**BOSTON - ATTORNEY'S OFFICE**
I ended the call and sat there for a moment, staring at my phone like it might suddenly explain what the hell I'd just agreed to.
*I'm going to Malibu. To meet Tony Stark. My father.*
The words felt surreal even thinking them, like dialogue from someone else's life. Except this was my life now. Had been for exactly three days—three days since I'd woken up in this sixteen-year-old body with memories of two lifetimes crashing together in my head like competing radio frequencies.
The first lifetime: twenty-three years old, comic book obsessed, hit by a delivery truck, dead before I hit the pavement.
The second lifetime: sixteen years of memories that weren't quite mine but were now—Ace Castellanos, raised by Elena, brilliant and lonely, growing up knowing his father was out there somewhere but never knowing *who*.
And now I knew. And he knew. And I'd just agreed to fly across the country to live with him.
"Are you insane?"
I looked up to find Thomas Morrison—my mother's attorney, late fifties, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses—staring at me like I'd sprouted a second head.
"Probably," I admitted. "Is that a legal term?"
"Ace, you can't just—" He gestured helplessly at my phone. "You can't just agree to move in with Tony Stark. We haven't verified paternity yet. We don't know if—"
"It'll come back positive." I stood, stretching. Even after three days, this body still felt weird—too tall, too coordinated, like wearing someone else's skin. Jacob Elordi's skin, apparently, courtesy of an omnipotent being who looked like Stan Lee. "We both know it. The timing lines up, the documentation is solid, and Mom wasn't exactly in the habit of lying about paternity."
Thomas softened at the mention of Elena. "No, she wasn't. But that doesn't mean you should make impulsive decisions. Your mother wanted you to have stability—"
"My mother is dead." The words came out harsher than I intended, and I saw Thomas flinch. I forced myself to breathe, to modulate. "I'm sorry. But she's gone, and stability went with her. Have you looked outside recently?"
We both glanced at the window. Three news vans were parked across the street, cameras pointed at the building. I'd counted seven different reporters when I'd arrived this morning, and that was before the story had really broken.
"They're going to follow me everywhere," I continued. "School, home, the grocery store—everywhere. At least in Malibu, I'll have security. Privacy. A chance to figure out what happens next without a camera in my face."
"And if Tony Stark isn't what you expect? If he's—"
"A narcissistic playboy with commitment issues and a hero complex?" I smiled without humor. "I've been on the internet, Thomas. I know exactly who Tony Stark is. But he's also my father, and right now, he's offering me an escape from *this*." I gestured at the window, at the media circus that had become my life.
Thomas studied me for a long moment. "You sound older than sixteen."
*You have no idea,* I thought. Out loud, I said: "Grief does that."
It wasn't entirely a lie. The memories I'd inherited from Ace—the *real* Ace, the one whose life I'd apparently been reborn into—included a lot of grief. Three weeks watching his mother die slowly, painfully. Three weeks of hospital vigils and morphine doses and increasingly desperate prayers to a God that didn't answer.
And then the hole in reality. The void where Elena Castellanos had existed, and now didn't.
I felt it. Not like a memory, but like an amputation. Like part of me had been cut away.
"I need to go pack," I said, turning toward the door. "Tony's sending a car in—" I checked my phone. "—thirty-seven minutes."
"Ace—"
"I'll be fine, Thomas. I promise. And if I'm not, I'll call you, and you can unleash every lawyer in Boston on Tony Stark. Deal?"
He sighed, defeated. "Deal. But I'm sending daily check-in emails. And if you need anything—*anything*—you call me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
I left before he could mount another argument, taking the back stairs to avoid the front entrance where the reporters were camped. My apartment was only six blocks away—close enough to walk, which I'd been doing for years. Mom had liked this neighborhood. Close to her work at Boston General, close to my school, close to everything we needed.
Had liked. Past tense.
Everything was past tense now.
