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"Hey, you guys heard of that... weird BBS?"
"Which university set it up?"
"None. Not any known school, and definitely not some research lab big shot either."
"Then what's so special about it?"
"They say once you log in, you've got ten minutes to prove yourself. When time's up, your computer gets hacked, and a virus takes down your entire system. I even heard a professor got hit."
"So? Sounds like just another digital honeypot. You log in, you get nuked."
"What kind of virus waits ten minutes before activating? Come on, that's not how any real malware works. Either it executes right away or it doesn't do anything. Don't embarrass yourself. Viruses don't spread through syringes."
"Okay, okay, forget the virus part. My question still stands what's the point of logging in? What's on this BBS that's worth bricking your system over?"
"When you connect, there's no landing page, no intro. Just three messages. The first one says: 'If you're reading this, you have ten minutes to protect yourself and earn the right to leave your mark. Otherwise, walk away.' Signed: CK."
"Ominous. What's the second one say?"
"'There's nothing here but bullshit. Don't fall for it.' Signed: KM."
"Wait KM? You don't mean that KM…"
"'That guy's the bullshit. This place is the real treasure.' Signed: LT."
"Holy if those are really who I think they are... then who the hell is CK?"
"No one knows. That's why people are risking a full system meltdown to chase the mystery."
Across American universities, whispers about this mysterious BBS were spreading fast.
With the rise of personal computers now unstoppable, more and more people weren't content just being users. They wanted to push this new frontier to its limits.
Just like how the invention of the automobile led to the birth of racing, the rise of computing had sparked a new arena for thrill-seeking minds an arena of digital speed and skill.
Call it genius. Call it recklessness. Either way, these were the extreme sports of intellect.
Naturally, this "Special BBS" spread like wildfire through engineering schools and elite science departments. Students and even professors were drawn in.
But most who logged in walked away empty-handed. Before they could figure anything out, their systems would be wiped clean. Files gone. Their screens replaced by a grinning, glitched-out ASCII clown face.
And if their machines had a sound card and speakers? They'd hear a haunting MIDI laugh.
That same rumor soon reached a particular PhD candidate at Caltech's Aerospace Physics Department.
He'd been accepted into MIT's Electrical Engineering program at age fourteen, later earning a doctorate in Engineering Physics.
His reason for transferring to Caltech? Officially, it was the opportunity to collaborate with JPL the Jet Propulsion Lab that worked closely with NASA.
Unofficially? He just liked being closer to Hollywood and its endless supply of beautiful women.
MIT had prepared him academically, but Caltech had its own standards. He wasn't out of place, exactly but plenty of people wished he was.
Or maybe it wasn't his Ivy League background people hated. Maybe it was because of who he was... and the gaggle of girls constantly orbiting him.
Tony Stark. The sole heir to Stark Industries. Walking through campus on a sunny day like a golden boy from a movie poster, instantly becoming the center of attention.
Wherever he went, women watched. Men glared.
But Tony couldn't have cared less.
Whether admiring or envious, the people around him were smart enough to know better than to mess with the Stark family's only son.
Even a dirty look could come with consequences no one could afford.
In America, money was power. That was just math. And if you thought that equation didn't apply, that just meant you didn't have enough money.
Only two things ever really held Tony Stark's attention:
One gorgeous women. Even if his interest only lasted until the... post-action cooldown, so to speak.
And two anything unknown, unexplored, or intellectually exciting.
So, when he overheard two scruffy students talking in the cafeteria about a "very special BBS," his interest was instantly piqued.
He swallowed the last bite of a greasy campus burger, made a mental note to hire a proper chef for the dining hall, and walked straight over to the pair of socially-avoided nerds.
Without any preamble, he asked, "What's the IP for that BBS?"
One of the students blinked. "Wait you're... Tony Stark?"
"Yeah, that's me. I don't do autographs. I just want the IP. Or is it some kind of secret I've got to hunt down myself?"
"N-no, of course not!" the guy stammered, patting his pockets. "Let me write it down…"
"No need. Just say it. If you give it to me on a scrap of paper, I'll probably toss it two steps later."
Brutally honest, as always.
"Alright," the student said, and rattled off the string of numbers.
For them, it was muscle memory. No self-respecting techie needed to write an IP down. If it was worth remembering, it was already committed to memory. If it wasn't well, then it didn't matter.
Tony Stark didn't say thanks. He simply knocked his knuckles on the table twice, turned around, and walked off.
The two students stared after him.
"…Do you think this means I've got a shot at landing a job at Stark Industries someday?" one asked.
"You should've asked him while he was standing right there," the other replied, sighing. "And gotten it in writing. Everyone knows Tony Stark forgets conversations he had ten minutes ago never mind ones he didn't."
"Damn… I totally missed my shot."
They both slumped in their chairs.
As working-class students who'd clawed their way into Caltech, they knew full well: they didn't even have the right to envy someone like Tony Stark.
But that didn't mean they didn't want to ride his golden coattails.
Too bad that when the chance finally came, they didn't know how to grab it.