Five years he'd been trapped in this body, watching himself develop like some kind of science experiment he couldn't fast-forward. He'd started talking at nine months. Not "mama" or "dada" but whole-ass sentences that made his mother nearly faint into her morning espresso. Reading by twelve months, though he had to fake struggling with picture books for another half-year just to keep things from getting weird. Well, weirder.
The wooden puzzles meant for older kids? Child's play, literally. By eighteen months he was solving hundred-piece jigsaws while other toddlers were still figuring out that squares didn't fit in round holes. His brain was a Ferrari engine stuck in a Power Wheels chassis, and the frustration was real.
Now here he sat, strapped into leather seats that probably cost more than a teacher's salary, heading toward his first day of kindergarten. Outside the tinted windows, Chicago 2040 scrolled by: all glass towers and sky-bridges, holographic billboards pushing everything from synthetic meat to the latest Nike Hyperdunks. Basketball highlights played on loop on half of them. King James IV (LeBron's grandson, because apparently athletic dynasties were a thing now) dunking over three defenders, the crowd going absolutely feral.
"Lucifer, always listen to your teacher…" His mom's voice had that particular quality mothers get when they're trying not to cry. Silk blouse, diamond earrings that caught the morning light, hands gripping the steering wheel like it might escape. "The main thing is to have fun."
Fun. Sure. Because nothing screamed "good time" like being surrounded by kids who probably still believed in the Tooth Fairy's investment portfolio.
The school materialized like some Nordic fever dream: all sustainable bamboo and solar panels that looked like modern art. This wasn't education; it was architecture porn with a curriculum. The parking lot was a parade of Teslas, Lucids, and other electric status symbols. One kid was getting out of something that looked like it belonged in a spaceship showroom.
His mother, Alice Capone, turned into an octopus the moment they stopped. Arms everywhere, squeezing him like she was trying to juice an orange.
"I can't breathe."
She loosened maybe half a percent. Her eyes were doing that glossy thing that meant waterworks were imminent. "The house is going to feel so empty without you."
"Mom, it's only five hours."
Five hours that would crawl by like a snail through peanut butter, but she didn't need to know that.
The classroom—Jesus, calling it that felt like calling a Lamborghini a "car"—was what happened when Scandinavian minimalism had a baby with Silicon Valley money. Floor-to-ceiling windows that probably cost more than most people's houses. Toys made from wood so expensive the trees probably had their own Instagram accounts. Everything smelled like lavender and entitlement.
"Oh my God, he's so cute!"
There it was. The C-word. A pack of girls (why did five-year-olds travel in herds?) had spotted him like he was a designer puppy who'd wandered into their territory. Big eyes, bigger smiles, zero concept of personal space. He caught his reflection in the massive pane of glass that overlooked the garden. The wish had delivered, he'd give it that. A messy mop of soft, dark hair fell across his forehead, refusing to be tamed no matter how his mother tried. But it was the eyes they were probably staring at. They weren't the typical soft brown or blue of most kids. His were a strange, pale silver-gray, the color of a storm cloud, and they held a focus that was probably unnerving in a five-year-old's face. So, "cute" was the word they settled on for "unsettlingly intense-looking toddler." He could live with that. Barely.
Play it cool, Lucifer. You're five. Act five.
He smiled. Not too much, not too little. The kind of smile that said "thank you for noticing my existence" but also "please don't touch me with your probably-sticky hands."
They giggled. Because of course they did.
The cubbies stretched along one wall, each name spelled out in those bubble letters teachers seemed to think made everything more fun. His was dead center, LUCIFER in rainbow colors, because apparently nobody saw the irony. Some girl with pigtails so tight they looked like handles was already cramming her stuff into his space.
"That's my cubby. It says L-U-C-I-F-E-R."
She spun around, all freckles and missing teeth. "No, it's mine!"
Breathe. You were an adult. You can handle this.
"See the letters? L-U-C-I-F-E-R. That spells Lucifer. Which is my name."