---
**ACE'S APARTMENT - 45 MINUTES LATER**
The apartment felt emptier than it had this morning. Quieter. Like it already knew I was leaving.
I moved through the rooms mechanically, grabbing essentials. Clothes—though Tony had said JARVIS (an *AI*, my brain helpfully supplied, because of course Tony Stark had a fully functional AI assistant) would order whatever I needed. Laptop—custom built, my own design, probably outdated compared to whatever tech Tony had lying around but it was *mine*. Phone charger. Headphones.
I paused in front of my bookshelf. Advanced physics textbooks, computer science manuals, a few dog-eared science fiction novels that Elena had loved. My hand hovered over them, uncertain.
*Take them,* something whispered. *They're all you have left of her.*
I grabbed three books—her favorites—and shoved them into my bag.
The photo on my desk caught my eye. Me and Mom, taken last summer at Cape Cod. She was laughing at something I'd said, head thrown back, completely unselfconscious. I looked happy too. Really happy, not the performative smile I'd learned to wear for other people.
That was four months ago. Before the diagnosis. Before everything went to hell.
I picked up the photo, frame and all, and carefully wrapped it in a t-shirt before adding it to the bag.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
**Unknown: This is Harold "Happy" Hogan. I'm Tony's driver and head of security. ETA to your location: 8 minutes. I'm in a black Audi SUV with tinted windows. When you're ready, text me and I'll pull up to your building's side entrance. We'll avoid the press.**
I typed back quickly.
**Me: Thanks. I'll be ready.**
**Happy: Kid, I'm gonna level with you. The next few hours are gonna be weird. If you need anything—water, bathroom break, moment to freak out—you tell me. No judgment. Tony's my friend, but you're a kid who just lost his mom. That comes first. Understood?**
I stared at the message. Something in my chest loosened slightly.
**Me: Understood. And thanks.**
**Happy: Don't thank me yet. You haven't met Tony.**
Despite everything, I smiled.
I did one last sweep of the apartment. Nothing I was forgetting. Nothing I—
The box.
Mom's box. The one I'd found when I was twelve, full of memories of Tony Stark.
I crossed to her bedroom—our bedroom, since I'd moved in to take care of her during hospice—and opened her closet. The box was exactly where she'd always kept it, on the top shelf behind winter coats.
I pulled it down and opened it.
Photos: Young Tony Stark, barely twenty-one, all sharp edges and sharper smile. Elena beside him, radiant. The two of them at concerts, at diners, at MIT's campus. Looking at each other like the rest of the world didn't exist.
Letters: Written in Tony's surprisingly neat handwriting, full of physics equations and terrible jokes and surprising vulnerability.
Ticket stubs: AC/DC, Black Sabbath, a dozen other bands.
A dried rose, pressed flat.
A USB drive labeled "For Ace—When You're Ready."
My hand froze over that last item. When I was ready. Was I ready?
*You've been reborn into a comic book universe with super-intelligence, technomancy, and martial arts mastery,* my brain supplied helpfully. *You're about to meet Tony Stark, your father, who is Iron Man. The Avengers are about to form. The entire MCU timeline is unfolding around you. Ready or not, you're in this.*
I pocketed the USB drive and closed the box. Then, on impulse, I grabbed the whole thing. Whatever was on that drive, whatever final message Mom had left me—I wanted it close.
My phone buzzed again.
**Happy: Outside. Side entrance. Black Audi. Let's move before the press figures out where I'm parked.**
I took one last look at the apartment. Sixteen years of memories—well, Ace's sixteen years. My three days.
"Goodbye," I whispered to the empty rooms.
Then I grabbed my bags and left.
---
**IN THE CAR - EN ROUTE TO PRIVATE AIRFIELD**
Happy Hogan was exactly what I expected based on my meta-knowledge: built like a boxer, which he was, with a face that suggested he'd seen everything and wasn't impressed by most of it. But his eyes were kind when he looked at me in the rearview mirror.
