[August 1929 - Sterling Household, Now a Rental in the Upper West Side]
The moving truck pulled away from their brownstone like a hearse carrying their old life. Alexander watched from the window of their new apartment—smaller, cheaper, temporary. The kind of place that whispered "transitional" in every creak of its floors.
His mother hadn't spoken to him in three days. Not the silent treatment exactly, more like she was afraid words might break whatever spell had convinced them to gamble everything on their teenage son's "hunches."
"She'll come around," Joseph said, appearing with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Alexander, who'd been drinking it since he turned fourteen. Some battles weren't worth fighting, especially when you needed the caffeine to plot economic warfare.
"She thinks I'm possessed," Alexander said, taking a sip that tasted like burnt ambition.
"Are you?" His father's tone was light, but his eyes weren't joking.
Alexander nearly choked. "What?"
"Just checking. You have to admit, you've been right about... well, everything. The Harding scandal. The Teapot Dome. That mess with Sacco and Vanzetti. You called them all months in advance."
Because I remember them from history class, not because I'm the fucking Oracle of Delphi.
"Lucky guesses," Alexander deflected. "Plus, I read. A lot. You'd be surprised what patterns emerge when you pay attention to the right things."
Joseph studied him with the intensity of a man who'd learned to read people in trenches where misreading meant death. "Your 'lucky guesses' have been remarkably consistent."
"The world's remarkably predictable when you assume the worst of people."
"That's... dark, son."
"That's realistic, Pop. Optimism is just pessimism that hasn't been mugged by reality yet."
His father winced. "When did you become so cynical?"
When I died and got reborn into a universe where half the population gets deleted by a purple space raisin. But sure, let's go with teenage angst.
"Around the time I realized the market's built on wishes and cocaine."
"Language."
"Sorry. Wishes and 'medicinal stimulants.'"
Joseph shook his head but smiled. "The real estate agent called. The house sold. Full asking price, cash buyer."
"Good. We'll need the liquidity." Alexander pulled out his ever-present notebook, its pages filled with calculations that looked like madness unless you knew the future. "I've found a brokerage firm that's... flexible about age requirements."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they care more about money than birth certificates. Goldman's junior partner, Harold Stanley, he's hungry. Wants to make a name for himself. He'll take our meeting."
"Goldman Sachs? Alex, that's the big leagues."
"Go big or go home. Except we can't go home because we sold it to bet against the American economy." Alexander grinned without humor. "So I guess it's go big or go homeless."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
"Your mother would kill us both if she heard you joking about this."
"Then let's not tell her. Add it to the list of things we're not telling her, like how I'm about to convince grown men to let me short sell the entire stock market using our life savings as collateral."
Joseph paled. "Maybe we should—"
"Pop." Alexander's voice carried the weight of two lifetimes. "Trust me. Have I been wrong yet?"
"No. That's what terrifies me."
[Three Days Later - Goldman Sachs, Lower Manhattan]
The building screamed old money so loudly it might as well have been printed on the marble. Alexander walked with his father like a general approaching negotiations, his best suit making him look like a very well-dressed child rather than the economic prophet he needed to be.
Look confident. Not cocky. Confident says 'I know something.' Cocky says 'I'm a kid playing dress-up.' Fine line to walk when you're technically both.
Harold Stanley's office was exactly what you'd expect—leather and mahogany and the faint smell of cigars that cost more than most people's rent. The man himself was younger than Alexander expected, maybe thirty-five, with the hungry eyes of a carnivore who'd tasted blood but wanted the whole carcass.
"Mr. Sterling," Stanley rose, shaking Joseph's hand before turning to Alexander with barely concealed amusement. "And the young Mr. Sterling. I understand you've had some... success with investments?"
Condescending prick. Let's see how amused you are when I'm right and you're not completely broke because you listened to me.
"Some modest gains from analyzing market inefficiencies," Alexander said, channeling every Aaron Sorkin character he could remember. "Nothing compared to what Goldman Sachs manages daily, of course."
Flattery, Alexander had learned, was like cologne—a little went a long way, too much made people suspicious. Stanley's smile suggested he'd applied just the right amount.
"Please, sit." Stanley gestured to chairs that probably cost more than a car. "I must admit, I'm curious. It's not often we get... family visits with such specific requests."
"We're not most families," Alexander said simply. "Mr. Stanley, are you familiar with the concept of market corrections?"
"Of course."
"And would you agree that the current market valuations are... optimistic?"
Stanley's smile sharpened. "Some might say that. Others would say we're in a new era of permanent prosperity. The president himself—"
"The president thinks Prohibition is working. I wouldn't trust his judgment on breakfast cereals, much less economic policy."
Joseph coughed. "Alexander..."
"Sorry. Let me rephrase. The current administration's economic optimism seems... disconnected from mathematical reality."
"Better. Marginally." Stanley leaned back. "Go on."
