The first five years of Alexander Thorne's new life could be summarized in three words: Unfathomable, absurd luxury.
Born in 1990, Alex didn't just have a silver spoon; he had a private Gulfstream G650 parked permanently in his mouth. The Thorne family estate in upstate New York was larger than some small European countries. Private tutors taught him Mandarin before he learned to tie his shoes. His father, Marcus Thorne, CEO of OmniCorp Solutions, managed to be both distant and fiercely protective, while his mother, Eliza, ensured his social calendar was as impeccable as his bespoke three-year-old wardrobe.
Internally, Alex (or Kevin, as he still sometimes thought of himself) was screaming.
"I'm the reincarnation of a pizza-mop victim, but I'm mentally a grown man in a silk onesie, waiting for my power to kick in. This is the ultimate existential prank."
His only real focus was the hum inside him. The promise of Superman Prime was a literal star sitting behind a massive, celestial vault door. The key to the vault? Puberty and solar energy.
The Titanium Toy Incident (Age 8)
The first glitch in the Matrix happened during his eighth birthday party.
A rival heir to a minor New York real estate dynasty had brought a toy drone—a sleek, military-grade prototype that OmniCorp had rejected for being "too fragile." Marcus Thorne, always competitive, had assured Alex that his own OmniCorp toy—a supposedly indestructible titanium robot action figure—was superior.
The other kid called Alex's robot "basic."
Rage—pure, unadulterated eight-year-old rage—spiked, and Alex squeezed the titanium toy in his hand.
CRUNCH.
The sound was not the plastic deformation of a cheap toy. It was the sharp, metallic scream of aerospace-grade titanium compressing into a dense, misshapen lump, easily the size of a golf ball.
The rival heir froze. Marcus Thorne froze. The hired clowns froze.
Alex looked at the mangled toy in his small hand. Oh. Right. Latent power.
He quickly shoved the metal ball into his pocket and blamed the dog (who was currently miles away being groomed). The cover story worked, but the incident terrified Alex. He realized his power was not a switch, but a throttle, constantly increasing with his physical maturity, and his control was zero.
He needed a training facility. And OmniCorp had plenty of secured, abandoned R&D desert properties.
Controlled Unleashing (Ages 10–16)
For the next few years, Alex dedicated his life to two things: academic mastery (he was a genius with or without powers, thanks to Kevin's memories and Prime's processing speed) and secret, brutal self-training.
He convinced his father, citing an intense interest in physics and engineering, to grant him access to a desolate OmniCorp test range in Nevada. His father saw it as a good sign of future business acumen.
It was here, surrounded by miles of scorched earth and blast-proof containment bunkers, that Alex finally learned the limitations of his Prime Lock.
The Prime Lock: The Goddess Elara had been brilliant. The power potential was infinite, but the output was strictly limited by his current body's ability to handle the energy surge without exploding. It was like driving a Ferrari engine bolted to a golf cart chassis.
At age 15, after years of sunbathing (literally—he found the direct absorption of solar energy accelerated his progress) and focused physical conditioning:
Strength: He could lift a dozen tons, easily punching through concrete walls without effort. He was the strongest man on the planet, but nowhere near planet-moving strength.
Speed: He could sprint faster than sound for short bursts, but pushing it too hard caused crippling solar drain and intense fatigue.
Durability: Bullets felt like sharp mosquito bites. He was essentially impervious to conventional weapons.
He still couldn't fly. Every attempt ended in him jumping incredibly high and landing incredibly fast. He also lacked heat vision, freeze breath, and all the truly reality-bending powers.
"I'm Superboy, not Superman Prime One Million," Alex lamented during one particularly exhausting day of throwing a decommissioned tank a few hundred feet. "I need more growth, more sun, and probably a few more devastating world events to really push the boundaries. Where's that damn armor?"
The OmniCorp Shadow
By the time Alex turned 18 in 2008, he had finished a double major from MIT and Caltech (remotely, of course; going to a physical campus was too risky). He was not just a genius; he was a silent, lethal weapon waiting for the firing pin.
OmniCorp Solutions, his family's empire, was far more interesting than he originally thought. They didn't make weapons, but they provided the infrastructure for everyone else's weapons. They were masters of energy storage, advanced materials, and highly classified data networks. They had their fingers in global telecommunications, bio-engineering, and, most importantly, the development of advanced clean energy that they mysteriously held back from the public—the very thing Tony Stark was about to publicly rail against.
As he sat in his penthouse overlooking Manhattan, scrolling through the public stock prices of Stark Industries, the news ticker flashed:
"Billionaire playboy Tony Stark headed to Afghanistan for military weapons demonstration."
Alex leaned back in his Italian leather chair, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. The long wait was finally over. The gears of the universe were turning again.
"It's time to stop training, Alex," he muttered to himself, the internal hum of his power growing perceptibly louder. "The world's about to get real, and I need to make sure I'm standing in the right spot."
He picked up the phone to his father's personal line. He had his first official request of OmniCorp Solutions. It had nothing to do with corporate espionage and everything to do with being prepared for a global threat.
"I'm going to need a very large, very discreet supply of advanced materials, Dad. And a private jet to the Middle East. I think the global energy sector is about to have a major shake-up, and I want a front-row seat."