Her face went through about six different expressions: confusion, understanding, then this burst of excitement like he'd just shown her a magic trick. "You can spell! That's amazing! I'm Daphne!"
Amazing. Right. In her defense, looking at the kid three cubbies down who was currently investigating whether crayons had flavors, maybe spelling was impressive in this crowd.
Miss Peirce (and what were the odds of that name?) clapped her hands in that specific way teachers did when they wanted attention without seeming bossy. Cardigan that screamed "I have three cats," smile that had never met a bad day, voice like audible sunshine.
"Circle time! Everyone share your name and what you want to be when you grow up!"
The circle formed with all the grace of a multicar pileup. He ended up wedged between Daphne and some kid who smelled like he'd bathed in string cheese. The aspirations started rolling in: astronaut (classic), dinosaur (dream big, kid), princess (with or without the trust fund?), YouTuber (god help us all), and one kid who just wanted to be tall. Fair enough.
His turn. "My name is Lucifer, and I want to be the best basketball player in the world."
Simple. Direct. A few nods from kids who got it. Basketball wasn't just big in 2040, it was everything. The global league had teams on six continents, players made more than CEOs, and the Finals were watched by half the planet.
Daphne bounced up next. "I'm Daphne, and I want to be a lawyer and a nurse!"
Two careers that went together like fish and bicycles, but okay.
"Partner up!" Miss Peirce sang out, because apparently forced socialization was mandatory. "Talk about your dreams!"
Daphne scooted so close he could smell her strawberry shampoo. Her eyes were huge, like anime huge, sparkling with the kind of enthusiasm that should be illegal before noon.
"What is basketball?"
I'm sorry, what now?
"What is basketball?" She repeated it slower, like maybe he was the one having comprehension issues.
How did you not know basketball in 2040? It was everywhere: holo-ads, neural feeds if your parents were lazy, actual physical courts on every corner. They'd added it to the Olympics as three different events. The president had been photographed in Jordans last week.
"It's…" Christ, where do you start? "You bounce a ball and try to throw it through a hoop that's high up. Teams compete. Whoever scores the most points wins."
"Oh! Like the bucket game at my cousin's house!"
Close enough for kindergarten work.
"So you really wanna do lawyer stuff AND nurse stuff?" Might as well address the elephant in the room, or whatever that metaphor was.
"Yes! Lawyers help with rules and nurses help people feel better! I'll do both!"
"You can't do both."
"Yes, you can!"
The logic center of his brain started twitching. "No, you literally can't. They're completely different fields, different schools, different…"
"Yes! You! Can!"
Was this happening? Was I actually arguing career logistics with someone who probably still needed help tying her shoes?
"The educational requirements alone…"
"My mommy says I can be anything!"
"Your mommy's lying."
Her face froze somewhere between tears and murder. "You're mean!"
"I'm honest."
"You're cute but mean!"
I hate kids.
"Snack time!" Miss Peirce announced like she was calling the lottery numbers, and Daphne vanished faster than his patience. The snack table got mobbed: organic apple slices, something that claimed to be crackers but looked like compressed sadness, juice boxes that probably cost eight bucks each.
He stayed put on the circle carpet that definitely cost more than his entire previous life's wardrobe, watching the chaos. Five hours of this. Five hours of being "cute," of explaining things that should be obvious, of pretending that finger-painting was somehow enriching when he could be home studying market patterns or working on his jump shot.
Well, working on my jump shot once my arms were long enough to actually reach the rim. Minor detail.
Daphne was over there now, somehow spilling juice on three different kids while arguing about whether dragons were real or just "really good at hiding." Another kid was building a tower out of those expensive wooden blocks just to knock it down. Someone's parent had dressed them in what looked like a tiny business suit, which was both hilarious and deeply sad.
It's going to be a long day.
Scratch that. Looking at the calendar Miss Peirce had helpfully decorated with cartoon animals, it was going to be a long thirteen years before he could do anything remotely important. But at least, he watched Daphne try to lawyer her way into getting two snacks while the teacher wasn't looking, at least he'd have front-row seats to the human comedy show.
Even if he was stuck performing in it.