Chapter 12: Calculations, Calamity, and a Cafeteria Catastrophe
The failure of Present Mic's unsubtle approach led Nezu to authorize the next test, one that required precision over power. The agent for this phase was the math teacher and Pro Hero, Ectoplasm. His philosophy was that every problem, even one as baffling as Saitama, could be broken down and understood through logic, patterns, and data. He dismissed Mic's test as crude. His own would be a thing of beauty: a complex, multi-vector event designed to overwhelm a target's spatial and predictive faculties.
His hypothesis was that Saitama possessed some form of subconscious, precognitive danger sense, an ability that allowed him to react to threats without consciously perceiving them. The test environment would be the bustling school cafeteria during the lunch rush—a perfect storm of controlled chaos.
The plan was elegant. Ectoplasm would create thirty clones of himself using his Quirk. These clones would integrate seamlessly into the lunch crowd. Some would get food, others would sit, and a select twelve would become the vectors. At his signal, these twelve clones, all carrying trays laden with slippery noodles, hot soup, and brightly colored juice, would execute a perfectly choreographed series of "accidental" trips and stumbles from twelve different directions, all converging on a single point: Saitama's lunch table. It would be an unavoidable, 360-degree culinary cataclysm. The goal was to see how his subconscious mind would react to an attack from all sides at once.
Saitama sat alone as usual, a steaming bowl of curry rice before him. He was particularly pleased today; Lunch Rush had added extra potatoes, just the way he liked it. He sprinkled some pickles on top and prepared to take his first bite.
In the control room, watching through the security cameras, Ectoplasm gave the signal. "Commence Operation: Spilled Soup."
The ballet began. To the north, a clone tripped over his own feet, sending a tray of ramen flying. To the southwest, another clone slipped on a non-existent wet patch, launching a bowl of miso soup into a high arc. From every direction, the clones fell, stumbled, and slipped, releasing their payloads of food. It was a beautiful, terrifying matrix of flying sustenance, every trajectory calculated to intersect at Saitama's exact coordinates.
Saitama, completely oblivious, lifted his spoon for his first bite of curry.
Just as the airborne ramen was about to plaster the back of his head, he leaned forward slightly to get a perfect scoop of rice and sauce. The noodles sailed harmlessly over him, splattering against a pillar behind him.
As the arc of miso soup began its descent upon his bald head, he tilted his head to the right, listening to a faint announcement over the school intercom about a faculty meeting. The soup missed him by millimeters, drenching the empty chair beside him.
A torrent of orange juice, launched from a fallen clone to his left, was on a direct collision course with his face. At that exact moment, Saitama felt a sneeze coming on. He turned his head away to sneeze into his elbow, and the juice shot past, creating a modern art masterpiece on the wall.
For ten straight seconds, this continued. A plate of spaghetti flew by as he bent down to scratch an itch on his ankle. A volley of scattered tempura was avoided when he leaned back to savor his first bite of curry. His simple, mundane, unthinking movements, driven only by the goal of enjoying his lunch, caused him to weave a perfect, unintentional path through an inescapable web of culinary projectiles.
When the chaos subsided, the area around Saitama's table looked like a food-based warzone. But he, and his curry, remained untouched. He was a perfect, pristine island in a sea of slop. He finished his meal, stood up, placed his tray on the return rack, and surveyed the incredible mess with a sigh.
"Sheesh," he said to the room at large. "Some people have no table manners."
In the control room, Ectoplasm stared at the monitors, his mouth agape. He replayed the footage, plotting the vectors, calculating the probabilities. It was impossible. Statistically, mathematically, physically impossible.
Later, in Nezu's office, he tried to explain. "The variables… they don't add up! His movements were not predictive; they were reactive, yet they preceded every threat! It was not a danger sense! It was… it was a symphony of coincidence! The only logical conclusion," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "is that his Quirk is not strength or speed. His Quirk is a passive, subconscious reality-warping field that manipulates probability to ensure his personal convenience!"
Nezu, looking more intrigued than ever, made the next entry in his file.
Test 2: Multi-Vector Spatial Awareness
Agent: Ectoplasm
Result: Baffling. Subject displayed zero conscious awareness of the test but achieved a 100% avoidance rate through mundane actions. The 'Coincidence Theory' is noted, but seems… unlikely. Alternative hypothesis: Subject's apathy is so profound that the universe itself bends to preserve his state of tranquility. This is deeply troubling.