The scent of ozone and quantum-toasted cereal filled the lab. Dr. Aris Holt, 35, stared at the humming G.H.O.S.T. Engine core. It was his life's work, a device to harmonize chaotic energy. Almost complete.
His stomach rumbled. He'd been working for 36 hours straight. He grabbed a bowl of "Chrono-Flakes," the only food in the lab, and poured milk from a beaker labeled "Not Milk."
A catastrophic miscalculation. The milk's unique molecular structure reacted violently with the cereal's temporal preservatives. The bowl glowed. The G.H.O.S.T. Engine flared, absorbing the energy burst.
Aris felt a bizarre, inward-pulling sensation, like his body was being run through a cosmic compactor. The world swam, colors smearing. When his vision cleared, the lab table was at eye-level. His lab coat pooled around him like a tent.
He looked at his hands. Small, smooth, undeniably a child's.
A high-pitched "No!" escaped his lips. He ran to a reflective surface on a console, his now-oversized socks slipping on the floor.
A ten-year-old's face, crowned with his own disheveled dark hair, stared back in horrified shock. The brain was still 35. The back pain was, inexplicably, still there.
"You have got to be kidding me," the child said, his voice a prepubescent squeak. The G.H.O.S.T. Engine sputtered and died, its final component fried. He was stranded. A genius in a kindergarten body.