Bruce Banner was poorer than poor. He didn't have two pennies to rub together. His clothes were hand-me-downs and ragged, giving him a dirty appearance even though he really wasn't. His dark, overgrown, untamable hair fell in wild curls about his head and into his brown eyes. His black-rimmed, square glasses were too large for his face and one of the lenses had a medium sized crack running through the center which was the result of being pushed down by a group of kids a few months earlier because he was in their way. He was an average height for a sixteen year old boy—five feet and six inches to be exact. There was one word to describe Bruce Banner's overall appearance: messy.

Bruce, who's actual name was Robert, preferred to go by his middle name simply because he liked it better. Only his mother had ever called him Robert and since she was gone, Bruce thought that the name along with his handful of happy memories should die out with her.

Bruce's mother Rebecca had happily married her collage sweetheart Brian Banner at a ripe, young age. When he was a toddler, Bruce had been left with a nanny (because his father could not stand being around him) who did not like children and had physically abused him whenever he had ever so slightly stepped out of line. One Christmas morning, at the early age of four, Bruce had shown a level of intelligence that was beyond the mental capacity of any other child that was within five years of his age. Normally, a parent would be proud of this. Not Brian Banner. Seeing his son's intellectual capability, Brian went completely haywire for the first—but certainly not the last—time. Bruce had been almost killed by his deranged father a few times, but Rebecca always intervened. Brian beat her, too. And so, the years of senseless physical and mental abuse began.

For years Brian Banner called his son a monster, a mutant, evil. Finally, Rebecca had had enough and she tried to escape with Bruce. Unfortunately, Brain had caught them and in his rage, murdered Rebecca while Bruce stood frozen and helpless to watch. Brian was later arrested and sent to a mental facility where he currently resided.

It was now 1986, and since his parents were no longer able to be active member in his life, Bruce lived with his aunt, Susan Banner—his father Brian's sister—in an old, rickety house that was adorned with chipped white paint and pointless shutters that were meant only for decoration. The house was located in an avoided section of New York City in the burrow of the Bronx. The neighborhood had 'sketchy' written all over it. Aunt Susan was stuck with the task of raising Bruce, and even though she claimed that she didn't mind, Bruce knew for a fact that she would be much better off without him.

His aunt had recently gone through a rocky divorce and she worked so hard, undergoing the pressure of two or three jobs at a time just to make ends meet. Bruce rarely saw her because of the hectic schedule she was burdened with. He was basically alone.

His presence was like a curse, pulling everyone and everything down with him into the rubble of misfortune and bad luck.

Bruce told no one about his tragic past and would like to keep it that way. He was a genius but at the same time also very self-conscious and reserved—he wasn't shy, he just did not like conversing with people. He lived most of his life inside of his own head. He was considered by his peers to be an odd and awkward outcast. Bruce could not help agreeing with them.

All of these things factored into the reason why Bruce had absolutely no friends—except for the occasional chats with Frederick Peirce who was a fellow classmate and not so popular himself (although he had around five-times the amount of friends Bruce had) but Bruce did not give Frederick the 'friend' title because he knew Fred only spoke to him out of pity.

A bird hawked loudly outside Bruce's grimy bedroom window on a particularly warm March morning, dragging Bruce from a dull dream that he would not remember. After coming to, he checked his cheap plastic wristwatch. The dim green glowing numbers read 5:42 AM. It was time to get up.

The rusty old bed-springs creaked as Bruce sat up on his mattress, swinging his legs so that his feet touched the wooden floorboards. He took a moment to scratch his hairy chest and yawn. Then he hurried to the bathroom in his boxers and brushed his teeth without using any water—he tried to conserve as much as possible, not wanting to raise his Aunt Susan's expenses any higher than they already were.

Bruce bathed only twice a week at home, the rest of the time he spent in his high school gym's locker room showers whenever they were empty and he could get away with sneaking in and out unnoticed. It's not that Aunt Susan had rules about bathing, in fact she had never once told Bruce that he could not use water, but Bruce felt it best to do everything in his power to lessen the burden upon his aunt.

Brushing his curls away from his forehead with his sweaty fingers, Bruce pulled on a pair of faded jeans, a baggy t-shirt that hung from his body, and muddy generic-brand sneakers. He slung his well-used purple backpack over his shoulder and jogged down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and out through the bulky front door.

On the subway, Bruce had to stand because the early-risers and commuters had filled all of the seats. This did not stop Bruce from dozing off. He was always tired these days and the boy could fall asleep literally anywhere. He jerked awake when someone fell into him, causing him to hit his head on the metal bar that he was clinging to for support. He arrived to school just in time for homeroom, as usual.

