This was generating force fields.
"Can we quantify maximum output?" he asked mentally.
*Testing indicates output scales with focus and module coordination. Current maximum sustained force: approximately 2.3 newtons at one meter distance - enough to lift 230 grams against Earth's gravity. Peak impulse force higher but unsustainable: approximately 12 newtons for 0.1 seconds.*
Dave did the math. 12 newtons was enough to give a decent shove - maybe knock a phone out of someone's hand or deflect a slow-moving object. Not combat-ready, but not nothing either.
"Show me the physiological cost," he requested.
Hive displayed data. Significant neural load during sustained use. Comparable to intense concentration or complex physical coordination. Fatigue accumulates rapidly. Recovery period required between extended sessions.
So there were limits. Hard limits, not just skill limits. But limits could be trained, expanded.
Over the next few days, Dave began systematic testing. He started with simple exercises: lifting various household objects of known weight. A pencil (5 grams) was trivial. A book (800 grams) required serious focus. A dumbbell (2 kg) was his current absolute limit, and lifting it made his nose bleed after 30 seconds.
He discovered the force was directional - he could push or pull along a vector from himself to the target. He could apply it to specific parts of objects - useful for precise adjustments. But he couldn't, for example, create a spherical shield around himself. The force emanated from him directionally.
The most promising discovery came during a park drill. A kid's ball was rolling toward the street. Instead of nudging it physically, Dave focused and gave it a telekinetic "tap" from three meters away. The ball changed direction, rolling safely back toward the grass.
The parent chasing it didn't see anything unusual - just a lucky bounce. But Dave felt the familiar neural strain, like he'd just solved a complex math problem in his head while jogging.
That night, he theorized with Hive. "If this is bio-electric field interaction, could we enhance it? Not just through practice, but through... I don't know, hardware?"
Hypothesis: Field strength may be increased through improved neural efficiency, targeted muscle conditioning (particularly core and neck musculature involved in bio-field generation in observed telekinetic quirks), or external electromagnetic amplification. Latter requires technology beyond current access.
"So we can train it. Like a muscle."
Affirmative. But with neural components. Dual-path training regimen recommended: physical conditioning for hypothesized bio-field musculature, and cognitive exercises for field projection precision.
Dave started the next day. He integrated telekinesis drills into his routine - not just fine control, but strength exercises. Trying to lift slightly heavier objects each time. Trying to maintain the lift for longer. Trying to apply sharper impulse forces.
It was slow. It was hard. And the day he managed to telekinetically "catch" a falling glass bowl that had slipped from the kitchen counter - stopping it six inches from shattering on the floor, holding it suspended for three full seconds before gently lowering it - he knew it was real. Not just a parlor trick. A genuine, trainable ability.
Aiko, who had been cooking, turned at the sound and saw the bowl settle gently on the floor. She looked at it, then at Dave who was rubbing his temples, a headache blooming behind his eyes from the effort.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," Dave said, picking up the bowl normally and placing it in the sink. "Just... caught it."
She smiled, that knowing, gentle smile. "You've got good reflexes."
If she suspected more, she didn't say. Dave was grateful. Some things needed to be understood alone first, before they could be shared.
That night, Dave updated his UA dossier with new entries:
Quirk Evolution Notes:
- Telekinetic ability confirmed as true force generation, not mere manipulation.
*- Current capacity: 2.3N sustained, 12N impulse.*
- Training regimen established: neural + physical conditioning.
- Practical applications: fine object control, minor force projection, emergency interventions.
- Combat potential: Limited but trainable. Defensive applications promising (deflecting projectiles, disrupting attacks).
Rescue Foundation:
- Structural analysis drills complete.
- Non-powered stabilization protocols established.
- Integration of telekinesis for micro-adjustments in progress.
He wasn't just building knowledge or skills anymore. He was reverse-engineering his own power, treating it like a system to be understood, optimized, and mastered. The path forward was clear: methodical, scientific, and relentless in its calm precision.
And for the first time, he felt not just prepared, but genuinely capable. Not of flashy heroics, but of real, measurable impact. The kind that happened quietly, in the spaces between disaster and salvation, where understanding mattered more than spectacle.