Connections

Anthony Stark was fourteen years old when he discovered he was a mutant.

Tony glanced at his watch, noting the time down on the corner of the page of notes balancing precariously on the edge of his desk. Five hours and forty three minutes after staring at his blueprints and deciding to work on a robot, the project was nearly finished. One more video cable, and his hours of wires and circuits would be finished. He closed his eyes tight, clutching the tweezers in his hand.

This would be the one to work and make his father proud, he knew it. It had to be.

As he started forward to place the wire, he was stopped. A blast of pain surged behind his eyes, his head on fire. He could feel his lungs burning as he struggled for breath.

And then, it was gone.

The pain disappeared, almost as quick as it came.

“Breathe,” Tony whispered to himself softly, “It was nothing, a headache, that's all.” He took a breath, trying to ignore the pulsing in his ears. He waited another minute to calm himself down enough to open his eyes, and he couldn’t help but gasp as he looked back at his room.

The robot was alive.

And the wire that had been held in the tweezers was placed perfectly in position, lighting up the robot’s LCD eyes.

He must have moved it. But how? The tweezers were still held in his hand, indenting his palm, and he’d locked the door to avoid interruptions earlier. No one else could have done it, and it had to have happened while he’d been in pain.

He couldn’t have…?

“Oh, god.” Tony whispered. He stumbled to the window, suddenly feeling sick as he realised the implications of what he’d done.

He couldn’t be. Not him, no. Definitely not. He could not have moved it with his mind. Tony Stark could not be a mutant. But how else could it have happened?

He had read about some of his father’s encounters with the strange people - mind readers, shapeshifters, telekinetics, healers, even people who could fly. The science behind their powers was incredible. When he was younger, he’d thought Captain America must have been a mutant. (Though his father hadn’t hesitated to strictly correct him, ‘warning’ him that he shouldn’t try and talk about things he didn’t understand.)

But his father thought mutants were disgusting. (Which seemed to explain his furious reaction to Tony’s suggestion that Steve Rogers, his ‘greatest creation’, was one.) He seemed to think that either everyone should have powers, or no one should at all. He thought they should be killed.

God. What would his father say? How would he react to this?

He struck out at the robot, kicking it to the floor and crushing the metal shell, letting the circuits spark as they were ripped apart.

If there wasn’t any proof, it couldn’t have happened.

Nothing happened.

The next time it happened was a year later.

Tony watched his father silently as he shifted from each of his projects in turn. He seemed completely focused on the devices littering the room, moving with an unusual grace that didn’t seem to fit him and oblivious to the boy standing at one of the desks. It was strange to see him so engrossed in his work.

He started towards another table, and Tony hesitated. He’d been planning to sneak some plans in with the rest of the blueprints, a new A.I., since it was the best way to get the time or materials without having to talk to his father. But he couldn’t risk disturbing him now, not when he was so invested in this project. He could try again later.

As he began to leave the room, his foot caught on the table, and he couldn’t help but watch as, almost in slow motion, one of the tools began to fall onto the floor. He braced himself for its crash to the ground.

It stopped, hovering an inch from the ground.

Tony took a short breath to stop himself from gasping. This was happening less than ten feet away from his father. He couldn’t let him see this.

He turned and ran, almost tripping over his own feet.

Only when he had left the room did he notice the headache he had. But like before, it disappeared only a moment later. Another second later, and he could hear his father angrily swearing inside.

He couldn’t just wish away his… abnormality. Or get rid of it. He tried everything, he did so many tests and tried so many formulas and nothing seemed to work. Any time he was upset, or excited, or scared, any time he had a strike of adrenaline, something would happen. And the worst thing was, he couldn’t control it. That was what he hated the most about it all.

Only after two months of research did he find somewhere he could finally be safe. Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.