I don't remember being born—who does?—but I remember the pain. Not the sharp, physical kind, but a hush that pressed against the walls. A grief so thick you could taste it, heavy in the air as I emerged, red and wailing, into the world. My arrival felt like a stone dropped in a still pond: silent ripples, unseen but undeniable.
The midwife leaned close, peering into my eyes. "He's got a sharp gaze, this one. An old soul," she murmured to my mother, who clung to me as if I might vanish. They always say that about babies who quiet too soon, as if silence is wisdom and not just shock.
But I wasn't an old soul. I was an overworked Indian techie, reborn in the body of a British infant in 1975. My mind—wired for code, logic, and late-night caffeine—trapped in a body that could barely wiggle its toes.
My new name was Eliot Clarke.
Son of Charles and Margaret Clarke. Born into a comfortable house nestled in the rolling green of the English countryside—a world away from the neon buzz of Hyderabad's tech corridors. Here, the air was thick with the scent of earth and rain, and the silence was so deep it rang in my ears.
For weeks, I was helpless. Eat, cry, stare at the ceiling—repeat. My adult mind, sharp and restless, floated in a sea of helplessness. I catalogued the patterns of the wallpaper, the way the light shifted through the lace curtains, the cadence of my mother's lullabies—each note more soothing than any algorithm.
My father, a burly Scotsman with hands like ancient stone, would bounce me on his knee and rumble about politics and football. My mother, all soft smiles and gentle hands, sang lullabies that made the world feel safe, even as my mind churned with questions.
This was rural England in the late 1970s—a simpler time, a quieter place. But beneath the surface, something was different. Something was… waiting.
One night, lying in my cradle, the world changed.
The wooden rattle beside me—still and untouched—began to tremble. There was no wind, no footsteps, just a faint, electric hum that thrummed through my bones. The rattle rolled, slow and deliberate, as if nudged by an invisible hand.
I froze, breathless. Was this magic? A ghost? Or—
"Wait… is this me? Did I just move that with my mind?"
A thrill shot through me—not fear, but pure, scientific fascination.
In my past life, I'd devoured superhero comics during five-minute breaks between sixteen-hour shifts. Mutants. Enhanced humans. Biotech gone wrong. Always, the story started with a trigger event—a moment that changed everything.
For me, that trigger was rebirth.
I hadn't just been reincarnated. I was evolving.
As I grew, the signs multiplied.
When I was angry, toys vibrated on the shelf. When I was excited, the lights flickered—sometimes even the flame of a candle would dance to my heartbeat. When frustration overwhelmed me, the very air seemed to crackle, charged and alive.
I wasn't hallucinating. I was experiencing anomalous energy feedback loops—at least, that's how the engineer in me explained it.
"There's a system here. A cause. A function. I just need to map it."
And so, the developer in me took over.
I started documenting—mentally, of course.
Age: 1 year, 3 months.
Event: Wooden cube slid 5 centimeters after emotional spike.
Conditions: Hungry. Frustrated. No external force.
Hypothesis: Stress-linked telekinetic feedback.
Not magic. Not divine intervention.
This was a system. And if it was a system, it could be hacked.
Sometimes, when the house creaked at night, the warmth in my room would shift, as if responding to my thoughts. When my parents argued downstairs—voices sharp, pain hidden in the cracks—small items on my dresser would rattle, echoing the tension. Was I reacting to the emotional static in the house? Or was there something more, something ancient, woven into the bones of this place?
Probably just me. For now.
I wasn't a wizard. I wasn't some chosen child. I was a developer—dropped into a world without logic, rewriting the rules from scratch.
If this was my second chance, I wouldn't waste it chasing salary hikes or debugging someone else's broken code for peanuts. This time, I'd understand the system. Control it. Optimize it.
"Superpowers. Not spells."
Let others call it magic. I knew better.
This was version 2.0 of me.
And I was still booting up.