My name is Arthur O'Connor, sometimes Arty to my friends. My father is a lawyer, my mother is an art historian, and I am a Genius.

I say this not so much as a boast, though if it were, it would be true, but as a statement of fact – it is not an assessment of my intelligence, but a job description. The sciences I study are not the simple, sensible ones studied by normal scientists – they are strange and illogical, methods that are not repeatable in trials, devices that cannot be disassembled and put back together. Machines that operate on the principles of belief and willpower instead of reality.

Of course, much as I would like to devote all my time to the pure exploration of this science, it would be beneath one of my talents to selfishly hoard them. No, instead, it is my duty to create a better world for the ignorant masses with my skills, to reshape the future into something brighter. It is a duty I relish.

Also, I must still endure the tepid brainwashing that is the American educational system. It is beneath me, of course, but according to my parents, it is a necessity.

Luckily, I am not alone in my gifts – there are others who have been Inspired as well. Online communities full of dreamers with giant robots and freeze rays and time travel machines. Whole mailing lists for those who laugh maniacally and rant about their plans to captives. I am not even alone in my community – there are others living nearby, minors like myself, who have also been gifted with the same talents as I. We have formed a collaborative of sorts, though we are as of yet unnamed. Sammy, a mere child still, has suggested we call ourselves the Wonder League of America. Maddie, who is older and ought to know better, suggests calling ourselves the Wunderkinds. Since I refuse to belong to an organization that sounds like a super hero league or stuffed toy line, and luckily Violet agrees with me, we remain nameless. But one day, our names, and those of our great works, shall go down in the annals of history.

The problem is, Wonders such as I have invented are revolutionary – not, perhaps, for Geniuses such as I, but for your everyday scientist, they are beyond his wildest dreams. My father does patent law; I know a great deal about the risks in theft of design. To prevent that from happening, I am keeping an official record of my creations. I have encouraged my friends to do so as well. Not only shall they protect our intellectual property, but I am sure they will form a valuable resource for any future biographers.

Hello. My name is Sammy Pike. I am in fourth grade. I am nine. My hobbies are watching TV, playing video games, and building things from cardboard boxes. My hobbies are not keeping a journal. Yesterday, I built an airplane. I made it from a big box that had had an old Christmas tree in it, and I taped wings to the side, and I put in a steering wheel. Then Spot and I road to the playground in it. Maddie was cross though, because someone could have seen me, and then I would be a UFO.

I don't think it's fair that I have to write all this down, but Arty says it's important to keep a research journal. That way nobody can steal my ideas and say that it's theirs. I don't think anyone will though. Grown-ups don't believe in my science, because I am too young. They don't think I am smart enough to have figured out that it's really easy. Also, they don't understand boxes.

I guess I am a Genius, but I don't think that's true. If I was really a Genius, I would be good at school, like Arty and Vi are, but I don't get good grades. It's because school is stupid. They like to take stuff that's simple, and pretend it's complicated. And then you have to learn everything three times over, until it's so boring you can't remember any of it. I wish I didn't have to go to school.

But I guess there's a difference, because I am a Genius with a capital G. I read about that online. It means that I can do mad science stuff. I saw a mad scientist on a TV show. He had a big nose and funny hair and he wore a labcoat. The hero would always come and destroy his machines and put him in jail. I think I would rather be a hero than a mad scientist. I have a cardboard airplane and a ray gun and x-ray goggles, so I think I would be a good superhero. Or maybe I can go around and fight bad guys in temples, like Indiana Jones. I would like that.

Hey out there, gentle readers! This is the blog of Maddie Donovan, who is here today to tell you about all the crazy made-up science she gets up to! Yes, Inspired community, or Peerage, or whatever of your five million names you like to call yourself, you're about to get a fascinating look into the nonexistent design process of a (currently) pink-haired teen Genius

So, there's this guy I know, called Arty. He's crazy, like the rest of us, but he's a special kind of crazy, because he's actually deluded himself into thinking people care about the crap we make. Like, if we don't document it, someone's going to come steal it or patent it or something. Now, you and I both know that: a.) there's no way anyone cares about the trashy Wonders that a bunch of high school kids are going to crank out and b.) even if they did, nobody would be able to steal our designs, because Wonders do not work that way! But since Arty's totally anal about this kind of thing, and I don't really give a damn, I'm blogging about it. So if anyone tries to stealing my crap: I will find out. I know my way around computers pretty well, thank you very much, and if I find anyone copying my designs, they are gonna be wishing very hard that they hadn't.

Onto more about me. Let's see, I live in a small Midwestern town I'm not gonna name, because I don't trust you guys not to be creeping on me or something. My parents got divorced when I was young, and my dad… my dad was Johann Donovan, crazy Genius. The story's not that unfamiliar. He tried to quit for Mom, but he just couldn't pull it off. So they got a divorce, and Dad ended up spending all his time in the lab in his basement. You can probably guess where this is going. Yep, he went Unmada. He killed five people before they caught him. He wanted the brains for a supercomputer or something. Now he's rotting away in some prison orbiting Jupiter, I think.

I guess that was what finally pushed me over the edge. The man who'd raised me, taught me how to build a circuit when I was three, a serial killer. Let's face it, people, life sucks harder than a hole in the International Space Station. At least I've still got a welding torch and a robot to build for when I get bored.

Damn, that was a depressing first post. Real ball of sunshine, ain't I? But hey – next time, Robot Madness! That oughta cheer you up, huh?

Dear Diary,

I admit I'm mostly doing this on Arty's request. I mean, I usually write down most of my designs already, and keep very close track of them. But I like having a place to write down my thoughts, too. It can be hard, holding it all in your head sometimes.

Sometimes, I feel like my head is going to fall off! It gets so bursting full! I have so many ideas nowadays. They come to me while I sleep, images of new inventions dancing across my eyelids. There are stranger things in there, too, things I don't understand. Things I don't WANT to understand.

Last night, though, I understood my dreams perfectly. I dreamed about Claude again. I'm tired of dreaming about him. Maybe if I write my dream down, it will get out of my head, like I do with my Wonder designs.

Claude was my brother. He was seven years older than me. Where I've always been more interested in electronics, Claude preferred learning how people work. He wanted to be a surgeon when he grew up ever since he was little. He was always so confident and sure of himself, unlike me. He knew exactly where he was going, and I always looked up to him.

It's the accident I dream about – Claude, cruising through a hilly mountain road, window open, wind in his hair. He's not wearing a seatbelt – he always hated them, said it felt like he was choking when he wore one. Not very smart, but he was a careful driver.

Someone else wasn't though. A man, a big man, in a bigger truck. He'd been driving all day, and now he's dozing off on the road. He shifts the wheel too much, towards the center of the road. They're both turning a corner, now, and then – the crash. Claude was dead by the time the ambulances arrived. There was nothing anyone could do.

Or was there? You see, I keep on having ideas in my dreams. I can see the human body in my head, as clearly as I can imagine the inner workings of a vacuum cleaner or a rifle. I can see how to build it myself, what kind of alloys you'd need to develop to mimic bone. I remember that Claude always kept a recording of his thoughts on his laptop. He always said he poured his soul into that machine. There's a pattern to it, and it's all so simple. In my dreams, I know just what to do. And then, just as I'm about to begin, I wake up. The knowledge leaves me, but the idea remains.

Can I put Claude together again? And maybe more importantly, should I?