By the time Alex turned six, the Queens apartment felt smaller—not because the walls had closed in, but because his mind had grown too big for the space. The interface was always there now, a quiet companion hovering at the edge of thought, ready to catalog every accidental touch, every borrowed pencil, every handshake from a teacher or classmate.
Kindergarten had been easy. First grade was where the real testing began.
P.S. 122 was a brick fortress of noise and energy: kids shouting in three languages, teachers juggling thirty screaming egos, and recess that felt like controlled warfare. Alex moved through it like a ghost with perfect camouflage. He smiled easily, listened more than he spoke, and never raised his voice. The other children liked him for it. Teachers liked him more.
His first real target was Mr. Delgado, the math teacher who doubled as the after-school chess club advisor. Delgado was in his late thirties, wiry, always wearing the same faded polo shirts, but his mind was a machine. Alex watched him solve multiplication problems on the board faster than most adults could punch them into a calculator. One afternoon, during cleanup, Alex "helped" by picking up Delgado's dropped pen. A single dark hair clung to the grip.
He waited until lights-out that night, sitting cross-legged on his bed while Elena watched her telenovela in the living room.
*[DNA Sample: Javier Delgado, age 38. Analysis: Exceptional numerical processing speed (+1.8σ), Pattern recognition aptitude, Spatial reasoning (chess master level amateur). No physical enhancements.]*
*[Selective Copy Options: Numerical Processing +1.2σ, Pattern Recognition +0.9σ. Risk: Mild cognitive overload possible in first 48 hours. Copy?]*
Alex selected both. A faint buzz ran through his temples, like static electricity under the skin. The next morning, multiplication tables that used to take him ten seconds now resolved in two. During math period, when Mr. Delgado called on him for 17 × 24, Alex answered instantly: "408."
The class went quiet. Delgado raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that, Alex?"
"Yes, sir." He smiled innocently.
Delgado checked his own calculator. "Correct. Good job."
Alex felt the shift in the room—admiration from some, envy from others. He didn't care about the spotlight. He cared about the doors it opened. After school, he joined the chess club. Delgado taught him the basics, but within two weeks Alex was beating kids two grades ahead. He didn't win every game—he deliberately lost a few to avoid suspicion—but the patterns clicked like puzzle pieces. Openings, endgames, sacrifices. He started seeing the world the same way: moves and countermoves, risks and rewards.
Money was still trickling in. The small stock account Elena managed now sat at $1,800—modest, but growing. Alex pointed her toward Google's IPO in 2004 (still a year away in his timeline memory). "Mommy, when that search engine goes public, buy some. It's gonna be big."
She laughed, ruffling his hair. "You and your predictions, mijo. Okay, we'll see."
He wasn't pushing hard yet. Too much too soon would raise flags. Instead, he focused on longevity.
Every Saturday, Elena took him to the park near Flushing Meadows. There was an old man there—Mr. Rossi—who walked five miles every morning, rain or shine. Eighty-two years old, skin like leather, but he moved like someone half his age. One day Alex sat on the bench beside him, offered half his sandwich, and "accidentally" brushed Rossi's sleeve while handing it over.
*[DNA Sample: Antonio Rossi, age 82. Analysis: Exceptional cardiovascular efficiency, telomere maintenance markers (genetic + lifestyle), anti-inflammatory response. Cumulative effect: Projected lifespan extension +3–5 years baseline.]*
*[Selective Copy: Telomere Maintenance +0.6σ, Cardiovascular Efficiency +0.7σ. Copy?]*
He took it. That night he hugged Elena extra long, pressing his cheek to hers, willing the trait to transfer fractionally. She didn't notice the subtle shift, but over the next months her blood pressure readings at work improved slightly. She slept better. Laughed louder.
Alex kept a secret journal in a composition notebook hidden under his mattress. Not the powers—he wrote those in code only he understood—but the people. Names. Traits copied. Dates. A growing ledger of progress.
Tommy Chen became his first real friend. Chubby, quiet, always drawing comics in the margins of his worksheets. One recess a bigger kid—Darius—shoved Tommy into the dirt, laughing about his weight. Alex felt the spike of fear and humiliation roll off Tommy like heat.
He walked over calmly. "Hey, Darius. Wanna play tag? You're fast."
Darius blinked, thrown off. Alex's voice was soft, reasonable, but something in his eyes made the bully hesitate. The moment passed. Darius shrugged and wandered off.
Tommy looked up, wiping dirt from his cheek. "Thanks."
Alex offered a hand. "No problem. You okay?"
"Yeah." Tommy hesitated. "You're… different."
Alex shrugged. "Just don't like seeing friends get hurt."
From that day, Tommy, Sofia, and Jamal formed a tight knot around Alex. They ate lunch together, traded Pokémon cards, whispered secrets. When bullies circled, Alex defused. When someone cried, he listened. He wasn't saving the world—he was protecting his corner of it.
Age seven brought the first real test of restraint.
During a field trip to the Museum of Natural History, Alex spotted a security guard with unusual poise—ex-military, maybe special forces. The man moved like water, eyes scanning constantly. When the group passed a display case, the guard adjusted a velvet rope. Alex brushed past, fingers grazing the man's cuff.
*[DNA Sample: Marcus Hale, age 42. Analysis: Elite combat reflexes, heightened situational awareness, pain tolerance.]*
*[Selective Copy: Combat Reflexes +0.8σ, Situational Awareness +1.1σ. Risk: Hyper-vigilance side effects. Copy partial?]*
He took only half. Enough to feel the world sharpen—every shadow a potential threat, every exit noted instinctively—but not enough to turn him paranoid. That night he lay awake, heart racing from phantom dangers. Lesson learned: dosage matters.
He dialed back aggressive copies after that. Small, sustainable gains. Stack them slowly.
By the end of second grade, Alex's projected lifespan extension sat at +9 years cumulative. His IQ hovered around 145 (he tested himself with online puzzles when Elena wasn't looking). His EQ let him read rooms like books—knowing when Elena was stressed about rent, when Tommy was hiding sadness at home, when Sofia was faking confidence.
He wasn't a hero. He was a survivor building a fortress, one careful brick at a time.
And somewhere out there, in California, a playboy billionaire was probably finalizing designs for weapons that would change everything.
Alex closed his notebook, slid it back under the mattress, and whispered to the dark:
"Soon."