Middle school didn't demand more from Dave.
It allowed more.
That difference mattered.
Classes were longer. Subjects branched instead of repeating. Teachers expected students to manage time instead of being managed.
Dave adapted in days.
Hive tracked the change in cognitive load automatically—longer attention windows, higher abstraction tolerance, increased tolerance for delayed reward.
Dave didn't activate anything new.
He simply stopped holding himself back as much.
The realization came quietly.
One afternoon, during a science lesson about muscle groups, Dave noticed something Hive had flagged for weeks.
Not a limitation.
An inefficiency.
Human bodies—quirk or not—were constrained by communication lag. Signal transmission, motor response, error correction. Even trained athletes operated with safety margins baked in.
Hive didn't remove those margins.
It understood them.
Dave closed his notebook and made a decision.
It's time.
Not to be stronger.
To be prepared.
He didn't train like a hero.
He trained like a system engineer.
At home, nothing dramatic changed.
Dave still helped Aiko with dinner. Still took Kenji's bag when he noticed fatigue. Still spoke softly.
But after homework, he began to structure his evenings.
Fifteen minutes of controlled movement.
Not exercise.
Calibration.
He observed posture. Balance. Micro-adjustments in joints. Hive provided real-time feedback—not commands, not overrides.
Suggestions.
Dave accepted some.
Rejected others.
He wanted growth, not dependence.
Physically, Hive worked by decentralization.
That was the core insight.
Dave's mind wasn't "enhanced."
It was distributed.
Neural processing was shared with somatic systems—muscle spindles, vestibular feedback, autonomic regulation—each granted partial autonomy under a unified intent framework.
Like a hive.
Independent agents. Shared goal.
This meant Dave didn't move faster by force.
He moved cleaner.
Less wasted motion. Fewer corrections. Lower energy cost.
Power wasn't added.
Loss was removed.
At school, the changes were invisible.
Dave still finished assignments on time—not early. Still answered when asked—not eagerly. Still blended into group work without friction.
But he began to learn differently.
He watched teachers not for information, but for structure. How they organized lessons. How rules were enforced. Where exceptions appeared.
He watched students too.
Who reacted under pressure.
Who froze.
Who rushed.
Bakugo rushed.
Always forward. Always loud. Explosive in motion and emotion.
Izuku hesitated.
But when he moved, he moved with intent—eyes tracking, mind racing ahead of his body.
Dave logged the difference.
Neither was wrong.
Both had gaps.
Hero society appeared more often now.
Not in spectacle.
In expectation.
Career talks. Guidance posters. Casual mentions of UA like it was an inevitability rather than an institution.
Dave listened.
Hive cross-referenced.
UA didn't just test power.
It tested adaptability under constraint.
That was important.
At home, Aiko noticed the change before anyone else.
"You're more tired lately," she said one night, placing a cup of tea beside him.
Dave paused.
"Productively tired," he corrected gently.
She raised an eyebrow.
"That sounds like something your father would say."
Kenji smiled from the couch. "It does."
Dave met their eyes.
"I'm not pushing myself," he said. "I'm preparing."
"For what?" Aiko asked—not worried. Curious.
Dave thought carefully.
"For the future you're already giving me," he said.
The room went quiet.
Then Aiko smiled, soft and proud.
"Just don't forget to rest," she said.
"I won't."
He meant it.
Hive approved that response.
Not because it was optimal.
Because it preserved system stability.
Dave didn't train quirks.
He trained transferability.
Grip strength while thinking.
Balance while distracted.
Decision-making under mild stress.
Small things.
Applicable to everything.
Running. Fighting. Rescuing. Thinking.
Hero work wasn't about power.
It was about operating when variables refused to cooperate.
Hive loved variables.
By the end of the term, Dave felt different.
Not stronger.
Not smarter.
Just… aligned.
His body responded without delay.
His thoughts arrived without clutter.
And for the first time since rebirth, he allowed Hive to project forward—not destiny, not certainty—
Just probability.
UA was possible.
Not guaranteed.
Which was perfect.
Dave closed his notebook that night and turned off the light.
The development arc had begun.
Quietly.
Correctly.