Bruce was an awkward sophomore, never fitting in but not really trying to either. He seemed to be invisible to the people around him, even the teachers. He walked the halls alone, head down and avoiding all human contact, listening to the laughter and talk that was so distant to his ears. While Bruce was number one in his class, he wouldn't call himself the ideal student. His anxiety often kept him from raising his hand and he was easily ticked off—a lot of things annoyed him. The only teacher who understood Bruce was Mr. Dile, his chemistry teacher. Mr. Dile was a younger man with an easygoing personality and he was one of those cool teachers that you wanted to be friends with but couldn't because, well he's your teacher. Mr. Dile would ask the class challenging questions, and when nobody knew or cared to answer, he would nod to Bruce and Bruce would answer the questions at lightning-fast speed, always correctly.

In first period English, Bruce found himself sitting alone at the table near the window in the front of the room, which was typical. Only nerds wanted to sit in the first row and nobody wanted to sit next to Bruce, so while the rest of the row was filled, the seat next to him was always empty. Class was about twenty minutes in when the door swung open, interrupting Mr. Smalls mid-speech. In stepped a boy whom Bruce had never seen before.

He was about Bruce's height, lanky, with dark neatly brushed hair and brown eyes that screamed 'I'm better than you!', cocky. The kid strode into the room as if he owned the place and Bruce could tell he came from wealth.

His shirt appeared new and it fitted him nicely, revealing thin but toned arms. His jeans were the designer kind that Bruce could never even dream of being able to afford, and he wore a real gold watch around his wrist. An arrogant smile twisted his otherwise attractive features. Already, Bruce hated him.

"Hello? Can I help you young man? Mr. Smalls asked, clearly annoyed that this kid had interrupted his speech about why Hamlet was most certainly mad.

"I'm Tony Stark," he said with a confidence that Bruce would never have.

Every person in the room—even Mr. Smalls, but not Bruce—let out an audible gasp, their mouths dumbly hanging open and all of the girls giggled.

By their reactions, Bruce came to the conclusion that Tony must be the son of the well-known billionaire Howard Stark. Howard was the head of Stark Industries which built weapons for the military and created gadgets of the future.

Being a science nerd, of course Bruce knew plenty about Howard Stark who had done many revolutionary things, but the most well-known being concocting the Super Serum that Steve Rogers (a.k.a. Captain America) had been administered. But what the hell is so special about this kid? Bruce thought, peering around at the admirable expressions.

"Howard S-Stark's s-son?" Mr. Smalls stuttered, all of his previous annoyance vanished.

He spread his arms open wide, "the one and only." Tony Stark smiled, showing off his pearly white teeth.

"I-I had heard about your family relocating to New York, but I had never dreamed of having Howard Stark's son in my classroom," Mr. Smalls rambled. Even he was fanatical. Bruce didn't get it.

"Consider it a privilege," Stark said with pure arrogance.

That was no way to speak to a teacher and if anyone else had done it they would be reprimanded, but Mr. Smalls was in complete awe. Bruce could not believe this.

"Well. Mr. Stark, I do consider it a great pleasure." Mr. Smalls offered him a hand and they shook. "Let's see…" Mr. Smalls searched for a vacant seat but the only one was next to Bruce. Mr. Smalls' eyes fell on him with such resentment that Bruce felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. "I am sorry, but you will have to sit there—at least for today," he pointed to the empty space beside Bruce.

Stark strode over and plopped down, leaning backward and extending his arms behind his head, his ankles crossing underneath the table. The smell of his cologne was sweet but too strong. Bruce scooted as far away from Stark as the table allowed and inhaled fresh air from the open window. He already felt like crap and he did not want to get a headache.

Never once did Stark so much as glance in Bruce's direction which was perfectly fine with Bruce because he had no desire to speak with Mr. Tony 'I'm so great' Stark. He disliked Tony Stark and his unjustified arrogance.

Stark did, however, manage to distract the classroom's entire female population—in particular Stella Stread whom he seemed to take a liking to—by turning his head to wink at them every few minutes.

By the end of the class period, Bruce found himself trying to keep a grip on his boiling temper by clenching his fists so hard against his thick thighs that his fingers went numb. As soon as the changing bell rang, Bruce bounded past Stark and into the hallway, taking deep breaths as he journeyed to his next class.

Much to his disappointment, Stark was in four out of his five period before and including lunch. Luckily (if you can even call it that) he sat nowhere near Bruce in any other class.

