I woke to the sound of Aunt Lulu's keys rattling at the front door. Rain pattered against my window—late August showers washing the city clean. I blinked into the pale gray dawn and realized with a start that I was… sixteen again. A teenager in Queens, snatched from my old life and dropped into this one, with a family I'd never known but now couldn't remember living without and yet I have forgotten many things like his classes, etc.
I rubbed my temples, trying to soothe the dull ache of confusion. Last night, I'd gone to sleep as Ryan Carter: B-average student, robotics club hopeful, occasional soccer benchwarmer. Today… I was still that boy but not that boy either. I was or am Alan Carter too. 28 years old IT specialist working at an MNC. I had a good job, nice girlfriend but something about the monotony always bothered me. I slept on my bed after a day's hard work. Now it's just me, staring at my old sneakers waiting by the bed. Weirdly enough I have forgotten Alan's family but remembered his girlfriend. Priorities I guess.
Aunt Lulu's voice floated up the stairs: "Ryan, honey? Breakfast's on the table!"
I swung my legs over the side and stood—slightly off-balance, as if I'd been asleep for years instead of hours. My reflection in the mirror was familiar: dark hair tousled, gray eyes lined with residual confusion. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Accept it, I told myself. You're in Queens. You're sixteen. You're Ryan Carter. The show must go on.
Downstairs, Uncle David was pouring coffee. Aunt Lulu set pancakes before me. Their smiles were warm, real. I forced a smile in return, trying to blend in because for today, at least, I was just another sophomore on his first week back.
School felt oddly comforting, as weird as that sounds. The tiled halls echoing with lockers slamming and students greeting old friends. I found Peter Parker next to my locker, fumbling with the combination lock. He waved me over, eyes bright with the same blend of nerves and excitement I felt.
"Ryan!" he said, grinning. "First day back. You ready for sophomore year?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," I answered, tucking books into my locker. "You?"
"Let's survive Biology and then we'll talk." He winked, bolstered by his own bravado.
Biology went by in a blur of Punnett squares and DNA diagrams. I took notes like everyone else, careful not to seem like I didn't understand anything. In Chemistry, Ms. Greene introduced the semester's big project: design a lab experiment to create a novel catalyst. The prompt made my heart race with shame, well of course I forgot that kind of shit a long time ago but I kept my reaction muted.
Lunch was pizza and gossip. We traded rumors about Stark Industries' new youth outreach program—whispers that a few bright students might be invited to tour the labs. Peter nudged me. "You're applying, right?"
I shrugged. "I might." Truth was, the idea thrilled me but I knew my limits. Maybe the previous Ryan Carter could have barely even made it but me; I only know how to write a few lines of codes. What could an average man like me even do? I mean who remembers their high school subjects in their 20s. Please come on! Half of that shit is useless anyways.
Third period: English. I scribbled lines of Julius Caesar without really reading them, my mind half-drifting to previously streamed puppy videos on YouTube in my previous life.
Then came: my first robotics club meeting. Why the bolds you ask? Well that's because a geek like me has to have some geeky hobbies. Mine being robotics, making transformers models and painting my Warhammer 40k collection set.
The workshop smelled like solder and metal chips. Under fluorescent lights, the skeleton of last year's competition robot sat on a table. Ms. Jacobs, the club advisor, greeted me.
"Good to see you, Ryan. We're refining the chassis this week. Speed, balance, structural integrity. Ideas ladies?"
My pulse quickened. I stepped forward, hands finding the edge of the chassis. My mind raced through the partial understanding I'd picked up over my years of robotic otakuness: torque distribution, center-of-gravity adjustments, and quick-release mounting points. A concept formed, clear and concise: a self-tuning suspension system using torsion-bar geometry and spring-damper micro-actuators.
Without thinking how odd it sounded, I said, "What if we integrate variable-rate torsion bars with adaptive damping? The bars could preload under heavy stress and unload for speed runs, while servo-controlled dampers compensate for oscillations. We'd need a sensor array to measure deflection and a microcontroller to adjust in real time."
The group fell silent. Ms. Jacobs raised an eyebrow. "That's… sophisticated. You want to sketch it out?"
I nodded and turned to a whiteboard, drawing simple diagrams. Peter hovered behind me, eyes wide. Afterward, Ms. Jacobs nodded appreciatively. "Let's prototype next week. Great work."
My heart pounded. I'd spoken like someone with years of experience—though I'd never studied those specifics in this life. I glanced at Peter, who mouthed, "How did you know that?"
I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I… guess I just went with the flow."
That night, I trudged home under the rain, mind buzzing. That was unwise. People would notice if I kept doing this.
At home, I avoided the kitchen and slipped upstairs to my room. I locked the door and sat on the edge of my bed, drenched in neon city lights filtering through the blinds. A battered notebook lay on my desk—the one I'd used for tests and sketches. I opened it to a fresh page.
An unnatural thought entered my mind. Answer one question: If I put my mind to mastering a single field—say, robotics—how far could I go? I scribbled at the top:
Charge Field Choice #1: Robotics Systems
It felt silly—like I was filling out an application to some supernatural rulebook I didn't understand but I needed to believe that writing it down would help. That the universe would respond. Reluctantly, I squeezed the tip of my pen, imagining the words glowing.
Then I put the pen down and turned off the light. Sleep came fitfully. I wasn't sure if anything would happen… but I also feared nothing would.
I woke to an entirely new certainty.
The moment my head hit the pillow, the charge had latched to "Robotics Systems." Now, in the cold light of morning, I felt it: a faint hum beneath my skull, like the aftershock of a signal. I swung my legs over the bed and stood, stretching. Something in my mind felt… sharper. More precise.
My first‐period class was Physics. The teacher introduced kinematics—displacement, velocity, acceleration. Yesterday, I would have been hard pressed to understand them but today, when I did the sample problems, I saw them not as math exercises but as tools: vectors dancing through space, ready to be harnessed in the very mechanisms I felt like I'd sketched last night. I finished the worksheet in minutes, and then sat back, heart pounding. Too easy.
In Chemistry, however things remained the same. I was the same old dumb Ryan: but even now I could understand the concepts faster although I lacked the prerequisite concepts to understand everything.
Lunch was a cacophony. I sat with Peter, who passed me my usual half-sandwich. He peered at me. "You've been… different all day. You okay?"
I fought the panic twisting in my gut. "Just… caffeine," I lied, tugging at my ear. "I'll crash soon."
He didn't seem convinced, but he let it go. I forced casual conversation, all the while scanning the room for prying eyes. No TVA just teens cramming pizza and gossip. I exhaled.
After school, robotics club awaited. My notebook lay hidden in my backpack. When Ms. Jacobs asked for design refinements, I stood and spoke with calm authority, detailing materials science, control-algorithm structures, power-distribution networks: ideas so advanced they sounded like graduate research proposals. The team buzzed. Tools were issued. Parts ordered.
I packed up, pulse racing. At home, I locked the door again, heart still hammering. The charge was real. I had willingly applied it to "Robotics Systems" last night; and now I possessed complete mastery.
I opened the window, letting in the cool evening air. Rain had stopped; the streets gleamed under streetlamps. I pressed my palms to the sill and whispered to the empty night: "What just happened to me?"
No answer came. Only the hum of the city and deep in my mind, the faint echo of a new charge settling into place. I didn't know what I would do with this gift, or why it existed. All I knew was I had been chosen and only I held its secrets in my head.
Tomorrow, I could choose again but for tonight, I would hide this truth: that beneath the ordinary face of Ryan Carter beat the mind of someone else, someone different and I would keep it secret—at least until I understood what it meant to hold one charge at a time.