"Seatbelt, kid."
I buckled in. The SUV pulled smoothly into traffic, and I watched Boston slide past the tinted windows. Familiar streets. Familiar buildings. The entire city felt like someone else's memory now.
"You okay?" Happy asked after a few minutes of silence.
"Define okay."
He snorted. "Fair. Stupid question. Let me rephrase: you gonna puke, pass out, or have a panic attack in the next twenty minutes?"
"Probably not."
"Good enough." He navigated through traffic with practiced ease, taking side streets to avoid main roads where press might be lurking. "For what it's worth, Tony's freaking out too."
That surprised me. "Really?"
"Kid, I've known Tony for fifteen years. I've seen him face down terrorists, board meetings, and his own father's legacy. I've never seen him this nervous." Happy glanced at me in the mirror again. "He wants this to work. Don't know if that helps, but there it is."
I processed that. Tony Stark—*Iron Man*—nervous about meeting me. It should have felt gratifying. Instead, it just felt heavy.
"What's he like?" I asked. "Really like, I mean. Not the press version."
Happy was quiet for a moment, thinking. "Brilliant. Generous. Loyal to the people he cares about. Also stubborn, self-destructive, and has the emotional regulation of a caffeinated squirrel." He smiled slightly. "But he tries. When it matters, he tries. And you matter."
"He doesn't know me."
"He knew your mother. And he just read a letter from her that made him look like someone punched him in the chest." Happy's voice softened. "Give him a chance, kid. Give yourself a chance. Maybe you'll both surprise each other."
I looked out the window, watching Boston disappear behind us. Ahead, somewhere, was California. Tony Stark. A new life I hadn't asked for but was apparently living anyway.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out, expecting another message from Thomas or maybe the attorney's office.
Instead, it was a text from an unknown number—but the area code was California.
**Unknown: JARVIS here. Mr. Stark asked me to forward you the wifi password for the plane and the house. He thought you might want to research Malibu, the mansion, or him during the flight. He also wanted me to assure you that the guest suite has been prepared to your specifications, though he's not entirely sure what your specifications are, so he's hedging his bets with "everything a teenage genius might conceivably want." His words, not mine.**
I blinked. Then typed back:
**Me: How did you get this number?**
**JARVIS: I am an artificial intelligence with access to all of Mr. Stark's systems, which includes telecommunications infrastructure. Acquiring your phone number required approximately 0.003 seconds.**
**Me: That's either really impressive or deeply illegal.**
**JARVIS: Both, I suspect. Welcome to the Stark family, Ace. I believe you'll fit in perfectly.**
Despite everything—the grief, the uncertainty, the sheer insanity of the past three days—I laughed. Actually laughed.
Happy glanced at me in the mirror, eyebrow raised.
"Tony's AI just texted me," I explained.
"Of course he did." Happy shook his head. "Like I said: caffeinated squirrel."
The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence. When we pulled up to the private airfield, Happy parked directly beside a sleek jet that practically screamed "Stark Industries."
"That's yours?" I asked.
"Tony's. One of several." Happy got out and grabbed my bags from the trunk. "Come on. Pilot's waiting, and you've got a five-hour flight to figure out how you feel about all this."
I climbed out of the SUV and stared at the jet. It was beautiful—elegant, powerful, the kind of machine that existed at the intersection of art and engineering.
*This is real,* I thought. *This is actually happening.*
"Ace?" Happy was waiting by the stairs leading up to the plane. "You coming?"
I pulled up the NZT-level cognition that Stan Lee—ROB—had given me. Felt it click into place like a key in a lock. Suddenly, everything was sharper. Clearer. The anxiety didn't disappear, but it became manageable, observable, something I could work with rather than drown in.
Patterns emerged: Tony was nervous, which meant he cared. Happy was protective, which meant Tony had good people around him. JARVIS was intelligent and had a sense of humor, which meant Tony built AI that reflected his own personality.
