Date: March 14, 1974
Location: Hawkins Elementary School, Indiana
The Indiana winters still gnawed at me, even after all these years. I'd learned to tolerate the biting cold, the way the snow muffled the world into an eerie silence, but a part of me still yearned for the humid, vibrant chaos of Cebu. Now, at ten years old, Rupert Johnson was a fixture at Franklin Orphanage, a model child, quiet and unassuming, yet with an undeniable spark that drew the adults in.
My "innocent" phase had long since morphed into a reputation for being remarkably bright and thoughtful for my age. I still had the same striking ginger hair, neatly trimmed now, and my green eyes, still movie-star bright, held a depth that belied my years. The freckles remained, a constellation across my nose and cheeks. I was still "pretty," still "angelic," but now there was an underlying current of quiet intelligence.
The orphanage library, once a distant goal, was now my sanctuary. I devoured every book I could get my hands on – history, science, even the worn-out encyclopedias. I'd "discovered" a knack for numbers and patterns, which translated into effortless victories in school. I rarely came in first on tests, always opting for a comfortable second or third place, just good enough to be praised but not so good as to be scrutinized. I'd "accidentally" won the school's regional spelling bee two years in a row, feigning surprise each time I spelled a particularly difficult word like "chrysanthemum" or "sesquicentennial" correctly.
"Rupert, my boy, you never cease to amaze me!" Mr. Harrison, my fifth-grade teacher, boomed last week after I aced a pop quiz on state capitals. "How do you remember all this?"
I gave him my best shy smile. "I guess I just read a lot, Mr. Harrison. The books here are really interesting." I gestured vaguely at the small classroom library. It was the perfect answer. Everyone loved to think their methods or resources were the key.
My telekinetic abilities, however, were no longer just an occasional twitch. They were a part of me, an invisible extension of my will. I'd learned to be subtle, to manipulate the world around me without anyone noticing. A dropped pencil would roll just within reach. A stubborn lock on a cupboard would click open with a gentle nudge of my mind. I could lift small objects, like my homework eraser or a loose paperclip, and move them with surprising precision, often in the quiet of my bed at night, under the cover of my thin blanket. I practiced sensing the subtle shifts around me, feeling the barely perceptible changes that seemed to happen just on the edge of my awareness.
It was the other senses that began to truly emerge in the past year or so. More than once, I'd known what Sister Agnes was going to say before she said it, or felt the ripple of disappointment from a classmate who'd just failed a test, even if they were across the room. It was like tuning into a faint radio station, picking up snippets of thought, flashes of emotion. I recognized it for what it was: telepathy. But it was uncontrolled, sporadic, more like echoes than clear voices. Sometimes, late at night, a cacophony of confused thoughts would overwhelm me, forcing me to bury my face in my pillow until the noise subsided. I quickly learned to build mental walls, to shield myself from the constant influx of others' minds. It was exhausting, this constant vigilance.
"Rupert, are you listening to me?" Sister Agnes's voice cut through the mental static one morning at breakfast. I'd been distracted by the vivid thought of Jimmy, who sat across from me, intensely focused on a stray piece of bacon on his plate. Just one more bite... don't let anyone see...
I blinked, pulling myself back. "Yes, Sister. You were saying we need to finish our chores before playtime."
She nodded, a faint frown line between her brows. "Indeed. Good, then. Sometimes you seem to be miles away, child."
I just nodded. Miles away, and then some.
I'd also started to notice small things that others might ignore: a light flickering for just a second in an old hallway, the faint scent of something metallic in the air near the school's furnace, or the distant howl of a dog that sounded… off. These were just everyday occurrences, easily dismissed, but I kept them in a separate mental file.
I kept everything to myself. My advanced intellect was hidden behind carefully feigned innocence and practiced humility. My growing powers were a closely guarded secret, my lifeline in a world that wasn't mine. I'd sometimes sneak glances at the comic books the older boys traded – The Fantastic Four, Superman, The X-Men. My powers, especially the telekinesis, reminded me of Jean Grey, or even Magneto if I stretched my imagination. But a quick check through the library's sparse collection of pop culture magazines confirmed it: this world had Marvel and DC comics. It wasn't the actual Marvel or DC universe. So I wasn't a mutant, at least