At lunch, Bruce usually sat alone at the table in the back corner of the cafeteria where the light never seemed to reach. It was kind of creepy of him to sit in the shadows, Bruce had to admit, but none of the other tables were empty. He never had much money so that meant he never had lunch, so he usually read whatever book he was renting from the library or slept. Today however, Bruce found himself unable to relax. His temper consistently rose a notch every time Stark showed up.

It would be different if Tony Stark were a genuine and friendly person, but he was the complete opposite, the exact kind of person Bruce had a strong disliking for. Every class Bruce had with him, Stark had acted superior to every other person—even the teacher—while also managing to distract every female, and most of the males as well. And now, at lunch, practically everyone was scrambling to become acquainted with the fabulous Tony Stark.

Sure, Howard had invented many helpful tools and weapons, but as far as Bruce was concerned, Tony himself had never accomplished anything of major importance. Tony's claim to fame was his father and that was the only reason people wanted to get to know him. And there Tony was, absorbing the attention like a newly bought sponge. It made Bruce's blood run hot.

Bruce watched as Stark was offered a seat (and accepted the offer) with a group of popular kids which included another guy that Bruce was not too fond of named Jake Dickerson. Dickerson was a star player on the school's baseball and football teams. Everybody loved him, but to Bruce he was just another stuck-up asshole who was better to avoid. It was fitting that he and Stark would become buddies. Bruce wanted to gag himself with a spoon.

Bruce was fortunate enough to be free of Anthony in his sixth and seventh period classes and was looking forward to enjoying a Stark-free eighth period chemistry class, as well. This did not happen of course. Stark showed up eleven minutes late and smoothly scooted into a seat next to a girl (of course) at the very back of the room. Mr. Dile was supervising Daniel Henry who was copying the periodic table to the chalkboard off of pure memory—and was now stumped and staring at the board going "um" in a repeated drone of idiocy. This was a task in which always took place during the start of class and in which every student had to partake in at least once for a grade. Mr. Dile most likely noticed the brief interruption but chose to ignore Stark's unexplained lateness.

By this point, the entire school knew of Tony Stark's presence and that included all of the teachers. Bruce had overheard a few discussing Tony in hushed voices as he had walked by the teacher lounge on his was to lunch. Bruce knew Mr. Dile and he was ninety-four percent sure Mr. Dile would not fall into Stark's trap. Bruce hoped he was right.

After another four minutes of "um", Mr. Dile sighed and said, "Alright, Daniel, time's up." Daniel walked to his seat with slumped shoulders and a disappointed scowl.

"And, Anthony, I prefer that you be on time for my class," Mr. Dile turned to face Stark. "As you might have noticed, I'm not as old as your other teachers and therefore I am much more perceptive," Mr. Dile tapped his brain and winked at Stark. "I am Mr. Brad Dile and I will be your chemistry teacher," Mr. Dile added.

The glaring look on Stark's face was that of brewing hatred. Bruce chuckled to himself, happy that Mr. Dile had put his foot down. Tony Stark would not be receiving any star treatment here.

The class continued on as it usually did with Mr. Dile teaching his daily lesson, but this time with a faint murmur of conversation that could only be coming from Stark.

Finally Mr. Dile had enough. "Excuse me, Anthony," he spoke up, "we do not talk while the teacher is speaking."

"Oh, is that what you're doing?" Stark mocked.

"Yes, Anthony, and if you do not pay attention and listen, I will be forced to move your seat."

Surprisingly to Bruce, Stark obeyed.

With only five minutes left in the final period, Mr. Dile routinely began asking general knowledge—or at least that's what they were to Bruce—questions. Bruce answered a few correctly and without interruption. He grinned.

Mr. Dile smiled at the class, "who can tell me what the most radioactive element is?"

Mr. Dile nodded to Bruce and he proudly opened his mouth to speak—this was an easy one—but before he could—

"Polonium," Stark declared with a yawn.

The one class, the one class in which Bruce actually felt comfortable and Tony Stark was attempting to steal that from him.

"Anthony, raise your hand," Mr. Dile instructed.

"Well, Mister Brad Dile," Stark sarcastically sneered, "why does he get to call out?" His finger pointed to Bruce, accusatory.

"I always give Bruce permission with the nod of my head before he answers my questions," Mr. Dile responded calmly, not reacting to Stark's acerbity. Stark crossed his arms like a pouting toddler.

Mr. Dile continued, "Dangerous elements?"

He nodded to Bruce.

"Hydrogen."

"Why is that?" Mr. Dile shot him a quizzical look.

"Hydrogen is highly flammable, take the Hindenburg for example. Also, hydrogen's ion is what essentially gives acids their properties, and without hydrogen they would be useless. So, possessing extreme flammable qualities and as the basic ingredient in every acid, I conclude that hydrogen is very dangerous." Bruce stated all of this with witty confidence and reciprocated Mr. Dile's grin.