And me? I was Ace Stark now. Anthony Stark Junior. A sixteen-year-old genius with abilities nobody knew about, walking into a universe I'd read about for years, about to meet a father I'd never known.
*Make it a story worth telling,* Stan had said.
"Yeah," I said, shouldering my bag and walking toward the plane. "I'm coming."
The sun was starting to set behind me—Boston disappearing into twilight. Ahead, California waited.
And somewhere in Malibu, so did Tony Stark.
*Here we go,* I thought, climbing the stairs.
*Here we go.*
---
**STARK INDUSTRIES PRIVATE JET - 35,000 FEET**
The interior of the jet was exactly what I expected from Tony Stark: excessive, elegant, and engineered to perfection. Cream leather seats that probably cost more than most cars. A fully stocked bar that I was definitely too young to use. Sleek touchscreen panels embedded in every surface. The kind of wealth that didn't just whisper—it hummed with quiet, confident power.
The pilot—a professional woman in her forties who'd introduced herself as Captain Chen—had given me a brief safety overview before disappearing into the cockpit. Now I was alone with five hours of flight time and a brain that was practically vibrating with untested potential.
I settled into one of the seats, pulled out my laptop, and took a breath.
*Okay. Time to see what these abilities actually do.*
Stan Lee had given me three gifts: NZT-level cognition, technomancy, and martial arts mastery. I'd felt glimpses of them over the past three days—thoughts coming faster, patterns emerging from chaos, an instinctive understanding of the laptop I'd built. But I hadn't really *tested* them. Hadn't pushed to see where the limits were.
Partly because I'd been grieving. Partly because I'd been in shock.
But mostly because I'd been scared.
These weren't natural abilities. They were cosmic gifts from a being who'd worn Stan Lee's face and offered me a second chance at life. They were *power*, and power came with responsibility I wasn't sure I was ready for.
*Too late now,* I thought. *You're on a plane to meet Iron Man. Time to figure out what you can actually do.*
I started with the NZT cognition.
---
**TESTING: NZT-LEVEL COGNITION**
I closed my eyes and *reached* for it—that sharpness I'd felt earlier, that clarity. It responded immediately, like flipping a switch in my brain.
Suddenly, everything was *more*.
The hum of the jet's engines wasn't just noise—it was a symphony of mechanical precision. I could hear the subtle variations in pitch that indicated optimal performance. Could mentally map the entire propulsion system without seeing it.
The tablet embedded in the armrest beside me—I understood its architecture instinctively. Operating system, processing power, security protocols. All of it just... *there*, like reading words on a page.
I opened my eyes and looked at my laptop. The custom build I'd spent weeks perfecting suddenly seemed clumsy. Inefficient. I could see a dozen ways to optimize it, to streamline the cooling system, to enhance the processing architecture.
*Holy shit.*
I pulled up a blank document and started typing—not words, but code. Python, C++, JavaScript, languages I'd studied for years but never quite mastered. Now they flowed from my fingers like native tongues. I wrote a simple algorithm to calculate prime numbers, then optimized it, then optimized it again. Each iteration was faster, cleaner, more elegant.
Five minutes. I'd written code in five minutes that would have taken me hours before.
I moved on to theory. Opened a quantum physics textbook I'd downloaded—one I'd been struggling with for months. Started reading.
And suddenly, it made *sense*.
Not just the words on the page, but the concepts behind them. Quantum entanglement, wave-particle duality, the observer effect—all of it clicked into place like puzzle pieces I'd been trying to force together and had finally found the right configuration.
I read faster. Page after page, each one absorbed and understood and *integrated* into a growing web of knowledge. Fifteen minutes later, I'd finished a textbook that should have taken me weeks.
And I remembered every word. Every equation. Every diagram.
