The Billionaire Who Rewrote Fate

Blueprints of Tomorrow

"Go to war?" Toby repeated, taking a slow step backward. "Grayson, man, you're officially scaring the crap out of me. What war? You're a sophomore majoring in computer science, not Rambo."

"Just... give me a second, Toby," Grayson said, holding up a hand. He kept his eyes locked on the floating blue interface. "Oracle, can you hear my thoughts, or do I have to speak out loud?"

[ SUB-VOCALIZATION AND THOUGHT-INTENT ARE SUFFICIENT FOR INTERACTION, HOST. VOCAL COMMANDS ARE UNNECESSARY BUT ACCEPTABLE. ]

Good, Grayson thought. I don't need Toby calling the men in white coats.

"Okay, Gray, seriously," Toby said, tossing his controller onto the bed. "I'm calling your mom. Or campus security. You're having a psychotic break. Too much Mountain Dew and C++."

"Toby, stop. Don't touch the phone," Grayson said sharply, turning his head.

"Then explain to me why you are staring at the blank wall next to your Def Leppard poster and talking about building empires!"

Grayson took a deep breath. The smell of stale pizza and 1992 struck him again. It was real. The scratchy carpet beneath his bare feet was real. The Oracle Terminal hovering in his periphery was real.

"If I told you the truth, you'd dial the hospital right now," Grayson said evenly.

"Try me. Because right now, the hospital is on speed dial."

"I told you. I'm from the future. 2024, to be exact."

Toby stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he burst into laughter.

"Oh, man! You got me! Is this for drama class? Are you trying out for some sci-fi play?"

"It's not a joke, Toby."

"Right, right. So, what, you're the Terminator? Did you come back to save John Connor?"

"Turn on the TV," Grayson commanded.

"What?"

"The TV. Turn it on. Channel 4. The local sports replay should be on, right? Monday Night Football?"

Toby rolled his eyes but reached over to twist the dial on the chunky CRT television. Static hissed before the screen resolved into the image of a football field.

"Okay, it's on. Washington versus Denver. So what?" Toby asked, crossing his arms.

Grayson looked at the Terminal. Oracle, give me the exact play-by-play for the next three minutes of this broadcast.

[ ACCESSING HISTORICAL SPORTS ARCHIVE. OCTOBER 12, 1992. MONDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL. ]

A block of text scrolled rapidly across Grayson's vision.

"The score is currently 13 to 17, Denver's leading in the third quarter," Grayson said, reading the data.

"Yeah, I can read the screen, future boy."

"In exactly twelve seconds," Grayson continued, his voice devoid of emotion, "Elway is going to drop back for a pass. The pocket will collapse. He's going to scramble to the right, throw on the run, and it will be intercepted by number 28, Darrell Green."

Toby snorted. "Sure he is. Elway doesn't throw picks like—"

On the television, the snap occurred. Elway dropped back. The defensive line surged forward, breaking the pocket.

"He's scrambling," Toby muttered, leaning forward slightly.

Elway rolled to his right, evading a tackle, and launched the ball downfield. A flash of a burgundy jersey cut across the screen. Darrell Green snatched the ball out of the air.

"Intercepted!" the announcer on the TV shouted. "Darrell Green out of nowhere!"

Toby's jaw dropped. He looked from the TV to Grayson, then back to the TV. "Lucky guess. You... you heard someone talking about it in the hall."

"After the interception," Grayson pressed on, reading the glowing blue text, "Green will return it for fourteen yards before being pushed out of bounds by Sharpe. On the very next play, Washington will run a draw play to Ricky Ervins for a loss of two yards."

Toby didn't blink as the screen played out exactly as Grayson described. Green was shoved out of bounds. The broadcast cut to a quick commercial, then returned. Washington snapped the ball. A handoff to Ervins. He was swallowed up behind the line of scrimmage.

"Loss of two on the play," the announcer confirmed.

The dorm room fell into a dead, heavy silence. The only sound was the low murmur of the television.

"How..." Toby whispered, his face pale. "How did you do that?"

"I told you," Grayson said, sinking onto the edge of his bed. "I've already lived this."

"But... time travel? That's movies, Gray. That's Back to the Future."

"I know. I'm as shocked as you are." Grayson looked at his trembling hands. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a hollow, aching void in his chest. "I was thirty-five, Toby. I had a company. I had a life. And they took it all."

"Who? Who took it?"

"My partners. My friends." Grayson's voice cracked. The memory of the rain, the cold asphalt, the betrayal in Quinn's eyes—it hit him like a physical blow. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

"Hey, man," Toby said softly, stepping over and awkwardly patting Grayson's back. "I don't know what kind of weird voodoo trick you just pulled, or if you're actually telling the truth, but... you're shaking."

"They killed me, Toby. Elias stabbed me in an alley. Quinn just watched. Ten years of building something that mattered, and they gutted me for a corporate merger."

