The moment Aidan Parker stepped into Mr. Simmons' office, the atmosphere was so thick with tension he could taste it—a metallic tang of anxiety mixed with the cloying scents of expensive cologne. Three men in immaculate suits were seated opposite the principal's desk, their combined presence making the cozy, book-lined office feel like a corporate boardroom. Mr. Simmons, looking profoundly stressed, wrung his hands behind his desk.
"Aidan, thank you for coming," the principal said, his relief palpable. "Gentlemen, this is Aidan Parker. Any specific matters should be discussed with him. I'm just… the middleman."
The three men turned their attention to Aidan, their eyes sharp and assessing.
"John Mullin," the first man said, his voice clipped and impatient. He was thin-faced, with slicked-back hair and deep-set eyes that seemed to absorb all light. "Head of Arms, Hammer Industries."
"Becker Linton," said the second, a man with a politician's polished smile and the predatory stillness of a crocodile. "Lead acquisitions for Oscorp."
"And I'm Obadiah Stane," the third man said, his voice a warm, avuncular rumble. He was bald, with a neatly trimmed grey beard and a kind expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Head of Development at Stark Industries."
Aidan's mind processed the introductions with lightning speed, his calm expression a perfect mask. Hammer, a bulldog. Oscorp, a serpent. And Stane… Aidan's internal systems flagged the name with a high-level threat warning. The Iron Monger. Tony's Judas. He wasn't just looking at a major shareholder; he was looking at a future supervillain, the man who would one day try to murder the son of his best friend. The stakes of this meeting had just skyrocketed. He knew exactly who he was dealing with.
He gave a polite nod. "Gentlemen. A pleasure." He turned to the Oscorp representative. "I admit I'm surprised to see Oscorp here. I thought your focus was primarily on biotech and chemical engineering."
"We have a diverse portfolio," Linton said smoothly. "And we are always interested in disruptive technology."
Aidan didn't waste any more time on pleasantries. He stood before them, a teenager dictating terms to three of the most powerful men in the city. "Let me be clear about my position. I am willing to sell patents for the image-learning technology and the mechanical energy linkage system. However, the core information transmission and human-computer interaction technologies are not for sale."
John Mullin of Hammer Industries slammed his hand on the armrest of his chair. "That's unacceptable! We're here for your HCI tech. That's the whole prize!"
"The technology is not for sale," Aidan repeated, his voice unnervingly calm. "But I can sell you the results of that technology. I'll be establishing a fabrication plant for the processing chips. If you need them for your league robots, you can purchase them from me." He crossed his arms, his posture relaxed but his message absolute.
Obadiah Stane leaned forward, his kind-uncle facade in full effect. "Son, let's be reasonable. Stark Industries is prepared to buy out all the tech, every patent, for three hundred million dollars. If you join our company, I can even guarantee you a significant number of shares. You wouldn't have to worry about building a factory from scratch."
"Our offer is five hundred million," Mullin barked, trying to reclaim the momentum. "And we'll make you the head of your own weapons department. Think of it, kid. The romance of artillery, the power of modern warfare, all at your fingertips."
Aidan almost laughed. They were trying to tempt him with money and power, completely oblivious to the fact that he was playing an entirely different game.
"My position is final," he said. "You can buy the licensed chips from me. The price will vary based on the desired transmission speed. The rest of the non-core technology will be sold via open bid to the highest offer." He paused, letting his gaze drift between the three of them. He then leaned forward, his gentle expression vanishing, replaced by something cold, hard, and ancient.
"And let's get another thing straight. I know what this technology can do. Which is why I will not allow it to be used for warfare. The core tech stays with me. I hope you understand."
"That's naive, son," Stane said with a condescending chuckle. "We can use it for national defense. That's not a war; it's protection."
"I'm using it for sports," Aidan countered, his voice sharp. "As seen in the movie. I'm creating Adam's Club, the robot fighting league. Are you interested in making that money, or not?" He straightened up. "As for the core tech, don't even think about it. Just assume that because I'm young, I don't know what I'm doing. I won't be convinced otherwise."
The three men frowned, taken aback by his unyielding stance. They weren't used to being dictated to, especially not by a teenager.
"You should all think about it," Aidan said, turning as if to leave. "I have a crowd of people to meet outside."
"Wait!" all three said in near-unison. The thought of their competitors getting an edge was too much to bear.
"There's room for discussion," Obadiah said quickly, his smile strained. "Tell us more about your… vision."