Alexander pulled out a single sheet of paper—not his whole notebook, just enough bait to set the hook. "These are some concerning trends I've noticed. Credit expansion outpacing industrial growth by 400%. Price-to-earnings ratios that assume every company will double profits annually forever. International debt structures that make a house of cards look structurally sound."
Stanley studied the paper, his expression shifting from amused to intrigued. "You compiled this?"
"With my father's help," Alexander lied smoothly, throwing Joseph a bone. Men like Stanley respected adult oversight. "He has experience from before the war, when markets were... different."
"Indeed." Stanley's fingers drummed on his desk. "And based on these observations, you want to...?"
"Hedge our positions," Alexander said, avoiding the phrase 'short sell' like it was radioactive. Which, culturally speaking, it was. "We believe in American enterprise long-term, but short-term corrections require short-term strategies. We're looking for a partner who understands that protecting capital during volatility is as important as growing it during prosperity."
Translation: We want to bet on the apocalypse, but make it sound respectable.
Stanley was quiet for a moment. Then: "How much capital are we discussing?"
"Sixty thousand to start," Joseph interjected. "From the sale of our home and various investments."
Stanley's eyebrows rose. That was serious money in 1929. Serious enough to overcome the obvious issue of Alexander's age.
"And you're willing to risk this on your son's... analysis?"
"I'm willing to invest it with a partner who shares our cautious optimism about market cycles," Alexander corrected. "The question is whether Goldman Sachs wants to be that partner."
Push and pull. Show strength but not arrogance. Make him feel like he's in control while you steer the conversation. It's like training a cat—if the cat could destroy your life with a phone call.
"What kind of positions are you considering?"
"Diversified shorts on overvalued industrials. Radio Corporation, U.S. Steel, General Electric. Companies trading at multiples that assume perfection in an imperfect world."
"That's... aggressive for 'hedging.'"
"Noah's ark was aggressive for a boat. Didn't make the flood any less real."
Stanley actually smiled at that. "You have an interesting way with words, young Mr. Sterling."
"I have an interesting way with numbers too. Want to see more?"
The negotiation took two hours. Alexander let them talk him down on some points, standing firm on others. The key was making Stanley feel like he was winning while Alexander got exactly what he wanted—access to Goldman's infrastructure and, more importantly, their leverage.
"Ten-to-one seems excessive for a first-time client," Stanley said eventually.
"Five-to-one seems insufficient for the magnitude of correction we're anticipating," Alexander countered.
"Seven-to-one?"
"Eight, with the option to adjust based on market conditions."
"You realize if you're wrong, you'll lose everything? More than everything?"
"I realize if I'm right, we'll need significant leverage to make the positions worthwhile." Alexander met his gaze steadily. "I'm not wrong."
"Such certainty. It's either admirable or terrifying."
"Why not both?"
They shook on it. Papers would be drawn up. Positions would be established. The Sterling family had just bet everything on economic catastrophe, with borrowed money to amplify the bet.
As they left, Joseph was quiet until they reached the street. Then: "You played him."
"I negotiated with him. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"One's illegal."
"Alexander..."
"Pop, he thinks he's taking advantage of a delusional kid and his gullible father. He gets commissions either way. We're just another eccentric client to him." Alexander hailed a cab. "Let him think that. Right up until we're right and he realizes we knew something nobody else did."
"And then?"
"Then we'll be rich enough that it won't matter what he thinks."
The cab ride home was silent. Alexander stared out the window at a city built on optimism and credit, at people who had no idea they were dancing on the deck of the Titanic.
Two months, he thought. Two months until Black Thursday. Until the music stops and everyone realizes they've been dancing on air.
His mother was in the kitchen when they got home, aggressively kneading bread dough like it had personally offended her.
"Well?" she asked without turning around.
"It's done," Joseph said quietly. "We're... positioned."
She nodded once, still punishing the dough. "I hope you're right, Alexander. For all our sakes."
So do I, Alexander thought. Because if the timeline's changed, if the crash doesn't come when I remember, we're not just broke. We're broken.
But then he remembered the patterns, the numbers, the inexorable march toward catastrophe that no one wanted to see. The crash would come. It had to. The only variable was whether the Sterling family would rise from the ashes or be consumed by them.
"I'm going to my room," Alexander announced. "Need to review our positions."
"Alexander," his mother called as he reached the door. "I love you. Even if I think you might be crazy."
"I love you too, Mom. And I'm definitely crazy. But I'm also right."
He climbed the stairs to his room, each step carrying him closer to either vindication or disaster. In two months, he'd either be a prophet or a pariah.
No pressure.
In his room, he pulled out his notebook and began planning phase two. The crash was just the beginning. The real game would be what came after—using the profits to build something that could survive what was coming. The wars. The heroes. The villains. The things that went bump in the night and sometimes bumped back.
Sterling Industries has a nice ring to it. Or maybe Sterling Dynamics. Something that says 'we'll sell weapons to anyone with cash' without actually saying it.
He had two months to plan an empire built on the ashes of the American Dream.
Time to get to work.