Chapter 4 - Nathan's New Toys

Roosevelt Elementary School, New York State

Monday, September 2, 2002

Nathan adjusted the straps of his oversized backpack, feeling its weight settle awkwardly against his small shoulders. The soles of his new sneakers squeaked faintly on the linoleum floor as he followed his mom into the brightly lit hallway of Roosevelt Elementary School. The walls were adorned with colourful posters—letters of the alphabet, smiling cartoon animals, and cheerful reminders like "Be Kind!" and "Raise Your Hand!"

Kindergarten.

Nathan tried to suppress a sigh. It wasn't the idea of school that annoyed him—it was the condescension baked into every aspect of it. The songs, the games, the simple rules. He understood that elementary school wasn't exactly geared toward reincarnated super geniuses, but the thought of spending hours in a room being lectured on subjects he already knew was grating, a feeling anyone who ever had to take a retraining seminar for their job probably knew.

Martha crouched down in front of him, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. "You'll do great, sweetheart," she said, her voice soft and encouraging. "Just be yourself."

Be myself, Nathan thought wryly. Which version of myself? The five-year-old playing with blocks, or the kid designing weapons for the US government in his spare time?

He managed a small smile. "I'll be fine, Mama."

She kissed his forehead and stood, brushing imaginary dust off his backpack. "I'll pick you up right here after school, okay?"

"Okay," he replied, his voice steady but inwardly resigned. His eyes flicked toward the classroom door, where other kids were already filing in, some crying, some chattering excitedly.

Nathan joined the line and filed in. Nathan turned and walked into the classroom, doing his best to look like any other slightly nervous five-year-old on their first day of school. The room was filled with tiny chairs, colourful tables, and bins overflowing with crayons, blocks, and other toys. A group of kids had already gathered around a table near the window, laughing as they played with oversized foam puzzle pieces.

He stashed his backpack in an empty cubby and chose a seat at a table near the middle of the room. Nathan sat quietly, his small hands folded neatly in front of him, observing the chaos with an outwardly calm expression. The teacher stood at the front of the room. She was a petite woman in her mid to late twenties with curly brown hair and a kind smile.

"Good morning, everyone!" the teacher called out, clapping her hands twice to settle the class. Her voice carried a slightly nervous edge, the kind typical of someone eager to make a good impression. "My name is Miss Anderson, and I'm so excited to be your teacher this year. It's my first year here, so we're going to learn and grow together!"

Nathan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He already knew everything about her—or at least everything the CIA had been able to uncover. Real name: Melissa Anderson. Age: 28. Former graduate student in child psychology. Current operative for Vought International. She replaced the previous teacher for this class, Mrs. Abbot, rather suddenly after the latter took an early retirement.

Miss Anderson continued, " Now children, we'll all do our very best this year to learn and grow. Won't we?"

Nathan joined the rest of the class in their loud but varied response of "Okay", "Yes", "Yes, Miss Anderson", or enthusiastic and uncoordinated clapping.

If she wanted his best, well, she wouldn't get that, but he'd see what he could do. When Miss Anderson asked them to colour their name tags, Nathan diligently wrote his name in neat block letters. When it was time to share their favourite animals, he confidently declared, "Wolves," earning a chorus of oohs and aahs from his peers.

By lunchtime, Nathan had made a friend—a shy boy named Robbie who seemed genuinely impressed by Nathan's ability to tie his own shoelaces. Nathan didn't mind the attention; Robbie seemed like a nice kid.

As the class filed out at noon, Nathan glanced back at Miss Anderson, who was tidying up her desk. Her cheerful facade hadn't cracked once, but Nathan knew better. Enjoy the calm while it lasts, he thought.

The first few weeks passed without incident. Nathan behaved perfectly, completing his assignments with precision, making friends, and cheerfully returning home at noon with the rest of the class. His parents seemed relieved that he was settling in so well.

He almost felt bad for Miss Anderson. Almost.

Thursday, September 26, 2002

Nathan stood quietly between his parents in the hallway outside the counsellor's office. A plain windowless door showing the nameplate, Dr. Charles Price. Nathan's mother held his hand tightly, her grip a little firmer than usual. His father stood to his right. From inside the office, muffled voices carried through the door—sharp, cutting tones that were unmistakably argumentative.

