Being six years old with ten god-tier abilities is like holding a nuclear reactor inside a lunchbox. Sure, it's powerful. Impressive. Terrifying. But it's still a lunchbox. And unfortunately, society expects you to carry it to school and pretend it's full of sandwiches.
Having the mind of a god and the physique of a young demigod doesn't help either. How do you attend elementary school when your IQ breaks every standardized test and your body could bench-press a small car?
Simple. You pretend to be normal. Or at least, weird enough to be dismissed.
Which is how I found myself standing at the gates of Midtown Elementary, clad in the world's most expensive uniform (custom-woven by nanobots), staring into the abyss of social chaos that awaited me.
"Master, are you sure this is necessary?" Jenkins asked, his tone the verbal equivalent of someone watching a lit firecracker slowly roll toward a gas station.
I adjusted the hood of my sweater to better hide my faint glow. "Jenkins, I need to understand the human experience. You know—lunch trays, glue sticks, hallway drama."
"Very well," he muttered, handing me a compact earpiece. "Call me if you accidentally summon another weather anomaly. And please, no lightning goats this time."
"No promises."
With that, I strolled into the building—well, floated an inch above the ground, but only slightly. It was important to be subtle.
The scent of crayons, cafeteria food, and existential dread hit me like a wall. I passed kids with sticky fingers and loud voices, some practicing their best superhero impressions, others aggressively trading Pokémon cards like Wall Street brokers.
My first class was in Room 103. I arrived early and chose the seat in the back corner—strategic, mysterious, perfect for plotting… or hiding an unstable energy core in my chest.
"Class," said a tired woman with a name tag that read Ms. Benson, "we have a new student today. This is… uh…" She squinted at her clipboard. "Mr. Arthur Solarin?"
I stood, giving a charming smile. "Just call me Chaos."
Several kids stared. One dropped his pencil.
I took my seat next to a kid with a suspicious bowl haircut who was coloring a fire-breathing dinosaur eating a math test. Potential Minion #2, I mentally noted.
"What are you drawing?" I asked.
He blinked at me. "A dragon who hates homework. You?"
I showed him my drawing—a black hole swallowing a report card while riding a hoverboard.
He nodded. "Cool. Wanna trade snacks later?"
"If you've got pudding cups shaped like Tony Stark, I'm all in."
Boom. Alliance formed.
Our first period was simple alphabet puzzles. While everyone else struggled with coloring inside the lines, I finished mine in under five minutes, carefully adding a subliminal message in the capital letters: "I AM INEVITABLE."
Second period: math. I aced the worksheet in sixty seconds, then erased two correct answers and replaced them with wrong ones. Mustn't raise suspicion. I even added a backward "3" just for realism.
Then came science.
Ms. Benson stood proudly with a red horseshoe magnet in hand.
"Today, class, we're learning about magnetic fields!"
That's when I felt it—an odd tingling in my fingers. Not from me. Something in the classroom was amplifying natural magnetism. A coincidence? Maybe. But I braced myself.
I tensed. Bad memories. One time I accidentally absorbed a planetary-level magnetic field and gave a sentient microwave self-awareness. Jenkins still avoids kitchen appliances.
She held up a red horseshoe magnet. "Now, magnets attract metals like—"
CLANG.
Every metal object in the room—paperclips, desks, Bobby's braces—launched forward and clung to the board like it owed them money. A blizzard of office supplies buried Ms. Benson in a scene straight out of a dollar-store horror flick. Screaming erupted. Sir Chompers, the class hamster, performed an acrobatic leap out of sheer shock.
"AAAAH!"
Kids screamed. Sir Chompers, the class hamster, fainted.
I casually coughed and nudged a magnet under the desk with my foot. "Wow, that was… uh… rogue magnetism. Classic atmospheric interference."
"What on EARTH?!" Ms. Benson shrieked.
I raised a hand politely. "Perhaps a localized magnetic anomaly caused by... tectonic stress?"
Everyone stared at me.
Ms. Benson stared at me. "Are you sure you're six?"
"Mentally thirty. Spiritually retired."
She blinked, rubbed her temples, and moved on.
"It's possible," I added, shrugging like a scientist explaining a natural disaster.
A girl named Mindy narrowed her eyes at me. She had the freckles of a future conspiracy theorist and the notebook of a secret agent. "You're weird," she said.
"Thank you," I replied.
By recess, I had three admirers, one nemesis, and a cult following of second graders who thought I was Batman's cousin.
I took a seat on the highest monkey bars like a jungle king surveying his kingdom. Kids ran around in pure anarchy: one group was reenacting Avengers scenes using sticks and animal crackers; another was arguing about whether Sonic could beat Goku.
One boy with jelly on his face approached me.
"Why do you walk so quiet?" he asked.
"Posture," I said.
He nodded solemnly and left.
Then came lunch.
Midtown Elementary's cafeteria was less a dining area and more a battlefield of food-based weaponry and emotional damage. I took the corner table, unpacked my gourmet lunch (prepared by Jenkins, who'd slipped in caviar by mistake), and casually observed my fellow tiny humans.
By recess, I'd made three new friends, was owed two juice boxes, and had accidentally taught a pigeon to salute. The playground was a battlefield of dodgeballs and betrayal. I observed from atop the monkey bars, eating crackers like a warlord surveying his kingdom.
A kid walked up to me and asked, "Why do you float when you walk?"
"I'm just light on my feet," I said, giving my best deadpan.
He blinked. "Like, spiritually?"
"Exactly."
Back inside, lunch was its own warzone. The lunchroom echoed with the sound of macaroni-related distress and kids yelling about whose superhero was stronger. I navigated the crowd like a ninja and plopped down at a table where a heated debate was unfolding.
"No way," one boy said, mouth full of sandwich. "Iron Man could totally beat Captain Marvel!"
I couldn't help myself.
"Pretty sure I'd beat both," I said casually, taking a bite of glowing egg salad.
Everyone stared.
"You?" a girl asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"Why not?" I shrugged. "Energy absorption, telekinesis, enhanced everything. Not that I have those. Just… hypothetically."
Silence. Then another kid whispered, "I bet he's a robot."
"Or an alien."
"Or just rich."
I smiled mysteriously and unwrapped a juice box like it was a grenade.
Art class was next. We were told to create a "dream collage." Most kids cut out astronauts and unicorns. I glued together a photo of a volcano, Tony Stark, and a goldfish in sunglasses. Below it, I wrote: "World Domination, but Make It Fashion."
Ms. Benson looked at it. Then at me. "That's… very creative."
"Thank you. It's autobiographical."
She slowly walked away.
The day ended with finger painting and fire drill confusion (not caused by me, this time). As the final bell rang, Jenkins arrived in a sleek black car that definitely did not belong in a kindergarten parking lot.
"How was your first day, Master?" he asked, eyeing my glitter-covered hoodie and the tiny tornado swirling behind me.
"Three friends, four pudding cups, only mildly warped local gravity. I call that a win."
Jenkins sighed. "I'll book your therapist."
As we drove away, I looked out the window, already planning tomorrow's chaos.
Spoiler: It involves quantum yo-yos, a hamster uprising, and perhaps a cameo from Muffin the tactical squirrel.