The bus ride home felt like moving through molasses. I sat in the back, my notebook open, but I wasn't drawing anymore. I was calculating. If I wanted to get into MIT in 1993 or '94, I didn't just need to be smart; I needed to be undeniable. In the MCU, "smart" was a dime a dozen. I needed to be Stark-level visible.
When I burst through the front door, the house was quiet. My parents were in the glass-walled home office, huddled over a drafting table.
"Mom, Dad? Can we talk? Like, 'corporate board meeting' talk?"
My dad looked up, pushing his glasses onto his forehead. "That sounds serious. Did you break a window at school?"
"Better," I said, walking into the room and clearing a space on the mahogany table. I laid down my notebook, flipped to the most technical pages of the Nexus Engine logic. "I'm dropping out of middle school."
The silence was immediate. My mom set down her pen, her expression shifting from curiosity to motherly concern. "Julian, honey, we talked about this. You're gifted, but socialization is—"
"I'm not dropping out to sit on the couch," I interrupted, my voice steady, carrying the weight of the 18-year-old I used to be. "I'm testing out. I want to take the SATs next month. I want to apply for early admission to MIT for the fall semester."
The silence in the office wasn't the "impressed" kind. It was the "we need to call a child psychologist" kind.
My dad slowly took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "MIT, Julian? You haven't even had your first school dance. You've been twelve for all of two months."
"I know how it sounds," I started, trying to modulate my voice to sound less like a frantic college senior and more like a determined kid. "But I'm telling you, the work at school... I'm already finished with it. Mentally. I can show you."
Mom walked over, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. Her touch was warm, a sharp reminder that to her, I wasn't a tech mogul in the making—I was her son. "Jules, we know you're bright. And what you did with Tony yesterday? Incredible. But there's more to life than just being the smartest person in the room. You need to grow up first. Socially, physically."
"I can do both," I insisted. "I'll stay in sports. I'll keep my friends. I just want to learn at my own pace."
Dad stepped toward the drafting table, looking at my Nexus sketches again. "Tell you what. We aren't sending a twelve-year-old to Massachusetts. Not happening. But... if you can maintain your grades and actually build something—not just sketches, but a working prototype of this 'engine' you're talking about—we'll consider early placement when you're fourteen. That's two years. High school age."
"Two years?" I felt a sting of frustration. In two years, the MCU timeline would already be moving. "Dad, that's—"
"That's our final offer, Julian," he said, his voice firm but kind. "If you're as ahead of the curve as you say, two years shouldn't be a problem. Use that time. Build your foundation. If you can prove you have the discipline to handle a project that big, we'll talk about the SATs when you hit fourteen."
I looked from my mom to my dad. They weren't being mean; they were being parents. They wanted me to have the childhood I never got in my first life.
"Fine," I said, leaning back and forcing a smile. "Two years. But I'm going to need a better computer. If I'm building the future, I can't do it on a machine that uses floppy disks for everything."
Dad laughed, the tension finally breaking. "Deal. We'll look into some upgrades this weekend. But tonight? You're doing your 7th-grade math homework. No 'bit-shifting' allowed."
Later that night, I sat at my desk, staring at a pre-algebra worksheet that felt like a joke. I finished it in three minutes, my hand moving almost on autopilot while my mind was elsewhere.
Two years, I thought. 1994. It wasn't the "fast track" I wanted, but it gave me something I hadn't considered: time to actually test this new brain. I reached for a blank piece of paper and focused. I wanted to see if I could trigger that "shimmer" again.
I closed my eyes and visualized the code for a simple particle effect. I felt the warmth in my fingertips, a faint vibration that hummed against the wood of the desk. When I opened my eyes, the pencil wasn't just moving—it was vibrating so fast it blurred.
I pulled my hand back, heart racing. My pencil had left a mark on the paper so dark and precise it looked like it had been printed by a laser.
I wasn't just smart. Something about the MCU's version of reality was reacting to me.
"Two years," I whispered to the dark room. "I can do a lot in two years."