"I don't think this is appropriate, Miss Anderson," came a firm voice, likely Dr. Price's.

"He's my student! You can't just override me like this," another voice snapped back. Nathan immediately recognized Miss Anderson's voice. She was annoyed—very annoyed.

Martha glanced down at Nathan, smoothing a hand over his hair. "You'll be fine, sweetheart," she murmured, though her voice carried an edge of uncertainty.

Nathan gave her a reassuring smile, his expression carefully crafted to appear calm and innocent. Inside, his thoughts churned. Out of her depth, as always, he thought of Miss Anderson. She has no idea who she's dealing with.

Hank reached the door and knocked firmly, cutting through the argument inside. The voices fell silent, and after a few moments, the door swung open to reveal Miss Anderson. She was scowling, but her expression shifted quickly into the bright, practiced smile she always wore in class.

"Mr. and Mrs. Greene," she greeted, "and hello Nathan." Looking back up at his parents, she continued, "I'm so sorry you had to come in for such a silly matter."

Her tone was cheerful, but Nathan caught the strain beneath it. She was trying to maintain control of the situation, but he could tell she wasn't happy about it.

She continued to stand in the doorway until someone else cleared their throat behind her, "Ahem."

Miss Anderson's smile became even more fixed, but she turned away and stepped back inside to let Nathan and his parents through the door.

Inside, the school counsellor, Mr. Price, was seated behind his desk. He rose as they entered, extending a hand to greet Hank and Martha. Mr. Price was composed, his movements deliberate and professional. He wore a navy blazer over a white button-up shirt, and his grey hair had a noticeable bald spot. His sharp, piercing eyes swept over Nathan briefly before focusing on his parents.

He stood up to greet them, "Mr. and Mrs. Greene, Nathan, lovely to meet you."

Nathan waved while his parents said hello.

"Please, have a seat," Dr. Price said, gesturing to the three chairs in front of his desk. His voice was calm, but it carried a quiet authority that seemed to fill the room. Miss Anderson lingered awkwardly near the doorway, her usual confidence wavering under Dr. Price's presence.

Nathan climbed into the chair between his parents as Hank and Martha sat down beside him.

Dr. Price returned to his seat and folded his hands neatly on the desk. "I asked Principal Bailey to arrange this meeting to discuss Nathan's progress. Miss Anderson and I have differing perspectives on the matter, so I felt it was important to include you both in the conversation."

Hank leaned forward slightly, his brows drawing together. "What's going on? Nathan's never been in trouble before."

"He isn't in trouble," Dr. Price assured him, pulling a folder from his desk. He opened it and slid the first sheet of paper across the desk. "But some of his assignments suggest he's operating at a level far beyond what we typically see in kindergarten."

Martha leaned forward to look at the page, her brow furrowing. It was a writing assignment where the students were supposed to practice their alphabet. Instead of the expected rows of letters, Nathan had written an essay about the evolution of writing systems, tracing their origins from Phoenician script to modern English.

Martha's cheeks flushed. "Nathan, you were supposed to practice your letters."

Dr. Price handed over another page to Hank causing him to mutter something under his breath. This one was a math worksheet meant to practice basic addition and subtraction. Nathan had ignored the instructions entirely, opting to write a detailed proof of irrational numbers, complete with geometric diagrams of right-angle triangles to represent the square root of two.

Hank set the papers down with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Nathan, what the hell were you doing? This isn't what they asked for."

"Hank, language," Martha chastised, though her tone was faint. She turned back to the counsellor, forcing a tight smile. "He's always been precocious."

Nathan mumbled something quietly.

"What was that sweetheart?" Martha asked.

Nathan looked up at her, his wide eyes the picture of innocence. "Miss Anderson told me to do my best."

Martha's face melted, while Hank's expression softened, slightly. Miss Anderson's face paled, probably realizing what would happen to her if that news ever got back to her superiors.

Nathan felt more than a little guilty about manipulating them this way. Sure they sold him to Vought and let him be injected with an experimental nazi drug, but they were still his parents. It was obvious that they cared for him even loved him. He couldn't help but reciprocate that.

