Wield laws like a shield,

Little Prince,

Guard yourself

With silence.

Weeks 7-8

The Principal's POV

My teachers and night staff were continuing to find it difficult to have Tony Stark as a student. He wasn't putting up with their continued no's when it came to his project ideas. Though I hadn't been able to reach either Mr. or Mrs. Stark by phone, Tony evidently had his own line of communication because someone had started sending him boxes of supplies.

Luckily, a hatchet had not been amongst his supply deliveries. Or if it had, he'd kept it hidden.

Paint & Canvases

Tony's POV

Jarvis had come through with a crate of stuff. I didn't have a hammer to pry up the boards so I confiscated a fork from the cafeteria. I forced the tines under a board then pressed hard with my hands. Its fulcrum didn't budge. Perhaps more mass. I shoved the crate up next to my bed, then I stood on the bed and moved one foot to the arm of the fork and stomped! "Ow!" I squeezed back the tears that wanted to come. I pulled up the ripped pant leg and struggled again not to let the tears drop. The whole side of my leg was scrapped. I blew on it and stomped my foot. I wanted Mom, or a nanny, or Jarvis here to fix it. But I was on my own.

I looked over. The fork was bent; its fulcrum hadn't been strong enough. There were dots of blood on the wood. One of the nighttime officers had offered to open the crate for me, but I didn't know if the hatchet was in it and if it was the drill sergeants would claim it was too dangerous for me to keep.

I switched into PJs so I could go shower without anyone seeing my leg. I needed to clean the scrape to prevent infection. One positive, I now had one fewer pair of uniform pants.

Serendipity! The hatchet came the next day in a cardboard box. I made sure my door was locked, then wedged the ax head between two boards on the crate. Then I sat on the handle and bounced up and down on it until I heard the crack of the nail giving way and the board lifting. I repeated the process on another corner to pop the lid off.

It was almost as exciting as Christmas, except there was no one there to ooh and aah over the gifts. There was a rainbows worth of small paint cans, plus one of black and one of white. Brushes, a plastic tarp, canvases and other accoutrements. I spread them all out across the floor while I thought about what to do with them.

My hand was fiddling with the handle of the hatchet. I heard people in the hall. Best to hide it. I stuck it between the mattress and bedframe.

93 minutes until bed-check. I pushed the empty crate into a corner then put most of the stuff back in it. I rolled out the plastic tarp across the floor, setup the new easel and put a canvas on it.

You can't give up on a project just because someone says no. Dad and Obie say no to employees all the time during product meetings, but it was rarely, 'No, we'd never make that.' No use in wasting completed research. Their, 'Nos' included advice and orders on how to improve whatever the Research and Development scientist or advertising committee came up with.

I wasn't giving up on my 3rd Amendment project. Soldiers deserved good housing and it was illegal for them to usurp civilian houses. Advertising is important. I painted an army barracks. Above it, I painted: Support Our Troops with. Below it, I painted: Their Home Away from Home. I carefully made the O in Our into a Captain America shield.

No nanny. I was stuck cleaning up on my own. Oh, and look at that! Somehow I managed to have a school uniform on while painting. And in my excitement to paint I just happened to forget to put a smock on. Two uniforms ruined in two days! I wonder what 'mistake' I could make in one tomorrow?

I carried my advertisement with me to breakfast because we go straight from breakfast to class. A kid named Mike shoved my arm and said, "What kind of dweeb does extra work for school?"

I frowned, "I'm not doing extra. I'm doing different. What kind of simian is so dull witted that the best they can hope for is to be the cog being circled by a bike chain?"

"Did you just call me semen?! How do you even know that word? What are you, 5?"

Actually, I'd called him a simian, as in monkeys or apes, which happens to include humans in Linnaean's infraorder simiiformes. I had only learned the word semen two days ago. It was in the biology book my science teacher had me reading in loo of reviewing stuff I already know in the simpleton's book the other students are stuck with. How lucky was it that Mike chose a worse nickname for himself?

I went with it. "Well, if you're still semen then apparently I'm essentially 7 years older than you."

