Black Star: The Legend Begins

รเ︎Ⓧ︎𝐓︎𝓔︎𝓔︎𝓷

THE next morning, Patricia stormed into your room, jolting you from your uneasy sleep.

“Pack up all your shit,” she ordered, tossing a threadbare bag onto your mattress. “Don’t leave a damn thing behind. Come to the driveway when you’re done.”

She left the room just as quickly as she came, although she left the potent smell of her favorite vodka behind. When she was gone, you carefully examined your injury. It was still bleeding a little, and looked almost as fresh as it had the night before. You ripped off a piece of your blanket and tied it around your arm. It definitely didn’t work as well as a band-aid would have, but it was better than nothing. Then, you did as Patricia commanded, packing up all meager belongings — mostly just your tiny wardrobe of too-small clothes — into the bag. It took you a while because of the injury, and by the time you were done, the car was already on, and Patricia was inside, listening to her favorite gossip radio. When you opened the door, she scowled at you through the rearview mirror.

“That took you a long time. You think I wanted to wait out here?”

“No ma’am,” you quickly responded, sliding into the backseat. “I just wanted to make sure I got everything, like you said.”

“Hmph.”

She took a sip from a can of beer in her cupholder — some policemen had come to your school the previous week to talk about the dangers of drinking and driving, but you knew better than to tell Patricia about any of it — and backed out of the driveway. She drove for a long time, and the only sound in the car was the gossip radio. You wanted to know where you were going, but fear kept you silent. You pinned your arm between your body and the car door the whole way there, hoping the pressure would do something.

Eventually, you pulled up to a giant hotel, dozens of stories tall. Patricia parked the car and got out. You grabbed your bag and hastened to follow. But when you arrived at the front door, the doorman stopped you.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Do you have your room key?”

She scoffed. “I’m not staying at this dump. But I know Tony Stark is, and I need to speak with him.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the doorman asked.

“No, I don’t. But I do have a child here that’s an absolute pain in the ass, and her father is inside.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Stark is a very busy man. If that child really is his, you’ll need to bring a DNA test proving it. There have been a lot of women claiming Mr. Stark is the father of their children, so he likes to be sure.”

In a flash, you were on the floor, blood spilling from your nose and clothes from your bag. The blanket, which wasn’t very secure to begin with, slipped off the wound. You hastily fixed it, not wanting the doorman to see.

“Ma’am!” the doorman exclaimed. “There’s no need for violence!”

“I’ll do it again unless you let us inside.” She winded up her fist for another blow to prove her point.

“Alright, alright! I’ll see what I can do.”

The doorman quickly walked inside. A few minutes later, he walked out with a short man with wavy brown hair and a goatee behind him. A goatee you immediately recognized from the documentary. Tony Stark.

“Leave us,” Patricia ordered the doorman.

The doorman looked at Tony, who nodded. The doorman then walked inside.

“Stark.” Patricia spit out the word as if it were poison.

“I’m sorry… do I know you?”

“Really? You don’t recognize me?! The mother of your child?!”