"This is what I mean," Dr. Price said, his tone calm but firm. "Nathan's work demonstrates a level of comprehension—"

Miss Anderson tried to step in, her voice overly bright. "It's not uncommon for gifted children to approach assignments creatively. I think this is just Nathan expressing his enthusiasm for learning—"

"Ahem," Dr. Price interrupted her right back. "Isn't one of the lessons you teach in your class not to interrupt people?" he asked Miss Anderson politely, causing the woman to flush angrily. "As I was saying, Nathan's academic level is clearly far beyond his peers."

Nathan thought to himself how outclassed Miss Anderson was. She may have been Vought's plant, but Dr. Price was the CIA's agent—and a formidable one at that. His calm authority and razor-sharp instincts weren't just for show. Nathan had read his file; his résumé was both impressive and terrifying, with expertise in negotiation, analysis, and enhanced interrogation.

The fact that he was to be Nathan's handler while he was at school was concerning, but not a deal breaker.

Miss Anderson bristled and stupidly said the first thing that came to mind, "Do you really think a five-year-old could have written something like that?"

Dr. Price's lips curved into a faint smile as he picked up the mistake. "He wrote it in your classroom, Miss Anderson. So unless you missed him cheating, I'd say yes, it's his own work."

Nathan forced down his smirk, glancing at Miss Anderson out of the corner of his eye. Her face had gone an even deeper shade of red, and she looked as if she'd swallowed a lemon.

"Well, I—of course, but—" Miss Anderson stammered, clearly at a loss for words.

Hank flipped through the folder, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is... a lot. What does this mean for him? Are you saying he should skip grades or something?"

"That's one option," Dr. Price replied, his gaze steady. "But I'd recommend a more measured approach. I have a personal tutor on file who might be able to help. She normally deals with older students who already have an academic path in mind."

Miss Anderson tried to speak up again, "I'm sure I could give him some extra sessions after school if they're needed."

Dr. Price responded, "It's not a matter of extra time Miss Anderson. You are only licensed to teach elementary-level education. Besides, wouldn't that be like showing favouritism to one of your students?"

Miss Anderson wisely chose to keep her mouth shut that time.

Martha hesitated. "I don't know. His doctors always said it was best to keep him with kids his own age."

"Doctors?" Dr. Price asked, his tone neutral but curious.

"Specialists," Hank said quickly. "They've been advising us to let him develop at a normal pace."

Nathan saw his opportunity and leaned forward slightly, his wide eyes shining with feigned innocence. "Please, Mama? I just want to learn more. I promise I'll be good."

Martha glanced at Hank, her resolve wavering. "Hank…"

Hank sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "How much is it going to cost?"

Dr. Price smiled, "Not much at all. Her rates are the most reasonable in the area?"

Hank closed his eyes again before looking back at him, "Alright. We'll have Nathan meet her. But no skipping grades or anything drastic, okay?"

"Of course," Dr. Price said smoothly. He pulled out a business card from one of his desk drawers, "Here's her contact information."

Martha looked hesitant, but Nathan chimed in again. "I don't mind, Mama. It might be fun."

Reluctantly, Martha nodded. "Alright. But if it's too much for him, we stop."

"Understood," Dr. Price said, offering a reassuring smile.

Miss Anderson muttered something under her breath but didn't object further. As the meeting concluded, Nathan followed his parents out of the office, his small hand slipping into Martha's. Inside, he was immensely satisfied with how that meeting went.

Poughkeepsie, New York

Monday, September 30, 2002

Nathan sat in the backseat of the car, gazing out the window as his parents exchanged quiet words in the front. Hank, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, was grumbling under his breath.

"I still don't see why this is necessary," he muttered, glancing at the rearview mirror. "The kid's fine. He doesn't need some fancy tutor to tell us what we already know—that he's smart."

Martha shot him a look, crossing her arms. "We already agreed to try it, Hank. Let's give her a chance before we start complaining."

Hank sighed but didn't respond, focusing on the road instead. The car turned onto a tree-lined street between rows of large, upscale houses, each meticulously maintained. Perfectly trimmed hedges, lush green lawns, and pristine driveways gave the neighbourhood an air of wealth and calm.