"Are not!" was Mike's lame reply.

Sadly, at that exact same moment one of the drill sergeants put fist on hips, glared daggers at me and growled, "Your mouth ought to be washed out with soap. You do not say that word." Leaving it to me to figure out she meant the s word, but not the s word that causes Mom to glare daggers at Dad when he says it in front of me. "How do you even know that word?" She didn't wait for a reply. "You're lucky the school doesn't allow mouth washings, but you are on meal restriction for the rest of the day." Sigh. We both knew I'd already had that enough times during the year to not need it explained. I was to eat meals alone in the room to the side of the cafeteria and no desserts.

Mike laughed. I wanted to take a swing at him then and there, but it's smarter to pick your battle ground and prepare proper weapons. I followed Ms. Drill Sargent to the isolation room. I spooned up oatmeal and crunched into bacon while contemplating how David was going to take down Goliath. A sling shot seemed like the obvious answer. The elastic band between a U shaped bar with a handle seemed like the more accurate and more stealthy type than the leather square on a string type. But it'd be easier to get materials for the later.

Easy was a bad way to go. Quality matters. So does not getting caught. The modern sling shot is much more stealthy. Maybe I could superglue a bunch of rubber bands together?

Then, I could also use the superglue to glue a bunch of paperclips together to construct a sample barracks. Since I'd be working on a school project I'd have to be wearing a school uniform. Who could blame a 6-year-old for accidentally getting superglue between natural bends in the uniforms jacket or tie?

Dad wasn't here to point out that my hands are steady enough to hand draw the circuits on a computer board. Everyone knew that I'd built a circuit board, but this place was practically in the 1870s technology wise, light bulbs being one of the few uses of electricity on campus. I doubted any of them had a clue what it physically took to construct a computer, so they wouldn't blink an eye at the 'klutzy' kid who regularly managed to ruin school uniforms. It was amazing that none of my recess time had been confiscated due to their ruination. It was like I'd discovered a secret superpower!

My personal assistant arrived to make sure I didn't get lost. It's not like I don't know where my classrooms are; I'd made a scale map in math class to prove I could put fractions to use. I still refused to 'show the work' for such simple math. She walks me to class because I'm told I have a tendency to get lost in my own thoughts and projects. Like now, I was walking without acknowledging where I was walking because I was busy planning the dimensions for the barracks and the materials for the slingshot.

My P.A. said, "Tony," in that way people do when they've been talking to you and you had no idea they were even speaking. I glanced at her. "Ah, so you've returned to the waking world. If you don't know yourself here, what chance do you have in dreams?"

"McCarthy."

"You know the quote?"

I responded, "He's a horror writer who likes to rub elbows with physicist. He came to one of Dad's parties."

"Did you meet him?"

"He was too engaged with Dad to notice me."

My P.A. looked so startled that I decided I had to explain. "They aren't getting married or anything, he was engaged in the topic. McCarthy is a science geek. He's read every paper Dad's published and wanted to discuss some of them."

She frowned at me, "I understood what you meant. 6-year-olds don't typically use that term that way."

"What's the fun in being typical?"

Principal's POV

That connection of his sent him paints and canvases. He'd painted an army barracks and the words Support Our Troops with Their Home Away From Home, as part of his 3rd Amendment campaign. Somehow, he'd 'accidentally' spilled paint on another uniform, despite wearing a paint shirt and covering the floor with plastic before working.

This also lead to problems because the other students wanted access to paints outside of art class.

Tony also received a microscope and accompanying supplies. Evidently, he was gathering cell data for science class. Which wouldn't be a problem, but he was found to have in his possession a rather sharp pocketknife that he was using to slice the plants into thin enough pieces for the light of the microscope to penetrate them. Tony did not take well to its confiscation.

Tony's POV

I frowned and stated, "It isn't dangerous. I use guns and soldering irons at home. A knife is only dangerous if you don't know how to use it or if you intend to use it on people. It is a tool that I need."

"You are 6. You do not need a knife."

