Oakland, California — 1985
9:00 A.M., Sunday
Morning light slipped through the cracked blinds in thin golden bars, cutting across the cramped bedroom like quiet knives.
N'Jore stirred.
At four years old, his body was small, but the way he woke was not that of a child. His eyes opened smoothly, awareness flooding in all at once—no groggy confusion, no sluggishness. He inhaled, slow and controlled, feeling the air fill his lungs, the rhythm of his heartbeat, the faint hum beneath his skin.
Energy.
He stretched, tiny fingers curling, toes flexing as his spine arched. Muscles responded instantly, strength coiled and contained, far more than his size suggested.
Beside him, N'Jadaka, seven years old, slept on, one arm flung over the blanket, mouth slightly open. A soft snore escaped him, uneven but steady.
N'Jore turned his head and watched his brother for a long moment.
He must've been tired yesterday.
The thought came easily—but what followed did not belong to a four-year-old.
The world… blurred.
Memory surged forward.
He remembered another life.
Another Earth.
He had been eighteen then.
Tall. Tired. Overworked.
A Ghanaian family by blood, though most people lumped them in with Nigerians, ignorant of the difference. His parents had finished their PhDs, moved them across the world to New Zealand, chasing opportunity and stability. He remembered lecture halls, fluorescent lights, late-night shifts, and exhaustion that sank into his bones.
That night, he hadn't even eaten.
He had collapsed onto his bed, mind numb, body heavy.
Then—darkness.
And rebirth.
He remembered opening his eyes to unfamiliar light, his vision blurry, his body weak and helpless. He remembered crying—not out of fear, but confusion. He remembered a man holding him, hands shaking, dark skin glistening with tears.
A man calling him son in a language that felt ancient and warm.
He remembered his mother too—white, frightened, screaming as she was dragged away in handcuffs. He never learned why. Only that she disappeared behind metal doors, and never came back.
Like The Flash, his older mind had thought bitterly, even then.
Reincarnated.
Rewritten.
N'Jore exhaled slowly and let the memories settle.
For the first few weeks in this world, he had tried to act normal.
That had been the hardest part.
How did a child behave?
He didn't know.
He had been an adult yesterday and a baby today. His thoughts were too sharp, his awareness too deep. He cried when others cried. Crawled when expected. Laughed when it seemed appropriate.
But sometimes… he stared too long. Sometimes he moved too precisely.
Then the powers awakened.
Not all at once.
One by one.
The first came quietly.
Proficiency System — activated.
At first, it felt like instinct sharpening. When he grasped something, he learned faster. When he watched someone move, speak, act—he understood.
Power. Constitution. Agility. Stamina. Charisma.
Attributes aligned themselves naturally, like numbers clicking into place. He didn't need to struggle. Repetition multiplied results. Proximity to important figures—main characters—accelerated growth even further.
When his father spoke, N'Jore learned language faster.When N'Jadaka ran, N'Jore learned balance faster.When the world breathed, N'Jore learned to breathe better.
The second power was… unsettling.
Real Life Simulator.
A system that treated existence like layered realities.
He had learned quickly: when he left this universe, time here slowed—by a million-fold. He could grow stronger elsewhere, return older, sharper, more refined, while this world barely moved.
Talents presented themselves like cards.
White. Green. Blue. Purple. Gold. Black.
Potential ranked, not by morality, but by scope.
And death—
He had learned that lesson early.
Two chances.
The third was final.
This power did not forgive stupidity.
On the bright side, in the simulation, his lifespan is not affected.
The third ability had made him choke on air when it awakened.
An Infinite Dimension.
A space bound to him alone, expanding as his combat power increased. For every growth threshold, land formed. Skies stabilized. Energy systems manifested.
Worlds—entire worlds—waiting to be filled.
Anything inside it answered to him.
Every instinct in him whispered one truth:
This is dangerous.
And intoxicating.
By the time he was able to truly recognize faces, voices, meaning—
N'Jore had already realized where he was.
This is the Black Panther universe.
Maybe MCU.
Maybe not.
But Wakanda was real.
And so was vibranium.
So he did the smartest thing possible.
He slept.
A lot.
Sleep proficiency climbed rapidly.
So did everything else.
Crawling. Walking. Eating. Breathing. Singing. Mimicry. Emotional expression. Even fashion—though no one noticed a four-year-old dressing with unconscious symmetry and color theory.
And beneath it all—
Vibranium-body training.
Wakandans were different.
Evolution had shaped them. Generations of vibranium-rich food had rewritten biology itself. Their bodies stored and released energy like living metal.
The royal clans even more so.
Golden Tribe first.
River, Mining, Merchant, Border after.
At Level 2, N'Jore's vibranium body hummed quietly beneath his skin—stable, growing, restrained.
The Heart-Shaped Herb would amplify it one day.
But not yet.
Patience, he reminded himself.
Princes survived by waiting.
Far away.
Medford, Texas — 1985Cooper Residence
Sheldon Cooper frowned at the chalkboard he had dragged into the living room.
The equation was almost right.
Almost.
At five years old, Sheldon already hated "almost."
The Big Bang bothered him—not because it was complex, but because it felt incomplete. Something was missing. A variable no one acknowledged.
The television murmured behind him. News footage flickered—grainy, unstable.
"…unconfirmed reports of anomalous material…""…energy absorption beyond known physics…"
Sheldon froze.
Missy leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing that familiar smirk. "What're you thinkin' about?"
"Nothing," Sheldon said quickly.
Missy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Right."
He cracked.
"I may have hacked into a government system," he blurted, words tumbling out, "identified a storage facility containing a metaphysically anomalous metal, and ordered a gram of it."
Missy's eyes lit up. "That's awesome."
"It is not stealing," Sheldon added defensively. "I simply bypassed payment."
A knock thundered against the door.
Hard.
Mary Cooper opened it—and immediately stiffened.
Men in suits.
Too many.
The lead agent stepped forward. "Special Agent Cayter. Ma'am, we have reason to believe classified material belonging to S.H.I.E.L.D. was illegally accessed from this residence."
Mary screamed for George.
Chaos followed.
Minutes later, Sheldon stood in the living room, small shoulders straight, hands clenched.
"I did it," he said quietly. "I needed to understand how the universe began."
Agent Cayter studied him for a long moment.
Then exhaled.
"Vibranium," he said. "That's what you stole."
A pause.
"It didn't reach you," Cayter continued. "And you're a child."
He turned.
"Don't do it again."
Sheldon nodded. "Okay."
But his eyes gleamed.
Somewhere across the world, a Wakandan prince smiled faintly in his sleep.