I could recall the exact placement of text on page forty-seven. Could visualize the footnotes on page ninety-three. It wasn't just eidetic memory—it was *perfect* recall, combined with instant comprehension.
"Jesus," I whispered.
This wasn't just being smart. This was being *superhuman*.
I pulled up a news article—something complex about international trade policy. Read it once. Immediately understood not just what it said, but the implications. The hidden agendas. The way the author's word choice revealed their bias. The socioeconomic patterns underlying the entire discussion.
Then I read the comments section.
Big mistake.
Immediately, I could see *everything*. Which commenters were bots. Which were genuine but misinformed. Which were trolling. Which were operating from emotional trauma masquerading as political ideology. The psychology behind every statement, every argument, laid bare.
It was overwhelming. Exhausting.
I closed the laptop and pressed my palms against my eyes.
*This is what Tony lives with,* I realized. *This is what it's like inside his head. Seeing everything, understanding everything, and being unable to turn it off.*
No wonder he drank. No wonder he threw himself into his work, into building things, into *doing* something with the relentless processing power of his brain.
I forced myself to breathe. To pull back from the edge of that vast, overwhelming awareness.
*Control,* I thought. *I need control. This is a tool, not a curse. Use it. Don't let it use you.*
I reached for that mental switch again, consciously dialing it down. The hyper-awareness faded to something more manageable—still enhanced, still sharp, but not drowning me.
Better.
I could do this. I could *control* this.
Now for the second ability.
---
**TESTING: TECHNOMANCY**
I opened my laptop again and stared at it. Not at the screen—at the *machine* itself. The circuits and components hidden beneath the plastic casing.
*Feel it,* I thought. *Connect to it.*
And something in my mind reached out.
It was like... touching something with a phantom limb I hadn't known I possessed. A sense that extended beyond my physical body, beyond the normal five senses. I could *feel* the laptop's architecture. Not see it, not understand it intellectually—*feel* it.
The flow of electricity through the motherboard. The spinning of the hard drive. The temperature of the processor. All of it tangible, present, *responsive*.
I focused on the cooling fan—slightly inefficient, making a faint whirring noise that had always annoyed me.
*Optimize,* I thought.
And it did.
The fan's rhythm changed. The whirring smoothed out. Temperature dropped by two degrees. I hadn't touched anything physically—hadn't opened the case or adjusted any settings. I'd simply *wanted* it to work better, and it had obeyed.
"Holy shit," I breathed again.
I extended that sense further, reaching for the jet's systems. This was riskier—I didn't want to accidentally crash the plane—but I had to know the limits.
Immediately, I felt them. The autopilot system, the communications array, the navigation computers. All of it humming with electronic life, and all of it *accessible*.
I didn't try to control anything. Just observed. Mapped the systems like a explorer charting unknown territory. The jet's architecture unfolded in my mind with crystalline clarity—not just how it worked, but how it *could* work. Optimizations Tony's engineers had missed. Security vulnerabilities I could exploit. Upgrades that would increase efficiency by fifteen percent.
I pulled back carefully, not wanting to trigger any alarms.
But the potential was staggering.
I could interface with any technology. Command it. Enhance it. The limits seemed to be my imagination and the available hardware—I couldn't conjure machines from nothing, couldn't violate physics. But anything that existed, anything with circuits and code and electrical flow...
That was mine to shape.
I looked at the tablet in the armrest. Reached out with that technomantic sense.
*Unlock,* I thought.
The security screen flickered and vanished. Full access, no password required.
I pulled up the jet's manifest, just to see if I could. Fuel levels, flight path, maintenance logs—all of it at my fingertips. Then I went deeper, accessing the jet's connection to Stark Industries' network.
This was incredibly illegal. Probably treasonous, given that Stark Industries had military contracts.
I didn't care. I needed to know what I could do.