"Okay, but Mercury is at least a hundred times more dangerous," Stark stated, his irritated tone cutting through Bruce's temporary moment of glory. "The skin is able to absorb mercury. It is poisonous. It can be airborne. It can be in the food we eat, especially seafood because it always ends up in seas or lakes when it is evaporated. Continuous contact with mercury can cause serious and irreversible neurological problems such as dementia."

"Plutonium is even more of a threat," Bruce began before Mr. Dile had the chance to speak, hoping Stark would recognize the challenge in his voice. "Unlike any of the other naturally occurring radionuclides known to man, plutonium gives off alpha, beta and gamma radiation. Not only is it one of the most radioactive of the elements—besides polonium, of course— it is also toxic. Exposure through the nasal region especially, estimates that 500 grams of plutonium dust released into the air would have the ability to kill nearly 2 million people. It is used as the casing for nuclear weapons."

"Caesium often spontaneously explodes"—

Bruce snorted, "Arsenic is definitely more dangerous than that! Now chromium—"

"—Ha!" Stark shot back, "chromium my ass! Even lead is more threat"—

"—Beryllium is way"—

"—Fluorine, now that's"—

"Boys!" Mr. Dile shouted. "Class is over." Bruce and Tony were cut short, and they were both red-faced, leaning forward, and puffing for air. The final bell had apparently rung and the rest of the students were exiting the classroom, all slightly amused but vastly confused by the fiery scientific debate.

Stark snapped back into his usual cocky self and strode boldly from the room without a backwards glance at Bruce or Mr. Dile. Bruce gathered his things, last student in the classroom as usual.

"It looks like you have some competition," Mr. Dile said, nodding his head in the direction Stark had disappeared.

Bruce glowered. Tony Stark would not steal his thunder. Being number one in his class was the only successful thing Bruce had ever done, and the only thing in his life which he took pride in. Stark couldn't ruin that, he just couldn't.

"Not a chance," Bruce said with determination, "not a chance."

Two weeks passed in much the same way as that first day. Stark paraded around, forming his own posse, pretending Bruce did not exist until eighth period chemistry class where the two went at it like pit bulls in a ring fight.

Though Bruce still possessed a strong disliking for Anthony Stark, he chose to ignore him rather than be consumed with hatred. Because of this decision, Bruce no longer became irritated with Stark's pompous character, rather he had learned not to dwell on Stark at all (when it was possible), which helped with his nerves.

So, everything remained the same and Bruce Banner and Tony Stark acted as if the other were invisible excluding the time they spent bickering intellectually during Mr. Dile's class, until the Friday at the end of Tony's second week.

It was after eighth period and Bruce stood alone by his locker, sorting through his books and deciding which ones he would need for the homework he'd been assigned to do over the weekend, and shoving the rest back into his untidy locker.

"You!" a loud and confident voice yelled from nearby behind him. Bruce turned to see Anthony Stark looking and pointing directly at him. Why the hell would Stark want to talk to him?

Bruce raised his eyebrows in subtle surprise as Stark broke free from his mob of cronies and sauntered over to him.

"Party tonight, seven-thirty, my place." Tony stated with such declaration it left Bruce both shocked and confused.

"Why are you telling me this?" Bruce prompted, trying to sound tough in order to show he would not tolerate Stark messing with him.

"I'm setting a record. The entire school is going to be there. Totally bitchin'. That means you're coming too."

"What if I refuse?" Bruce taunted.

"What's the matter? Too scared to go to your first party? Or too afraid you'll be the unwanted and disregarded outcast there, too" Stark was quick in his reply, ruthless.

"No," Bruce played along, keeping up with Stark, "too bothered to endure spending even more forced time with you."

"Trust me, I wouldn't be caught dead socializing with you if not necessary," Stark sneered. "It's not like you have anything better to do."

Stark was right about that—Bruce did not have anything better to do. Aunt Susan hadn't been able to pay the electric bill on time (again) so their electricity had been shut off yesterday, and that meant no TV to pass the time for Bruce. Bruce shrugged. He did not want to go to Stark's party but on the other hand parties meant people and people meant food, so to Bruce the party was the next best option.

"Fair enough," Bruce nodded, keeping his face clear of all emotion and his body steady and tense to show Stark that he was not a wimpy loser.

Stark nodded back and handed Bruce a torn piece of paper with his address written across it in an elegant cursive scrawl. Stark rejoined his buddies who were waiting for him by the leaky drinking fountain and Bruce slammed his locker shut, prepared to make his journey home and get ready for this party.