A/N: This story takes place in 1970 with Stanford enrolled in Backupsmore University. It's mostly canon, but there might be just a few little parts that are different. I know this is a pretty short chapter, but the other ones will be longer. Everyone has to start somewhere! Also, please leave a comment if you like it. I'm also open to suggestions, so if there's something you want to happen, leave a comment and maybe I'll add it to the story! Thanks for reading!

English Composition wasn't exactly Stanford's favorite class. It wasn't necessarily because of the subject matter, though. He wasn't sure if it was the monotonous voice of the professor or the fact that none of the 10 students in the class seemed to be truly engaged. Stanford had only been attending Backupsmore for a week now, and he was already ready to graduate. Granted, it would only take him about half the time to get his Bachelors as it usually took since he had doubled up on classes, leaving himself very little free time. A lack of free time didn't really bother Stanford though. He spent most of his time alone anyway, and that's exactly how he liked it. He even requested that he have a single dorm rather than have a roommate.

Stanford tapped his pencil lightly on his desk in a continuous beat matching the clock ticking overhead. His thoughts began to wander off as the professor continued to go over the proper use of semicolons. He began to think about what English Composition at West Coast Tech was like. Perhaps the professor there had an interesting voice or interactive teaching style. Perhaps the students actively participated rather than sitting there with a dull, vacant look in their eyes. Perhaps he'd actually be enjoying the lesson. Perhaps he'd meet kindred spirits and make friends with other nerds like himself. Perhaps he'd find someone exactly like him. That thought made Stanford stop tapping his pencil. There was someone exactly like him, but not in the way he wanted. His twin brother Stanley. Just the though of his brother lit a fire in the pit of Stanford's stomach. Stanley was the whole reason the he was in this dump in the first place. If Stanley hadn't gotten jealous and destroyed Stanford's project, he could be on the other side of the country learning from the best in the field. Stanley ruined his life. Stanford snapped out of his dream-like state when he accidentally snapped his pencil. He didn't even realize how hard he was gripping it. A girl with long blonde hair down to her hips, who was only sitting a few seats away, looked over in confusion, first at the pencil, then at Stanford. With an apologetic shrug, he stuffed the halved pencil into his satchel by his feet. He wasn't really taking notes anyway.

The relative stillness of the room was broken by the sound of the door shutting and quick footsteps down the stairs. The monotone voice of the professor was broken as well.

"How nice of you to decide to join us, sir." He stated condescendingly.

A short, but thin boy no older than Stanford came bounding down the stairs with more energy than the 10 students combined. The boy stopped when he realized the professor was waiting for some kind of response.

"Oh, um, I'm sorry sir," The boy stammered with a slight southern accent, "You see, the thing is, I was working on this-"

"I don't want to hear it. Just please, sit down."

The boy obeyed and the lesson continued. He was seated just a few rows in front of Stanford. The boy was digging through his bag rapidly. After a few moments, he pulled out an odd little mechanical box and a very small screwdriver. He gently sat the box on his desk and began to work on it. At this point, Stanford had almost completely forgot about the lesson. What on earth is that guy tinkering with? Stanford thought. How can he just ignore the lesson and work on something else?

Stanford examined him. He was wearing a heavy mustard colored sweater with the collar of a baby blue button-down shirt poking out. His light colored bellbottom jeans flowed down to his slick brown loafers. He had two bandaged cuts on his right hand and an untreated one on his left. The boy's head was drooping down so he could see what he was doing better, which caused his glasses to constantly slide down his nose. His light brown, almost blond, hair was tousled like someone who has in a hurry with a few pieces sticking up in random directions. Every few minutes, he would jerk and swear under his breath while shaking his hand from a pinch or a poke.

He captivated Stanford. Out of all of the high school dropouts and middle-aged students, he stood out the most. Time seemed to fly by as Stanford continued to gaze and figure out what the boy was working on. All of a sudden, he stopped and but his screwdriver down slowly.

Is he done? Stanford thought. What's it supposed to be anyway? It looks like a useless hunk of metal. He leaned forward and craned his neck to try to get a better view of the strange object. Suddenly, without warning, the tinkerer turned his head and made steady eye contact with Stanford. Startled, Stanford shot back into his seat and glued his eyes to the chalkboard, pretending that his attention was focused there the whole time.

"This will conclude class for today. Make sure to answer questions 1-27 on page 322 for tomorrow." The professor announced.

Without looking at the boy seated in front of him, Stanford clumsily shoved his notebook and textbook into his satchel. He stood up, swinging the bag over his shoulder. When he turned to leave, he almost ran into the tinkerer who decided to meet him at his seat.

"Oh! Hello, sorry, I'll just be going-" Stanford tried to shuffle past.

The boy squinted his eyes, "Stanford Pines."

His voice sent a shiver down Stanford's spine and made his face grow unbearably hot, "H-how do you know my name?"

After a few mysterious seconds, the boy burst into laughter, "It's stitched into your bag! Name's Fiddleford McGucket, but you can just call me Fids like everyone else."

Stanford reached out for a handshake, "Nice to meet you, Fids."

Fiddleford took his hand and shook it excitedly, "Likewise. It's a cigarette dispenser, by the way."

Stanford was confused, "What?"

"The thing I was working on. It's a cigarette dispenser. Here, I'll show you how it works." Fiddleford grabbed the machine out of his back and sat it on the nearest desk. He pushed a small button and a flap on the side opened, holding a lit cigarette.

"Neato!" Stanford exclaimed.

"I know, right?" Said Fiddleford. He picked up the smoldering cigarette and offered it to Stanford who politely declined. Fiddleford shrugged and took a long drag.

"So is this why you were late?"

He chuckled, "Not at all. I could show you the thing that made me late if you'd like. Maybe you could help me with it. You seem like a pretty sharp guy."

"Well I didn't graduate top of my class to be dull," Stanford laughed, "Sure, I'd love to come by."

"Groovy! I'm in room 312. Come by sometime after 4 and I'll see what you've got." He winked. And with that, he rested the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, grabbed his things and hurried out, probably late for another class.