[September 1925 - Lincoln High School, Manhattan]
"Yo, short stack! You lost?"
Alexander looked up at Tommy Martinez, who was trying very hard to look tough despite voice cracks that could shatter fine china. The Puerto Rican kid had the build of someone who'd win fights eventually—in about three years, after puberty finished its renovation project.
"Nope. This is my stop." Alexander adjusted his backpack, which contained roughly half the New York Public Library's economics section.
"But you're like, twelve."
"Eleven."
"That's worse!" Tommy's voice hit frequencies only dogs could appreciate. "When I was eleven, I was eating paste and losing fights to my sister."
"That explains the brain damage," Alexander deadpanned, then softened it with a grin to show he was joking. Mostly.
Tommy barked a laugh that echoed down the hallway like a seal discovering helium. "Okay, you're alright, pequeño genio. Stick with me and maybe you'll survive freshman year without becoming someone's backpack."
"Pass. I'm claustrophobic, and you smell like you mugged a cologne salesman and lost."
"It's my brother's cologne!"
"That doesn't make it better. That makes it a crime against two generations."
"Okok..." Tommy fell into step beside him. "Anyway, I'm Tommy. Tommy Martinez."
"Alexander Sterling. My friends call me Alex. My enemies call me 'that little shit who ruined the curve.'"
"Already got enemies? Damn, you work fast."
"It's a gift."
The hallway was a teenage warzone—hormones and hostility seasoning the air like the world's worst potpourri. But Alexander had learned to navigate crowds in his past life, and apparently muscle memory transcended death. He flowed through the chaos like smoke through a jazz club, if the smoke was underage and carrying too many books.
"So what's your deal?" Tommy asked, using his height advantage to clear a path. "Rich kid? Parents make you skip grades?"
"Nah...Dad came back from the war with more nightmares than medals. Mom takes in sewing. I'm here on the 'please don't let this kid become a criminal' scholarship."
"Shit, sorry."
"Don't be. Challenges build character."
Tommy winced. "I know that life. My old man works the docks when his back lets him. Which is about half the time since some cargo fell on him."
They reached Alex's classroom. Advanced American History, according to the door. According to Alex's future knowledge, it should be called "Lies, Damned Lies, and Things We'll Pretend Didn't Happen."
"This is me," Alex said. "Try not to get your ass kicked before lunch?"
"Try not to make the rest of us look stupid, genio."
Alex gave him a mock salute and entered his special hell.
Twenty-seven pairs of eyes turned to stare like he was an exotic animal that might do tricks. Which, fair. He kind of was.
Mrs. Higgins stood at the front, looking like she'd personally witnessed the Civil War and held grudges about both sides. "Class, we have a special student joining us. Alexander Sterling, despite his... age... tested into our advanced program. Let's make him feel welcome."
The pause before 'welcome' suggested she'd rather perform dental surgery on herself with a rusty spoon.
"Now then," she continued, clutch pearls practically vibrating with disapproval, "who can tell me about the impact of the Great War on American society?"
Silence descended like a theater curtain made of teenage apathy.
"Mr. Sterling?"
Of course. Because why waste a perfectly good opportunity to paint a target on my back?
Alexander stood, acutely aware his voice hadn't even started thinking about changing. He needed to be smart enough to avoid suspicion of being too dumb, but not so smart that men in black suits started asking questions. Time to thread the needle while blindfolded and on fire.
"The war fundamentally altered America's global position," he began, channeling every documentary he'd ever watched. "We went from owing everyone money to everyone owing us money. Economically, we—"
"Speak up, child. Project!"
I am projecting, you geriatric bat. Maybe get your hearing checked?
"ECONOMICALLY," he said louder, earning a few snickers, "we became the world's creditor. But socially? We lost a generation of men and gained a generation of women who'd tasted independence. They won't give that up easily."
He paused, pretending to search for words like a real eleven-year-old might.
"My father says..." his voice caught, just a little. The class leaned in. "He says we won the war but lost our souls. That prosperity feels hollow when it's built on trenches full of bodies."
He sat down quickly, having played his cards just right. Smart enough to impress, young enough to seem harmless, emotional enough to seem human.
Mrs. Higgins blinked, recalibrating. "That's... remarkably insightful, Mr. Sterling."
"My father served," Alexander added quietly. "He has... opinions about the war."
Understanding dawned on her face. The class relaxed. Just a war kid who paid attention to daddy's trauma. Nothing weird here. Move along, citizens.
At lunch, Alexander found a corner table and pulled out his real homework—a composition notebook filled with calculations that would make Warren Buffett weep with envy. The market was soaring like Icarus, and everyone had forgotten what happened to that guy.
Four years, he thought, running the numbers again. Four years to convince my parents that their eleven-year-old knows more about economics than the entire Federal Reserve.
"Whatcha writing?" Tommy plopped down across from him, stealing fries with the casual theft that marked true friendship. "Love letters to that blonde in Chemistry?"
"She's sixteen, I'm eleven. That's not romance, that's a felony."
Tommy nearly choked laughing. "Jesus, you got a dark sense of humor."
"It's a coping mechanism." Alex showed him the notebook. "This is my real project. Financial projections."
"That's the nerdiest thing I've ever heard." Tommy stole another fry. "What're you projecting?"
"The complete economic collapse of Western civilization."
"That's... less nerdy. More terrifying."
"Terrifying but profitable if you see it coming." Alex closed the notebook. "Want to make fifty cents?"
"Doing what?"
"Your math homework. I checked—you're failing algebra."
"How'd you—never mind. Yeah, okay. But that's highway robbery!"
"That's the foundation of capitalism, Tommy. Supply, demand, and the fundamental human truth that everyone's lazy about math."
Tommy laughed hard enough to spray milk. "You're gonna be dangerous when you grow up, Sterling."
If I live that long, Alexander thought, remembering what was coming. The Depression. The wars. And somewhere out there, cosmic horrors that made economic collapse look like a stubbed toe.
"Hey," Tommy said, interrupting his doom spiral, "there's a soda fountain on Fifth that doesn't card for phosphates. The owner thinks checking ages is a communist plot. Wanna go after school?"
Alexander considered it. In his past life, he'd been too focused on grinding achievements in the game of capitalism to make real friends. Maybe this time...
"Make it a dollar for the homework and throw in a hamburger."
"Now that's definitely highway robbery!"
"That's 'venture capitalism' to you, Martinez. Now, do you want to pass algebra or not?"
They shook on it, and Alexander felt something he hadn't expected—actual human connection. Not the networking kind where you pretended to care about someone's weekend plans while calculating their usefulness. Real friendship, with someone who didn't care that he was a freak child playing at being normal.
The universe wanted to play hardcore mode without giving him any power-ups? Fine.
Alexander Sterling was going to speedrun the apocalypse, and this time, he'd have backup.
Even if that backup couldn't do math and smelled like he'd bathed in cologne.
Note to self: Introduce Tommy to the concept of "less is more" regarding personal fragrance. Future me will thank current me when we're not being tracked by smell alone.
The bell rang, and Alexander headed to his next class. Four years to the crash. Twenty-five to Captain America. Who knew how long until the really weird shit started happening.
But hey, at least he'd made a friend. In a universe where gods and monsters were real, maybe human connection was the only superpower that mattered.
That's beautiful, Alex. Really poetic. Now stop being a sentimental idiot and figure out how to short sell the entire American economy without getting arrested.
Balance. It was all about balance.