There came a time in every genius's life when they looked at the sprawling blueprint of their dreams… and realized it cost more than the GDP of a small, ambitious island nation.
Elian sat hunched over his desk, the faint hum of the Catalyst Protocol a constant, almost mocking, presence in his mind. Before him, projected by the system onto his slightly grimy desktop, shimmered a simulated model of the Nano-Layered Graphene Capacitor. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal blue, a tiny, impossible miracle of design. Ultra-efficient. Scalable. Beautiful. The kind of device that could revolutionize global energy grids, power entire cities with a fraction of current waste, and make traditional batteries obsolete.
And it was completely, utterly unbuildable… with his current lab budget.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the grit of sleepless nights. "Okay. Okay. No problem. I've got… um…" His voice trailed off. He clicked open his funding spreadsheet, a relic from a simpler, less cosmically-interfered-with life.
Zero active grants. One expired. One pending, but already rejected twice with particularly scathing feedback from reviewers who clearly thought his pre-Catalyst theories were "borderline delusional." His university stipend barely covered lab maintenance, the increasingly frequent coffee runs, and the occasional emergency repair to a thirty-year-old spectrometer.
"I'm a world-class physicist with exactly forty-three euros and seventeen cents in operational freedom," he muttered to the empty lab. "Awesome."
The system, ever helpful, chimed in, its cool, detached logic a stark contrast to his spiraling dread:
[System Notice: Estimated real-world construction cost of capacitor prototype — $5.2 million USD (non-bulk, high-purity materials). Suggested next action: secure capital. Sub-optimality alert: Human currency exchange rates are volatile.]
"Thanks," he said dryly, leaning back until his chair creaked ominously. "Very helpful."
[Sarcasm detected. System response: unbothered. Host stress levels: rising. Recommendation: deep breathing exercises. Or caffeine.]
He groaned, rubbing his temples. For the first time since the orb had slammed into his world, a deep, real-world problem loomed over him, eclipsing theoretical complexity or metaphysical shock. This wasn't about understanding quantum entanglement or wormhole mechanics. This was about cold, hard economics. The mundane, soul-crushing logistics of materials procurement, specialized equipment rental, and hiring staff who wouldn't immediately demand to know why he was asking for reactor-grade precision on what looked like a glorified battery. He probably needed an actual accountant, maybe even a PR person. The thought alone made him break out in a cold sweat.
One thing was starkly, terrifyingly clear.
He couldn't do this alone. Not this. Not if he wanted to move beyond a single, hidden prototype.
He'd have to tell someone.
No — not just someone. Jenna.
The thought hit him like a lightning bolt, though this time, it was purely emotional. Jenna Li. His lab partner, co-researcher, and chaotic voice of reason. She'd noticed his weird behavior already; her jade green eyes saw too much. She was patient, yes. Kind, in her own sardonic way. Smart beyond measure. But also wildly intolerant of secrets, especially from him. Their last conversation had made that painfully clear.
He looked toward her empty desk across the lab, imagining her raised eyebrow, her knowing smirk. She'd either laugh him out of the lab or call the men in white coats. Or both. Probably both.
"Okay," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. "No more hiding in the lab like a mole-person. Time to be honest. Ish."
He pushed back his chair, standing with a renewed sense of purpose. Then he paused, a sudden wave of self-doubt washing over him. He sat back down. Stood up again. Sat. The indecision was paralyzing.
"This is going to be awful," he muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Truly, epically awful."
But necessary.
Because if he was going to build world-changing tech, invent a new industrial standard, and maybe, just maybe, push humanity beyond the brink of self-sabotage… he needed a startup budget. And probably legal advice. And snacks. Definitely snacks. All the snacks.
He pulled a fresh, crisp page from his notebook and, in shaky block letters that betrayed his inner turmoil, began to write.
Tell Jenna. (This is going to hurt.) Register a Patent. (Before someone else "accidentally" invents my room-temp superconductor.) Publish. (Cautiously. Maybe a pre-print first.) Get Funding. (How do people even do this?) Start a Company (?). (Am I a CEO now? God help us all.) Don't Panic. (Seriously, Elian, don't.) Invent new coffee that doesn't taste like garbage. (Priority One, obviously. Survival depends on it.)
As he underlined the last step three times, an invisible ping registered in his mind.
[Reminder: Do not die of stress. Type I human hosts are statistically fragile. High-stress environments correlate with suboptimal cognitive function. Also, your coffee is objectively terrible.]
Elian glared at the empty air in front of him, then defiantly extended his middle finger towards the invisible interface.
"Step Eight," he added under his breath, a new grim determination settling in his eyes. "Find a way to punch a sarcastic system AI."
Meanwhile...
Somewhere far beyond, in the cozy fourth-dimensional lounge, Clarity watched the feed, a rare, genuine smirk spreading across her gelatinous form. Boop danced through a glittering stream of probabilistic timelines, tiny hearts still flickering around him.
"Is he panicking?" Boop chimed, his fractal form shimmering with excitement.
"Yup. Textbook human existential dread meets capitalism," Clarity confirmed, a ripple of amusement running through her.
"Has he told her yet?"
"Not yet. He made a checklist, though. Step six was 'Don't Panic.' You know, after 'Start a Company (?)'."
Boop giggled, a sound like tiny stars winking into existence. "Classic mistake. Always put 'don't panic' first. Or 'caffeine'."
Clarity leaned back, tentacles crossed, her form settling into a more relaxed configuration. "Let's see how he handles social interaction under financial pressure. This is where the game truly gets interesting. Theoretical breakthroughs are one thing. Navigating the squishy, unpredictable chaos of human bureaucracy and relationships? That's the real challenge."
She took a slow, satisfying sip of her paradox-resistant tea. "This'll be fun."