"Okay, okay," Toby said, pulling up his desk chair and sitting backwards on it, facing Grayson. "Let's say I believe you. Let's say you're really thirty-five and from 2024. Why are you here? Back in this crappy dorm?"

Grayson looked up, his eyes meeting the shimmering blue Terminal hovering just behind Toby's head.

"I don't know the exact mechanics," Grayson admitted. "The Oracle says it was a cosmic convergence. A retrocausal transfer. But I know why I'm here."

"To stop them?"

"To ruin them," Grayson corrected, his voice dropping to a frigid whisper. "Before they ever get the chance to ruin me."

Oracle, Grayson thought. Locate Elias Thorne and Quinn Mercer. Year: 1992.

[ PROCESSING. ELIAS THORNE: CURRENTLY ENROLLED AS A FRESHMAN AT HARVARD BUSINESS SCHOOL. AGE: 18. QUINN MERCER: CURRENTLY A HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR IN PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA. AGE: 17. ]

Grayson let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Elias is at Harvard right now. Probably already schmoozing his way up the ladder. And Quinn... she's still in high school."

"You're not going to... like, murder a high schooler, are you?" Toby asked, shrinking back slightly.

"What? No. I'm not a monster, Toby. I'm a businessman." Grayson stood up, the grief receding, replaced by a surging, kinetic energy. "If I go after them physically, I'm just a criminal. I don't want them dead. I want them irrelevant. I want to build a mountain they can't even climb."

"With two hundred dollars?"

"With two hundred dollars and the complete historical data of the global stock market," Grayson said, pointing at the invisible Terminal. "I have the winning lottery numbers for the next three decades, Toby. I know every tech boom, every crash, every startup that goes unicorn."

"Unicorn?"

"Future slang. Means a billion-dollar company."

Toby whistled. "A billion dollars. Man... that's a lot of zeroes."

"It's just the beginning. But we need capital. More than two hundred bucks." Grayson began pacing the small room. "Oracle, search for the most volatile, high-yield penny stocks for the next 48 hours. Something with a massive, unexpected spike."

[ SCANNING 1992 MICRO-CAP EQUITIES... MATCH FOUND. 'CYBERDYNAMICS INC.' TICKER: CYBD. TOMORROW AT 10:00 AM EST, THEY WILL ANNOUNCE A SURPRISE GOVERNMENT CONTRACT. STOCK WILL SURGE FROM $0.12 TO $4.50 BEFORE CORRECTING. ]

"Got it," Grayson said, stopping his pacing. "Cyberdynamics Inc. Ticker CYBD. It's at twelve cents right now. Tomorrow morning, it hits four dollars and fifty cents."

Toby scrambled for a notebook on his desk and a chewed-up pencil. "Cyber... dynamics. Okay. How much can we make?"

"If we put your two hundred in, we get about sixteen hundred shares. At four-fifty... that's over seven thousand dollars. In one day."

Toby dropped the pencil. "Seven grand? From my diner money?"

"That's just phase one. We take that seven grand, we roll it into the next event. By the end of the month, we'll have six figures. By the end of the year, millions."

"Dude, isn't this illegal? Like, insider trading?"

"It's only insider trading if you get the information from someone inside the company," Grayson said, a fierce grin spreading across his face. "I got it from the future. There are no laws against temporal displacement."

"Yet," Toby pointed out.

"We need a broker. Someone who won't ask questions about a twenty-year-old making bizarrely accurate trades."

"My uncle," Toby said suddenly, his eyes widening. "Uncle Ray. He runs a small brokerage firm downtown. He's always complaining about how slow business is. He'll take our money, no questions asked, as long as he gets his commission."

"Perfect." Grayson looked at the clock on the desk. 1:15 AM. "We skip classes tomorrow. We take the bus downtown first thing in the morning."

"Skip classes? Man, my mom will kill me if I fail calculus."

Grayson walked over, placing a hand on Toby's shoulder. "Toby, listen to me. If you stick with me, you will never have to worry about a calculus test, a job interview, or a mortgage for the rest of your life. I'm going to build Vanguard again. But this time, it's going to be untouchable. And I need someone I can trust. Someone who won't stab me in the back."

Toby looked at Grayson, searching his eyes. He saw the intensity, the raw, unbridled ambition that definitely hadn't been there yesterday.

"You're serious," Toby breathed. "You're really going to take over the world."

"Just the parts that matter," Grayson said, looking back at the Oracle Terminal.

[ HOST HEART RATE ELEVATED. ADRENALINE LEVELS HIGH. ADVISE REST TO MAINTAIN OPTIMAL COGNITIVE FUNCTION. ]

Rest? Grayson thought, laughing internally. I've been dead, Oracle. I have a lot of catching up to do.

"Get some sleep, Toby," Grayson said, turning off the desk lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for the glow of the streetlights outside and the invisible, icy blue interface only he could see. "Tomorrow, we buy the future."