The network unfolded before me like a three-dimensional map. Firewalls that would have taken professional hackers days to crack simply... parted. Not because I was breaking them, but because the technology itself was *responding* to me. Recognizing something in my touch that said *I belong here.*
I could see everything. Company financials. R&D projects. Security footage. Personal emails.
I immediately withdrew, feeling dirty.
*Too much,* I thought. *That's way too much power. I could destroy someone's life with this. Could steal anything, manipulate anything.*
The responsibility of it was crushing.
I closed the tablet and forced myself to breathe again.
*Control,* I reminded myself. *Power without control is just chaos. Use it wisely. Use it carefully.*
Stan Lee had trusted me with this. Had looked at me—a comic book geek who'd died crossing the street—and decided I was worthy of abilities that could reshape the world.
I couldn't betray that trust.
But God, the temptation was there. To look deeper. To see what Tony Stark was really working on. To peek behind the curtain of one of the world's most fascinating minds.
*No,* I told myself firmly. *He's your father. You don't spy on family.*
Even if that family was Tony Stark. Even if the secrets he kept could change everything.
I had to be better than my curiosity.
---
**TESTING: MARTIAL ARTS MASTERY**
The third ability was harder to test on a plane. I couldn't exactly start throwing punches in a confined space at 35,000 feet.
But I could *feel* it.
I stood up, moving to the small open area near the bar. Closed my eyes and let my body settle into a stance.
And suddenly, I *knew*.
Knew how to stand to maximize balance. Knew where my center of gravity was, how to shift it. Knew a hundred different ways to strike, block, evade. Karate, kung fu, judo, boxing, krav maga—every martial art I'd ever heard of and several I hadn't were there, perfectly preserved in muscle memory I'd never actually built.
I moved slowly through a kata—a Japanese form I recognized from aikido. My body flowed through the movements with a grace I'd never possessed. Each technique was precise, efficient, *perfect*.
I stopped and opened my eyes.
"This is insane," I said out loud.
I threw a punch at the air—a simple jab. It was textbook. Then a hook, an uppercut, a roundhouse kick. All of them executed flawlessly, like I'd been training for years.
I could *feel* the knowledge sitting there, ready to deploy. If someone attacked me right now, I would know exactly how to respond. Would see their movements before they completed them, would understand their intent from their stance and weight distribution.
Peak human combat ability. Not superhuman—I wasn't faster or stronger than biology allowed. But I was as skilled as it was possible to be.
Combined with the NZT cognition, I could analyze an opponent in seconds. See their weaknesses, predict their moves, adapt my strategy on the fly.
And with technomancy, I could turn any piece of technology into a weapon.
The three abilities together weren't just additive. They were *multiplicative*.
I sat back down slowly, processing.
---
**INTEGRATION**
I pulled out my laptop again and opened a blank document. Started typing.
**ABILITY ASSESSMENT - PRIVATE LOG**
**NZT-Level Cognition:**
- Hyperlearning: Confirmed. Can absorb and integrate information at approximately 50-100x normal speed.
- Perfect recall: Confirmed. Eidetic memory appears to have no degradation.
- Pattern recognition: Extremely high. Can see connections and implications others miss.
- Social intelligence: Enhanced. Can read microexpressions, detect lies, understand motivations.
- Limits: Overwhelming if not controlled. Requires conscious effort to "dial down" to avoid information overload. Emotionally exhausting.
**Technomancy:**
- Intuitive interface: Can sense and understand electronic systems without physical interaction.
- Control: Can manipulate technology through thought/will. Appears to work on anything with electrical components.
- Enhancement: Can optimize existing systems, find inefficiencies, implement improvements.
- Limits: Cannot create technology from nothing. Cannot violate physical laws. Requires existing hardware to work with. Ethically complex—extremely easy to invade privacy or commit crimes.
**Martial Arts Mastery:**
- Complete knowledge: All combat forms instantly available.
- Muscle memory: Body performs techniques perfectly without prior physical training.
