At ten years old, I should have been just another rich kid in Gotham, attending glittering parties, sipping whatever overpriced nonsense the adults called punch, and nodding politely while my peers chattered about their latest toys or the latest gossip in their empty little lives. But I wasn't "just another rich kid." I was a super genius. Rick Prime-level genius, reincarnated with every memory, every invention, every chaotic impulse at my disposal.
By this age, I had already constructed devices that would make most adults wet themselves in awe—or fear. I'd created autonomous drones, miniature energy shields, advanced holographic interfaces, and even a few gadgets I wasn't quite ready to show anyone yet. But still… the other kids? Pathetic. Weak minds, incapable of anything beyond whining or playing tag with their robot dogs.
I didn't bother. Parties were just an obligation. A necessary evil for maintaining the Sanchez family's social standing. My parents talked about connections and alliances, about appearances, about keeping the business empire untouchable. I nodded, smiled politely, and schemed quietly in the corners of their opulent estate, assembling micro-components in my pockets that no one noticed.
Until him.
Bruce.
I first saw him at one of these endless gatherings, a boy maybe a few months older than me, sitting in the corner and sketching… not doodles, not childish scribbles—but detailed blueprints. The kind of complex schematics that would make even some of Gotham's adult engineers blink in disbelief. I watched him quietly for a moment, curious. Most kids like him would hide in plain sight, afraid of attention. Not Bruce.
I walked over. "What are you drawing?" I asked, my tone casual, though every fiber of me was analyzing, calculating, assessing.
He looked up. His eyes, sharp and bright, met mine without hesitation. "Just… some improvements for a flight stabilizer. I think I can make it lighter, stronger, and more efficient."
I froze for a fraction of a second—okay, more than a fraction—but I didn't show it. Most ten-year-olds don't talk like this. Most ten-year-olds don't think like this. I smirked, genuinely impressed. "Not bad," I said. "I'm… impressed. Most kids here couldn't tell the difference between a capacitor and a cookie."
He grinned, a small, knowing grin that suggested he understood exactly what I meant. "Yeah… I usually don't bother with them."
And just like that, something strange happened. I realized I was… enjoying this. Enjoying talking to someone my own speed. My Rick Prime persona didn't usually care for others—it barely tolerated anyone—but Bruce… he intrigued me. He wasn't just smart. He was curious, creative, and unapologetically ambitious, even at his age.
That night, we ended up in the library, away from the chatter and champagne glasses. We shared ideas, debated theories, and even challenged each other's inventions. I told him about a few minor projects I'd been tinkering with—nothing too universe-breaking, not yet—and he was genuinely impressed. That rare spark in his eyes—the kind of spark that only appears in minds capable of seeing patterns, breaking systems, and reshaping reality—made me realize something: this kid could be important.
From that night onward, Bruce and I became… partners of sorts. Not friends in the way kids my age called friends. No, this was different. This was an alliance of intellects. A shared understanding that most of the world was irrelevant, and the only people worth interacting with were the ones capable of keeping up.
And trust me… keeping up with me was no small feat.