Nathan observed the scenery with mild interest. The uniformity of the houses was almost comical; each looked distinct yet carefully restrained, projecting an illusion of individuality while conforming to the same overall aesthetic. Which is kind of the point.

The car slowed to a stop in front of a two-story home that matched the others in its unremarkable perfection. The beige siding and white trim gave nothing away, and even the flower beds seemed curated to avoid standing out.

Hank put the car in park and let out another sigh as he turned off the engine. "Looks like every other house on this block. HOA must be a nightmare around here."

Martha looked a little weirded out by it as well. The expressionist in her probably rebelling.

"Alright, let's get this over with," Hank grumbled, climbing out of the car. Martha followed, opening Nathan's door and helping him out of the backseat.

Together, the three of them walked up the neatly paved path to the front door. Martha reached the door first and knocked politely.

After a moment, the door opened to reveal a woman who looked to be in her sixties. Her silver-streaked hair was neatly pulled back into a bun, and she wore a tailored blouse and skirt combo that suggested professionalism without being ostentatious. Her eyes, behind horn-rimmed glasses held by a chain around her neck, were kind, and her smile was warm.

"Good afternoon," she greeted them, stepping aside to let them in. "You must be the Greene family. I'm Dr. Eleanor Tregarth. Please call me Eleanor"

"Hello," Martha said, "I'm Martha. This is my husband, Hank, and our son, Nathan." offering a friendly smile as they stepped inside. "Thank you for meeting with us."

Nathan glanced around as they removed their shoes. The interior of the house was just as unremarkable as the exterior—comfortable but understated, with neutral colours and simple furnishings.

"Of course," Dr. Tregarth said. "I'm looking forward to working with Nathan. Please, follow me to the study."

They followed her down a short hallway to a room that looked like a home office. The study was lined with shelves filled with books on a wide range of subjects. Several degrees were framed and displayed prominently on one wall, each in a different field: education, mathematics, physics, chemistry, and psychology.

Nathan scanned the titles and diplomas, his sharp mind noting that some of the degrees might even be real—though likely earned under an alias. The CIA was nothing if not thorough.

Hank and Martha, meanwhile, seemed intimidated.

Dr. Tregarth gestured to the chairs in front of a large wooden desk and asked them to sit down.

As they sat, she settled into the chair behind the desk and adjusted her glasses. "Before we get started, let me tell you a little about myself. I've worked as a private tutor for nearly twenty years, specializing in gifted students. Before that, I was a university professor at NYU. My background includes work with students who've gone on to attend institutions such as Harvard, MIT, and Juilliard."

She gestured to a nearby wall adorned with photos of young adults in graduation gowns, their bright smiles captured in moments of triumph.

Martha's eyes lingered on a photo of a young woman standing next to an easel with a landscape on prominent display. "She's an art major?"

Dr. Tregarth nodded. "Yes, that's Bethany. She graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design with honours."

Hank, on the other hand, pointed to a photo of a young man standing in front of an elaborate model bridge. "What about him?"

"David," Dr. Tregarth said with a fond smile. "He studied civil engineering at Stanford. That was his senior project—he designed and built a bridge prototype that earned him a scholarship."

Both parents exchanged a glance, clearly impressed.

Well, guess the CIA came up with the same psych profile of my parents that Vought and I did; classic stage parents.

Nathan suspected that if his parents were to google any of the former students on the wall, they'd probably find evidence that backed up those stories. Some of the algorithms he'd given to the CIA were more than capable of doing so and he knew they were already being used to create cover identities for agents and other assets.

There was some debate about whether or not to share it with the FBI's witness protection program. The CIA was worried about any potential moles within their sister organization that might sell it to criminals who could then use it for identity theft, or worse, foreign agents. It reminded him of many of the kids in his class and their various excuses for not sharing their favourite toys.

Nathan knew he could easily write a more advanced detection software to counter it, but he had other things he wanted to do in the meantime.

"I tailor my approach to each student's unique strengths and needs," Dr. Tregarth continued. "Nathan is clearly exceptional, and I believe I can help him reach his full potential."