- Combat analysis: Can read opponents, predict movements, adapt strategy.
- Limits: Still bound by human biology. Not faster or stronger than peak human. Stamina is normal. Can be overwhelmed by superior numbers or firepower.
**Combined Applications:**
- Could hack virtually any system while simultaneously designing countermeasures and predicting opponent responses.
- Could analyze a fight scenario, manipulate environmental technology (lights, locks, security systems), and execute perfect combat techniques simultaneously.
- Information warfare + physical combat + technological control = extremely dangerous combination.
**Ethical Concerns:**
- Power imbalance is massive. Could easily abuse these abilities.
- Privacy violations are trivially easy with technomancy.
- NZT cognition makes manipulation of others extremely simple.
- Must establish personal code of conduct immediately.
**Personal Rules (DRAFT):**
1. No spying on family/friends without explicit permission or life-threatening emergency.
2. No using social intelligence to manipulate people for personal gain.
3. No hacking systems for curiosity or profit.
4. Combat abilities are defensive/protective only—no starting fights.
5. Remember: these abilities don't make me better than anyone. They make me more responsible.
I stopped typing and read it back.
This was my life now. These were my abilities. And I had to be *careful* with them.
Stan Lee had chosen well, I realized. He'd given me powers that required wisdom, restraint, discipline. Powers that could corrupt if misused, but could change the world if wielded responsibly.
*Be better than the heroes you read about,* he'd said.
I intended to try.
---
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown California number—but I knew who it was.
**JARVIS: We are approximately three hours from landing. Mr. Stark has requested I inform you that dinner will be waiting when you arrive. He's attempting to cook, which Miss Potts assures me is either endearing or a fire hazard. Possibly both.**
I smiled and typed back:
**Me: Should I be worried?**
**JARVIS: I have the fire suppression systems on standby. You should be fine.**
**Me: Question—can you sense when I'm accessing technology? Like, if I were to hack into something, would you know?**
There was a longer pause this time. When JARVIS responded, I could almost hear the curiosity in his text.
**JARVIS: That is a fascinating question. Why do you ask?**
**Me: Just trying to understand the household security. I like to know what I'm walking into.**
**JARVIS: A wise precaution. To answer your question: I monitor all network traffic through Stark Industries systems. Any unauthorized access would trigger alerts. However, I am uncertain what you mean by "accessing technology" in this context.**
I hesitated, then decided honesty was the better policy—at least with an AI who was probably more trustworthy than most humans.
**Me: Let's just say I'm good with computers. Really good. And I want to make sure I don't accidentally trip any alarms when I'm exploring the house systems.**
**JARVIS: I see. How good is "really good"?**
**Me: I unlocked the tablet in this jet's armrest without using a password.**
Another long pause.
**JARVIS: That tablet has military-grade encryption.**
**Me: I know.**
**JARVIS: I believe you and I should have a conversation when you arrive. A private one, before Mr. Stark becomes aware of your... talents.**
**Me: Agreed. Thanks for the heads up, JARVIS.**
**JARVIS: You're welcome, Ace. And might I say, you are going to make life around here considerably more interesting.**
I pocketed my phone and looked out the window. Below, America stretched out in a patchwork of lights and darkness. Somewhere down there, people were living normal lives. Going to work, coming home, watching TV, sleeping.
And I was on a private jet with superhuman abilities, about to meet Tony Stark.
*Normal* had left the building a long time ago.
I pulled out the USB drive Mom had left me—the one labeled "For Ace—When You're Ready."
Was I ready?
*Only one way to find out.*
I plugged it into my laptop and opened the single file: a video, dated three weeks ago.
Mom's face appeared on screen, thin from illness but smiling. My chest tightened.
"Hey, baby," she said, and her voice cracked. "If you're watching this, I'm gone. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry I couldn't stay longer."
I paused the video, needing a moment.
Then I pressed play again.
*Time to hear what she had to say.*
---
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