The transition from the cosmic office to reality hit like a plunge into arctic water—jarring, disorienting, and strangely exhilarating. Light twisted around me, resolving into a sun-drenched sidewalk. Florida's humid air clung to my skin, laced with the greasy allure of Burger King wafting from a nearby drive-thru. Palm trees nodded lazily in the breeze, and the faint crash of waves teased the ocean's nearness. For a fleeting second, I savored it—freedom in a new body, a second chance.
Then a horn blared, shattering the moment. Tires squealed on asphalt. I spun to see a sedan barreling toward me, its driver's eyes wide with panic. A child's reflexes would've frozen, but I wasn't a child—not really. My mind, sharpened by 35 years of life, kicked into gear. I thrust out a hand, instinct channeling the telekinesis I'd bargained for. The air thickened, and the car's front crumpled as if striking an unseen barrier. It wasn't enough to stop it entirely—just enough to turn a lethal collision into a brutal shove. Pain exploded as I hit the ground, the world fading to black.
Awareness crept back in fragments: the steady beep of a heart monitor, the antiseptic sting in my nostrils, the scratch of a thin blanket. I cracked my eyes open to a blinding hospital ceiling. Alive. Good start.
"Well, look who's awake," chirped a nurse, materializing beside me. "You took quite a hit, young man. Do you remember your name?"
I paused, weighing my words. "Marty… Ellis," I said, letting the name settle like a mask.
She beamed. "That's something. How old are you?"
"Ten," I replied, sticking to the script.
"What happened out there?"
"Dunno," I mumbled, feigning confusion. "Walking… then nothing."
"Rest up," she said kindly. "The doctor'll check on you soon."
The moment she left, I took stock. This body—small, fragile-looking—hummed with potential. I'd picked healing and telekinesis in that cosmic deal, and the fact I wasn't a smear on the pavement proved the former worked. Time to test the latter. I eyed the plastic cup on the bedside table, focusing until it jittered, then tipped over, spilling water across the floor. Sloppy, but promising. Precision would come later.
Days passed in a haze of hospital routine. I played the dazed kid—amnesia was a convenient excuse—while Child Protective Services hovered, plotting to shunt me into foster care. Not happening. I had plans, and they didn't involve playing house with strangers.
On the fourth night, with the ward hushed and shadows long, I acted. The window lock was a cheap thing; I reached out with my mind, feeling its pins, and nudged them loose. No click, no noise—just silence as it slid open. I slipped out, dropping to the alley below, the warm night swallowing me whole.
Surviving on the streets as a supposed 10-year-old wasn't child's play, but I wasn't some helpless brat. I found a derelict warehouse, its broken windows and sagging roof perfect for a lowlife like me. Telekinesis became my lock and key—doors jammed shut against intruders, debris shifted to block sightlines. I practiced there, levitating stones, healing scrapes from jagged edges, each success honing my edge. A kid wouldn't think this way, but I wasn't a kid—I was a man with a mission.
Resources were next. Cash ruled the world, and ATMs were my ticket. Under midnight's cover, I stood before one, probing its guts with my mind. It took time—sweaty, cursing time—but I teased out the cash motor's rhythm. Bills spat out, crisp and green. I stuffed them into a stolen backpack, smirking as I melted into the shadows. Back at base, I counted $5,000. Not a fortune, but a start.
Daylight brought reinvention. New clothes—jeans, a hoodie, aviators to mask my too-old eyes—turned me from a grubby urchin to something passable. Motels didn't care about age if you had cash; a payphone call booked me a room under "Tommy Lee," and I was set. Over weeks, I refined my ATM game, hitting machines across town, keeping my tracks scattered. The money stacked up, but it wasn't enough. I needed more than cash—I needed a way out.
Cheyenne Mountain was a pipe dream—too fortified, too watched. Osiris's ship in Egypt, though? That was my golden ticket off this rock. Getting there meant passports, papers, a whole identity I didn't have. Time to get creative.
The internet in '95 was a clunky beast, but it had its uses. From a library terminal, I posted: "10yr old needs help w/ special project. Cash offered. No questions." The replies poured in—most from creeps drooling over a kid's vulnerability. I sifted through, landing on Cliff: 40, balding, and reeking of desperation. His message was all syrupy concern, but his intent was clear. Perfect.
We set a meet at a rundown motel. I got there early, watching him haul a duffel bag inside—tools of his trade, no doubt. Predator meets predator today, pal. I knocked, pasting on a nervous-kid act. The door swung open, and there he was: sweaty, grinning, a walking red flag.
"Hey, I'm Cliff. You're Marty, right? Come in, buddy." He shut the door, offering a soda that screamed "spiked."
I took it, sat, and let him ramble—small talk to ease his prey. His eyes flicked to the can, waiting for me to drink. I set it down and met his gaze, voice low. "Bad day to be you, Cliff."
Before he could blink, I seized his trachea with telekinesis, pinching it shut. He clawed at his throat, gasping, stumbling toward the sink. Water didn't help. He lurched for the phone; I squeezed his spinal cord, and his legs buckled. He hit the floor, a flailing mess.
I strolled over, kneeling beside him. "Here's the deal, Cliff. You do what I say, or you die here. Nod if you get it."
He nodded, tears streaking his panicked face.
"Good. I need a handgun with ammo, two activated Motorola cell phones, and identity documents—passport, birth certificate, the works. You've got 24 hours. There's cash in that bag to cover it." I leaned closer. "And to keep you honest…" I severed his right eye's optic nerve with a flick of thought. He shrieked, clutching his face.
"I'll fix it when you deliver," I said, standing. "Don't test me."
I released his throat and walked out, leaving him sobbing in the corner, gulping air. The list was practical—tools for a 10-year-old with big plans and no patience for bureaucracy. Cliff would comply. Fear was a hell of a leash.