"What exactly would that involve?" Hank asked, his skepticism returning.

Dr. Tregarth opened a folder and handed it to them. Inside was a detailed assessment and lesson plan, outlining the areas where Nathan would be tested and the subjects she planned to cover. "We'll begin with an assessment to determine his current level in various disciplines, then move on to a customized curriculum designed to challenge and engage him."

Hank flipped through the folder, his brow furrowed. "This seems... thorough."

"It is," Dr. Tregarth said. "Nathan deserves the best, and I take my role very seriously."

Martha smiled, any remaining apprehension fading. "It sounds wonderful."

Dr. Tregarth looked at Nathan, her gaze warm but appraising. "What do you think, Nathan? Are you ready to get started?"

Nathan nodded, his expression calm but curious. "I'm ready."

"Excellent," she said. "Why don't we begin with a short session today? You're welcome to pick him up in about three hours."

Hank hesitated, glancing at Martha. She nodded encouragingly, and he relented. "Alright. We'll be back at 3:00."

As his parents left, Nathan watched them go, a small smile playing on his lips. The next few hours were going to be very interesting.

As they heard the front door close behind his parents, Nathan looked at Eleanor, or whatever her real name was, who was already watching him with a different expression. The warmth that had greeted his parents was gone, replaced by a calculating gaze. Her posture shifted as well—less welcoming, more precise, like a professional slipping into their true role.

"So," she said, leaning slightly against the desk, her voice lower than before. "You're the one the Deputy Director is so interested in."

Nathan tilted his head slightly, his expression calm. "I guess so."

Eleanor let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "Setting this up was quite the endeavour. You'd think establishing a cover as a private tutor would be straightforward, but then the Deputy Director decides it needs to be perfect." She gestured around the room.

"You sell it well," Nathan said evenly. "My parents were impressed."

Her lips curled into a faint smirk. "Good. That was the point. But now that they're gone, we can dispense with the theatrics." She reached into a drawer and pulled out a neatly stapled set of papers, placing them on the desk between them. "Before we start, the Deputy Director wanted you to go over your agreement again. She was insistent that you fully understand the terms, and that we get a signed copy."

Nathan glanced at the papers, already recognizing the familiar CIA seal embossed on the top page. He leaned over the desk and pulled the document closer, his sharp eyes scanning the contents.

The contract was straightforward, at least on the surface. It outlined the terms of his arrangement with the CIA. He would receive access to funding, equipment, resources, and protection for himself and his family as needed. In exchange, he would work on the CIA's projects for 5 years. Anything he made as part of commissions would be owned solely by the US government. Anything he made in his spare time would automatically belong to him, but the CIA would receive a discounted price for purchasing anything they found useful and would be allowed to duplicate his technology. If he managed to complete his 5-year contract, he would be provided with funding and assistance to set up his own technology development company and priority access to government and military contracts in the future, dependent on his performance. He was additionally forbidden under penalty of treason and forfeiture of his intellectual property from sharing or otherwise distributing any of the technology developed while still under contract with any enemies of the United States. Finally, it included clauses about operational security, confidentiality, and oversight.

It was a lot more technical than that, but Nathan's knowledge of business and contract law from Tony Stark made it rather simple to parse. The final contract was the result of months of back-and-forth negotiation.

"You're agreeing to a lot, you know," Eleanor remarked, watching him closely. "They're trusting you to hold up your end."

Nathan didn't look up from the papers. "And they're trusting you to keep me on track."

She gave a noncommittal hum. "True enough. Still, this isn't your average tutoring gig."

Nathan's lips twitched into a faint smile as he flipped through the pages. "I'm not your average student."

"Fair point." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "So? Does it all look good?"

Nathan paused for a moment, rereading one of the clauses about intellectual property rights. After a beat, he nodded. "It looks good."

Eleanor pulled a pen from her blazer pocket and handed it to him. "Then let's make it official."

Nathan took the pen without hesitation and signed his name at the bottom of the document. His handwriting was absolutely terrible. In fairness, it was the first time he'd ever tried to write in cursive using his new fingers.