The adults here were as lame as Mrs. Wilkerson. I didn't need round tipped scissors. I needed my knife.

Principal's POV

My head hurt. Tony's science teacher was the third of his teachers to approach me this week with similar comments to the ones I was hearing this moment.

"The Starks aren't the only wealthy people with children at this school. If the school isn't charging enough to provide microscopes for the students, then perhaps the rates need to increase."

I explained, "We can't charge based on income. If we were to raise rates we'd lose students from the less well-off families, resulting in the same issue of not enough funds."

She stomped off, disgruntled that a 6-year-old had access to more and better supplies than were available for her class.

Tony repeatedly refused to follow his teachers' directions. He read far ahead in his textbooks and had decided he wasn't interested in answering the pointless questions at the end of the chapters. He would do work, but most of it was of his own design. In math class, the teacher caught him writing musical notes instead of the required fractions.

Tony insisted, "I am working on adding fractions. Three sixteenth notes, plus one quarter note, plus one-half note equals one full measure and a sixteenth of the next measure. You just have to commute the notes around so one of the sixteenths ends up in the next measure."

Apparently, the teacher took it home and attempted to play the music. I'm told it was disjointed and definitely not music.

Tony attempted to use the 4th Amendment against us saying, "You need a warrant to inspect the items in my room. Without probable cause of my intentions to harm anyone you have no right to seize my property."

Meaning he wanted his knife back and there was no reason any of the supplies sent to him should have shared use by any other students or teachers, no matter how jealous they were of him. Which, he was right, but having him share was an attempt to solve the problem of others making snide comments towards him, which inevitably lead to confrontations and loss of free time.

Our second visit to his door went pretty much the same way with Tony informing us, "The 4th Amendment prevents you from searching or seizing my property without undo warrant or just cause. The 5th Amendment, in addition to being the Mum Law, states that private property shall not be taken for public use without just compensation. I may be willing to enter into negotiates for the rental or sale cost for my supplies. Would you like to schedule a time for the negotiations to commence?"

The nerve of this 6-year-old! "School rules supersede the Constitution. Its laws pertain to the country as a whole. You'll find that the 10th Amendment allows for local ordinances on most matters. We cannot allow you to have weapons in your room and we will be checking for them."

I could see the child seethe, teeth gritted, arms crossed. Then his whole body relaxed. It was like he transformed from an angry child to a mature businessman in two breaths. His shoulders were back. He was standing as tall as his short frame would allow and he spoke calmly, but firmly, in the way of someone who was used to possessing authority. "Weapons are defined as objects used in combat. The only weapons I've used in combat are my fist. Do you wish to take my hands?" He held them out for inspection. "What I have in my possession are tools. Good day, Principal Collier."

I was too flabbergasted to respond to the door shut in my face. If the school allowed it, I'd spank that impudent child's rear. As it was, I'd be more likely to keep my temper and my job if I simply returned while Tony was in class.

Tony called the 5th Amendment The Mum provision and stated that his parents had been encouraging its use for years, though for things other than crimes. He used it to avoid explaining what he was building, along with claiming, his creations were official S.I. business, and therefore fell under the clause of proprietary secrets.

Tony's POV

The General (Principal) asked, "Could I see what you're building?"

"As property of Stark Industries, I am unable to divulge any concepts or designs the company may sell. They are proprietary secrets."

"You're 6."

"Do you know how much money S.I. made off the circuit board I created when I was 4?"

"Do you know?"

"Yes, though it would be crass to speak of the amount." I loved using words like proprietary, crass and divulge around adults. They'd be so shocked about what I said that they'd get distracted from what they'd been complaining about.

Anthony refused to share his feelings, claiming they were no one's business but his own.

Tony's POV

"How are you today, Anthony?"

"I am disinclined to offer platitudes."

Mrs. Drill Sgt. blinked owlishly. Sadly, her stunned silence only lasted 2 seconds.

"I take that to mean you are not well. Otherwise, you would've claimed you were fine."

I snorted, "Everyone says they are fine whether they are or not. People are too busy with their own lives to care about taking on the real answers to that question. So why should I divulge my personal inclinations or bother with rote responses?"

