Chapter Text
"Are you almost done with the TV, Ed?" I heard Tessa Cole's voice. She was a little five-year-old girl who had had the same luck as me, being raised in an old foster home: St. Brigid's Home.
"Just need a moment," I answered. The girl was getting impatient, I could tell, from the sway of her feet over the carpet.
She wanted me to hurry up, but she also knew I was doing her a favor. It was pretty considerate from a five-year-old girl not to be impertinent. I somehow knew that those raised without the warmth of a mother or the security of a father grew up differently.
"Mhph! If you weren't so dumb, the TV wouldn't have fallen," I heard the other child next to Tessa scolding her.
"It was an accident, Miles," I reprimanded him for his roughness. We were all children once, and we all made similar mistakes. "I remember the other day when you cut the refrigerator cable." The boy's face turned red at once. I smiled when I saw it.
"It was an accident, Edward," the boy did not use the same nickname Tessa used.
"I just need a small solder," I said as I took the tin soldering iron. "Only the tuner was damaged," I told them to reassure them. Miles seemed like a grouch, but deep down, he was worried too.
Nobody wanted the caretakers to scold them for breaking a television, so they came looking for me when they realized it no longer showed anything on the screen, only static. I already had a certain reputation for being able to fix anything. Today, I had to fix a tuner; one of its components, the varicap, had partially come loose, and a crack ran along the solder of one of its legs. It was a matter of putting it back in place.
Although on closer inspection, maybe the best thing would be to replace it, but I did not have another one at that moment. If I get the piece later, it will be better. It only took me a few minutes to resolder it. I put the tuner back in its place and, before closing the television casing, I turned it on to check.
An episode of Tom and Jerry appeared. Miles and Tessa got lost in the cartoons, without even saying thanks. I suddenly turned off the TV while placing the casing. I heard their angry sounds for interrupting their entertainment, but I did not care much. It was one of those fat CRT televisions, quite outdated if I have anything to say about it.
But it was what we had. I was not going to complain. The image was clear enough for the children to get lost in it. While I walked to my room, I heard the voices of those around me, other foster children. Abandoned by their parents, by their relatives, by society.
I was not very sociable. For a few years, I had made an effort to try to be, but I did not manage it, my bad. There were children who hated me. Every academic achievement of mine was set as a goal for others. The other old enough orphans and I went to Queens Technical High School. The caretakers used me as an example of the perfect student.
Even if I was disliked. I never hated them back. They already had enough with the life they were dealt.
"Have you finished fixing the TV?" asked a female voice. I recognized it as Rosa, one of the caretakers. She was a kind woman who always seemed to have me in her sights. She treated me with care and kindness at first, which made me happy, but later I became suspicious.
"There was a TV to fix?" I asked with the most innocent voice I could.
"This is a pretty small place, the walls are thin, I'm sure the director heard the TV falling to the floor," she answered me with a smile. "Although there is no need to intervene when we have you," she praised me, then searched my face for any trace of reaction. God, sometimes I felt she watched me too much; it would not surprise me to enter her room and find a notebook dedicated to me.
The first thing I repaired in my life was a simple cut cable. How old was I? I think 6, ah, why am I pretending? I was 6 years old, and it happened on January 31, 2003. The last time I looked at the clock that day was 9:38 am, and about 30 minutes passed until the accident. One of the children cut it by accident with scissors; the child ended up electrocuted, and the appliance was unusable. While the caretakers worried about the child, I took the blender and spliced the cable again. I felt something when the current passed.
They took me for a genius… as if I were the reborn son of Tony Stark, they even began pointing out how physically similar I was to him. I was a small child then, and for a moment, I believed it. I began to look into Tony Stark. He built his first circuit at 4 years old and his first engine at 6 years old.
At 6 years old, I… reconnected two cables.
I remember I talked about that with Ruth Carver, the orphan's director. She told me I should stop comparing myself to Tony Stark. That I did not have Stark's education. It worked partially.
But they sounded like excuses. What makes a genius? Their resources? No, it was their mind. Resources could speed up or delay progress, but they would not stop it. Unless you live in places like Hell's Kitchen, where surviving the next day would be the main concern.
Luckily, I live in Queens, which isn't the safest place, but I have food, a roof over my head, and the chance to learn.
"Did you get lost in your thoughts? You went cross-eyed," I heard Rosa's voice.
"I did not go cross-eyed!" I snapped, rolling my eyes.
"Oh, you were looking at me?" she said flirtatiously,
Maybe that was what bothered me most about Rosa.
She always gave me a disturbing look, as if she wanted to devour me. Maybe if she were my age, it would be a good thing, but shit, I am fifteen. And she has known me since I was five. It was disgusting.
"It is dangerous having you near the children," I told her, although it sounded like a joke; they were my most genuine thoughts.
"You have no idea how much," she answered with a wink. "Ah, remember you have a medical checkup tomorrow," she reminded me.
I walked to my room. On a desk was an old CPU I had assembled myself. I assembled it by scavenging damaged components and repairing them. I ended up building a functional computer. It was not Stark-level technology, but it was what it was.
Since I repaired the blender, I felt a jolt of electricity run through my body. Every time I was close to any electronic device, I felt it again. Maybe that was why I loved repairing things so much; it was like an addiction. Even if they did not pay me, I would find a way to keep doing it. I had to do it, I had to manipulate them, even if only slightly, like today, a simple solder, just making it work again served me.
I think I am crazy.
I know I am in my adolescence, but feeling more excitement for a blender than for the school cheerleading squad was the weirdest thing in the world. If I ever met someone who could read minds…
I took a notebook out of a drawer.
I began to leaf through it, looking for a blank space. I reached the last page. I wrote at the top, "Anti-mind-reader." Mutants were a controversial subject, and I did not rule out the possibility that one of them could read minds.
I wrote down some ideas. Although it required research. I could take mind-reading as an exchange of energy; in that case, it would be enough to find a way to block the mutant's energy from reaching my brain.
Agh!
I threw the notebook onto the bed.
That same notebook was full of dozens of other ideas. I had completed only one of them, the computer.
I needed more money. Home repair jobs did not give me enough. I went back to leafing through the pages. Not all ideas require money. Some of them only needed a computer, which I already had.
Five programming ideas, from cybersecurity to social networks. I think I can manage a social network as famous as Facebook. Or not, I do not understand a damn thing about how people communicate.
Agh! What a drag.
I thought about tomorrow's medical appointment. Again with the fat doctor. I could only lament in silence.