Once he finished, Eleanor took the papers, clipped them into a folder, and set it aside. Her expression softened slightly, though her professional air remained. "Alright, then. Now we can get started."

Nathan met her gaze, his tone even. "Good. Let's get to work."

"I think you'll like what we have here. The Deputy Director made sure to get everything on your list."

"Does that include the shielding I requested?"

"Thankfully this used to be one of our safehouses before we renovated it, so that came pre-installed," she said.

"And what about the device I sent you designs for last month?" Nathan asked.

Reaching into a drawer, Eleanor pulled out a small metal device about the size of a matchbox, with a couple of buttons on the side. "You mean this?" she said handing it to him.

"Yep." Nathan deftly removed the outer casing to look inside and check out the internals. Looks good.

"May I ask what it is?" she said. "Our techs were able to piece together that it has a radio receiver and transmitter, but they couldn't really understand the internals or the programming."

"Oh, sure," Nathan said, happy to show off. "It's designed to scan nearby RFIDs and copy the signal. It then sends out a duplicate signal to make it look like the target is in another area or make it look like it's still transmitting while the original signal is hidden or interrupted."

One of Eleanor's eyebrows shot up.

"It even works on frequencies based on unique radioactive decay signatures." That had been a tricky thing to get going since radioactive decay signatures were so unique, but Tony having read Bruce Banner's research had helped a lot and he thought it would be a good idea just in case Vought was extra thorough.

"And why would you want that?" Eleanor asked.

Instead of responding verbally, Nathan pressed one of the buttons and started running the device near his collar. It beeped just as it passed over where he knew his RFID tag was and a red light activated, then turned orange.

Eleanor's other eyebrow shot up. Both were now closer to her hairline than her eyes.

Nathan pressed the other button. The device beeped again, then the light turned green. that meant the signal had been successfully duplicated and was now broadcasting. "That should do it."

"And why exactly do you have a tracking device in your shoulder?" Eleanor asked warily.

"Vought," Nathan answered simply. "They put them in all super-abled children. The shielding might block it and raise some uncomfortable questions."

She looked like she had questions of her own but also realized that Nathan wasn't interested in answering them right now. Instead, she picked up the signed contract then stood up and walked out the door.

Nathan set the device down on the desk where it would keep broadcasting then rose from his seat, following her lead.

Eleanor gestured for Nathan to follow her as she left the study. They walked down the hall and into the living room, which looked like it had been plucked straight out of an upscale design magazine. Soft, cream-coloured furniture arranged perfectly around a polished coffee table gave the room an air of elegance. A grand piano stood in one corner, gleaming under the soft glow of a chandelier. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with an eclectic mix of titles meant to showcase both intellect and refinement. Nathan thought it was all very convincing—if someone were trying to sell the image of an accomplished private tutor.

Eleanor walked toward one of the bookshelves, positioned exactly where the staircase's back wall would be on the first floor. Without a word, she reached out and pressed a hidden mechanism along the side of the shelf. With a faint metallic click, the entire bookcase swung out, revealing a hidden staircase leading down into the shadows.

"A bit of a cliche don't you think?" Nathan quipped.

"Mallory thought you'd like it given your age," she said, her voice tinged with dry amusement.

Nathan looked mildly affronted but followed her down the steps anyway. The air grew cooler as they descended. At the bottom of the staircase was a steel door, its surface unblemished and imposing. A keypad and retinal scanner were embedded in the wall to its right.

Eleanor turned to Nathan. "Time to register you." She input a code into the keypad, and a small chime sounded. "Step forward and look into the scanner."

Nathan did as instructed, appreciating that someone had thought to put out a stool for him to climb up on. He stood still as the retinal scanner emitted a soft beep and a faint green light. A moment later, the mechanism confirmed his registration with a mechanical hum.

Eleanor entered another code, and the heavy door slid open with a quiet hiss. She stepped aside, allowing Nathan to enter first.

The room beyond was vast, easily taking up the entire space beneath the house above and maybe the yard as well. Bright, evenly spaced fluorescent lights illuminated every corner, banishing shadows and lending the space a clinical precision. His ears picked up the faint hum of machinery, underscored by the occasional beep of active systems. Nathan's eyes darted around, taking in the six different sections of the lab.