Aidan turned back, a slight, knowing smile on his lips. He had them. He sat down in the remaining chair, now their equal. "As you know, I directed the film. Adam was born from a fantasy of sport, not war. Therefore, any chips you purchase from me must be used in league-sanctioned fighting robots. You can create your own clubs, sponsor your own teams. The profits from monopolizing a global sport might not be the same as a government arms contract, but I'm sure you can calculate the potential."
He looked each of them in the eye. "And let me emphasize one more thing. If I even suspect any of you are trying to weaponize this, or reverse-engineer the core tech, I will upload the complete, open-source schematics to every server from here to Beijing. I will make this technology as common and as worthless as a toaster. I will do it. I have the ability. Do not test me."
The office fell into a dead silence, the weight of his threat hanging in the air. Finally, Linton from Oscorp broke it. "Very well. Oscorp will bid on the energy transmission technology. Three million for an exclusive buyout."
"Four million," Stane countered immediately.
"Four-point-five," Mullin snapped.
The bidding war was short and brutal. In the end, each of the three giants walked away with an exclusive patent for one of the non-essential systems. As they prepared to leave, Obadiah Stane handed Aidan a heavy, linen business card.
"Aidan, this is my personal card. When you're ready to think about the future, Stark Industries would be proud to have you. We can provide you with any resources you need." The other two quickly followed suit, pressing their cards into his hand.
After escorting them out, Aidan leaned against the closed office door and let out a long, slow breath. The first battle was won. "God, I really don't want to face those reporters," he muttered to himself. But for the sake of the narrative he was building, he straightened his jacket and headed for the playground.
A makeshift stage had been erected, and the media mob was held back by a velvet rope. The principal, mid-interview, saw him approach. "And here he is now!" he announced, beaming. "The man of the hour, our very own Aidan Parker!"
The sea of reporters turned as one, and a fresh tidal wave of camera flashes assaulted him. He walked down the reserved aisle and onto the simple stage, the sun warm on his face.
"Hello everyone," he said into the microphone, his voice steady. "I'm Aidan Parker, a junior here at Midtown High. Thank you all for coming."
A reporter with fiery red hair and a Channel 12 logo on her microphone pushed to the front. "Aidan, can you confirm that you yourself built the robot demonstrated yesterday?"
"I can," he smiled. "Adam is his name. He's currently on his way to Las Vegas with his co-star for a promotional tour, but you can see him there."
Another reporter asked, "You also directed Real Steel. What was your motivation for creating a film about robot boxing?"
Aidan was ready. "I think every kid dreams of giant fighting robots. I wanted to bring that dream to life." He then launched into a prepared speech, thanking the school, his investors, and his cast and crew.
"It's reported many companies want to buy your patents," the red-haired reporter interjected. "How do you plan to handle that?"
"It's already handled," Aidan said simply. "I've sold limited, non-core patents to Stark, Oscorp, and Hammer Industries."
The reporter frowned. "Are you not concerned they'll use this technology for war? As the creator, that would make you complicit."
"That's an excellent question," Aidan said, adopting a look of earnest sincerity. "It's why I insisted on a contractual agreement that the technology can only be used for the robot fighting league. I believe in sports, not war."
"That's incredibly naive," she shot back, her tone laced with cynicism. "A contract won't stop them."
"No," Aidan said, his expression the epitome of youthful idealism. "But I believe they'll honor it. And I hope you'll all believe in them, too."
He spent the rest of the morning fielding questions, consistently framing himself as a peace-loving, slightly naive genius who wanted to create therapeutic robots and entertainment, not war machines.
The aftermath was exactly as he'd calculated. The news painted him as a prodigy with a heart of gold. His reputation soared. The stock prices of all three companies ticked upward on the news of their new "robot fighting league" ventures. And in his Malibu workshop, Tony Stark watched the press conference on a dozen screens, a smirk on his face. "Peace and contracts won't stop the wolves, kid," he muttered to the screen. "You need a bigger stick." He turned to a blank holographic display, and with a flick of his wrist, drew the first, elegant curve of an iron helmet.
Back in Queens, the offers flooded in. Princeton, MIT, Caltech—all offering full scholarships and early admission. Mr. Simmons presented them to Aidan with trembling hands. Aidan just smiled. Tempting, he thought. But a twelve-year-old starting college draws too much of the wrong kind of attention. For now, he would continue to play the part of the boy genius. It was the best disguise he had.