Scene 1: Orphanage Courtyard – 6 Years Ago
The rusted heart of the orphanage gate groaned, a discordant hymn to the frenzied joy of children spiraling in laughter-laced circles. John, however, was a statue carved from shadow, cross-legged on the fractured concrete, his slender fingers—nimble and stained with rust—coaxing life back into a broken radio.
"No powers, no parents… no future," a voice like gravel scraped past him, an older boy's sneer hanging in the crisp autumn air.
John's concentration was a fortress. He was a veteran of neglect, intimately familiar with the sharp edges of stares, the caustic whisper-wind, the sudden, unprovoked impact of a kick delivered when no adult gaze could intervene. His world hummed with the hum of his own singular purpose.
"Hey, freak! Go marry your screwdriver, why don't you?" another boy's voice, sharp as a shard of glass, cut through the relative peace.
This time, John's gaze lifted. His eyes, the color of storm-swept steel, met the sneer with a cold, unsettling calm. "At least I make things," he stated, his voice quiet but resonant, "What do you break, besides your father's promises?"
The punch came swift and unannounced, a dull thud against his cheekbone. The metallic tang of blood bloomed in his mouth, a warm ribbon trickling onto his rewiring fingers. He didn't flinch. He didn't stop. The delicate copper antenna found its purchase.
A burst of raw static tore through the courtyard, a violent shriek. Then, miraculously, a fragile waltz of violins bloomed from the battered speaker. Even the sharp sting of pain couldn't drown out the triumph of progress.
Scene 2: School Grounds – Present Day, Age 15
The air thrummed with a nervous energy, thick with the unspent kinetic potential of youth. Midterm combat exam. John stood amidst the buzzing chaos in a ragged, ill-fitting school uniform, a flimsy foam blade a stark joke in his hand. Around him, peers vibrated with innate power: a girl's hair crackled with static, ready to arc lightning; a boy's shadow deepened, hinting at gravitational command; another pulsed with barely contained super-speed. John simply stood, an island of stillness in a sea of raw power.
The buzzer shrilled, a call to inevitable defeat. His opponent, Letho, a boy whose power manifested in volatile kinetic bursts, offered a slow, predatory smirk.
Ten seconds. That's all it took. John lay sprawled on the abrasive ground, his ribs screaming a dull protest.
"You're wasting a desk, gearhead," Letho spat, his foot nudging John's side dismissively.
John pushed himself up, every muscle protesting, but his movements were quiet, imbued with a strange, unbroken dignity. "You're strong," he conceded, his gaze unwavering, "But you still used the wrong angle."
Letho's triumphant sneer faltered, melting into a bewildered frown. His eyes dropped, tracing the familiar outline of his own ankle brace, now hanging uselessly, cleanly snapped mid-tumble.
"How—?" The word caught in his throat.
"Physics," John murmured, already turning, walking away from the stunned silence, leaving the question hanging like smoke.
In the thinning crowd, two girls watched his retreating back. Chloe's brow was furrowed with curiosity, Jannete's eyes, however, held a peculiar glint of calculated observation.
Scene 3: The Girls' View – Later, Cafeteria
The clatter of trays and the drone of teenage chatter filled the cafeteria, but Chloe and Jannete found their own quiet corner.
Chloe stirred her lukewarm soup, her gaze still distant, fixed on the ghost of John's unyielding stance. "He didn't flinch. He knew he'd lose, but he still fought smart. Calculated."
Jannete toyed with a stray french fry, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through her fingertips. "He's fascinating," she mused, her voice low, a whisper of pure interest. "Brilliant. That combination… I wonder what he'll do next."
Chloe offered no reply, her thoughts drifting, drawn irresistibly to John. He sat alone at a table near the far wall, a lone silhouette, bent over a small, worn notebook, his fingers deftly sketching. From this distance, the blooming bruises on his cheek and temple looked starker, an ugly testament to his quiet battles.
Scene 4: The Day Everything Changed – After School
The sterile hum of the school office usually signified detention or disciplinary action. For John, it meant something else entirely. He was summoned, and waiting for him were two figures who seemed to have stepped from another, wealthier world. Mr. and Mrs. Warwick. Their tailored clothes whispered of affluence, their posture spoke of quiet authority. But their eyes, unlike any he had seen before, held a rare, luminous quality: genuine care.
"John," Mrs. Warwick began, her smile a gentle unfolding. "We've reviewed your file. Every page." Her gaze was steady, unwavering. "We'd like to adopt you."
His voice was flat, an uninflected statement rather than a question. "Why?"
Mr. Warwick stepped forward, his voice a low, reassuring rumble. "Because we see the quiet strength in your eyes, John. We see a boy who builds, not just with his hands, but with his very spirit, even when the world tries to break him down. We don't just want to give you a home; we want to give you a foundation where you can finally be safe, where you can build anything you dream, and where you'll never be alone again."
John didn't cry. The word felt alien to him, a sensation his arid life had never afforded. But his grip on the worn strap of his backpack tightened, a white-knuckled clench. It was a silent, desperate acknowledgement, the simple, profound truth that, at last, he had found somewhere to belong.
Scene 5: New Home – That Night
The Warwick mansion was a leviathan of stone and glass, initially radiating a sterile grandeur. But they didn't confine him to an attic or a gilded cage. They gave John a lab. His own lab. A sanctuary humming with purpose. State-of-the-art tech gleamed under custom lighting: humming 3D printers, articulate servo arms, intricate neural interface boards, crates overflowing with exotic alloy samples. Time. And peace.
He opened his notebook, the familiar, comforting weight of worn pages in his hand. His pencil, a natural extension of his will, began to dance, conjuring complex blueprints onto the crisp paper. This time, there was a new title, bold and declarative:
Project: Phantom Frame – My First Real Armor.
And beneath it, a quiet mantra, a foundational truth for his new existence:
"Power isn't always born. Sometimes... it's built."