To his immediate left was a computer lab. A series of high-performance flat-screen monitors lined the wall behind a sleek metal desk, their screens glowing faintly with system readouts. A massive server rack stood against the wall, cables neatly organized and running to various terminals. Shelves held spare parts—processors, hard drives, cables, and other peripherals—while a small workspace was equipped with various attachments and tools for both diagnostics and repairs. It wasn't anything close to what Tony had had even at the beginning of the series, but it had been so long since he'd last seen a flat-screen he almost wept.

The far left corner housed a machine shop, complete with workbenches, tool cabinets, and a variety of precision machining equipment. A lathe, drill press, and CNC mill were positioned in a neat row, each gleaming under the bright lights. Shelves stocked with metal rods, sheets, and other raw materials lined the walls. A large, vented welding station stood in one corner, equipped with protective gear and gas tanks. Everything was electric or hydraulic so that Nathan could handle it without problems. It was also undersized so that at most he could make pieces about 1ft across. That would be more than enough for individual parts.

On the far right, he saw the biochemical lab. Stainless steel counters were lined with microscopes, centrifuges, and other specialized equipment. Glass cabinets, refrigeration units, and freezers held rows of carefully labelled chemical reagents and other samples, ranging from basic compounds to more exotic and volatile substances. An isolation chamber and fume hood dominated one side of the lab, complete with filtration systems and built-in lighting. The attention to detail was impeccable—clearly, no expense had been spared.

The final corner on his immediate right served as a safety station, general storage, and place to clean other equipment outfitted with everything necessary for maintaining strict laboratory protocols. Wall-mounted goggles and lab coats were arranged in neat rows, while an eyewash station and chemical shower were ready for emergencies. A fire extinguisher and first aid kit were clearly marked and mounted on the wall, ensuring that any potential mishap could be dealt with swiftly. A sink for washing himself and his tools stood on one side.

The room's far side was partitioned off by thick glass, with a heavy-duty airlock serving as the only entry point. Inside, Nathan could see the clean room—its sterile, white surfaces practically glowing under the lights. The space was equipped with high-precision instruments for assembling and testing advanced technologies, each piece of equipment meticulously arranged. Nathan knew this was where his most delicate and ambitious projects would take shape.

In the centre of the main room, surrounded by the four small lab stations, was a space for organizing notes and plotting out projects. This included a large table for laying out diagrams or assembling larger projects as needed, as well as whiteboards for note-taking, and a few wheeled chairs sized both for Nathan and visiting adults.

Standing in front of this table, arms crossed and expression unreadable was Deputy Director Grace Mallory. She was dressed in her usual sharp business attire, her greying hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun. Her piercing gaze locked onto Nathan as he stepped further into the lab. "Hello, Nathan. What do you think?"

Nathan, trying not to jump up and down in joy, replied, "It's perfect!"

Mallory smiled at his enthusiasm, then turned to Eleanor behind him holding out her hand for the contract the other woman had brought with her. Eleanor handed it over promptly and Mallory looked it over.

Nathan started to wander around the lab looking at his new toys.

She looked satisfied before Eleanor moved closer and started whispering into her ear. What she heard caused Mallory to look at Nathan speculatively.

She called him back from where he was examining the machine shop. "Nathan?"

He came back quickly. "Yes?"

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to share that device you showed Eleanor upstairs with us would you?"

"Sure, no problem," he said. "Thought you guys might want something like that. Make as many as you like using the design I sent you."

"Thank you," she said. "It will be very helpful with some of our operations."

Nathan put his hands behind his back and looked up at her, "So, what do you want first? Taser disguised as a wristwatch? Flying spycar?"

Mallory actually let out a laugh at that. Eleanor's jaw dropped.

"No we had something more conventional in mind first," Mallory said, going over to the table in the middle and picking up a file which she handed to Nathan.

He looked it over for a moment and said, "Easy enough, shouldn't take more than a few hours."

Eleanor objected, "Oh come on kid. We know you're smart, but we've had people working on that since the Cold War."

"But you didn't have me now did you?" he asked with a grin.