Principal's POV

He had a point. Life would be far more complex and stressful if people responded with reality.

Tony also claimed the 5th Amendment when his creations resulted in a mess, such as just before the school's Halloween party. The students had been allowed to help make cookies and other snacks for the party. It should be noted that Tony Stark should not be allowed near any kitchens. He'd found the ingredients in there to make something called elephant toothpaste, which had exploded into a warm orange foam across the counter.

At first he kept completely mum, per the 5th Amendment. Then he was fingered by the other students who didn't want to lose party time. As though it wasn't already completely obvious that the only one in the room who would've attempted such a thing was Tony Stark.

Tony decided to bargain using other amendments. "Per the 7th Amendment, any lawsuit valuing more than $20 has a right to trial by jury. Per the 6th Amendment I have a right to a speedy trial with a jury of my peers."

I responded, "The counter can be wiped clean and the cookies are worth less than $20. A jury of your peers have already declared their verdict, and the trial was quite speedy."

I could see the frustration on his face as he added, "It says an impartial jury. They're witness. They can't be part of the jury. I'm also allowed legal counsel per the 6th Amendment."

"Enough. This a school. Not a court of law. Return to your room."

I expected him to retort the 8th Amendment prevented cruel and unusual punishments, such as denying his attendance at the Halloween party. To my surprise, he gave a quiet, "Yes, ma'am." And left. He looked so forlorn that I nearly changed the punishment to merely cleaning up after the party. I regret that I didn't.

The 2nd graders looked up to him because he was in most of the big kid classes. They also liked his idea of writing and producing a play. With his encouragement the students of that class had attempted to follow Tony's lead instead of the teacher's during writing time.

Teacher's POV

Second graders are fairly pliable to adult directives. I have had disruptive students before: the class clowns, craving attention, the hyper ones who need a longer recess or a shorter school day, and the chatterboxes.

Tony is the first one I've had that disrupted the class by trying to get everyone to follow his lead instead of mine. I'd been half a sentence into the lesson when I was distracted by one of the office staff dropping off a forgotten lunch bag and informing me of a student that needed to leave early for the dentist.

When I turned back around, Anthony had taken center stage, while still at his desk.

"Devin, how's that script coming along? Make sure there are enough parts for all the extroverts."

"The what?" asked Devin.

"The chatterboxes. Sally, you've got act 2. Alan, could you figure out who the artist are and get them working on background scenery? I brought paint stuff."

Helen and Sarah were animatedly talking about costume designs and Nick said, "Ten hut," and appeared to be walking like a soldier.

"What do you think you're doing?" I directed my question at the presumed director of activities, Anthony Stark.

"Ready. Fire. Aim."

"Excuse me?"

"That's what Dad says when an idea pops into his head. You've got to jump on it and get started or it'll never happen. Then you designate the right people to do the aiming. George has the best imagination when we play outdoors so he'll write the best action stuff. Sally is a drama queen so she'll be good at getting all the emotional stuff into the play."

I saw George puff up, like a bird showing off its feathers and I heard Sally splutter. Anthony continued.

"But they both kind of suck at spelling, and all that other stuff you harp on about," taking my turn to splutter in indignation as the child continued, "so when they're done you can make copies and the rest of us can work on punching it up and fixing the errors."

"Hey!" Sally and George exclaimed.

"What? Did you think you were perfect? Everyone has stuff they're good at and stuff they're crap at. That's why businesses have departments, so you only have to be good at one thing. Alan's crew is going to make a kick-ass background for the set."

More than half the class gasped and a few exclaimed, "He said a bad word."

"We are not doing a play. Everyone return to your seats. Anthony, that sort of language is not allowed in school."

A few complied, others pleaded that the show should go on.

"We will be doing the lesson I had planned. Whatever class time was lost due to this distraction will be made up during recess."

I got puzzled looks from most of the munchkins, my language going over their heads, a glare from the tiniest one, Tony. I clarified, "So far, you've lost 8 minutes of recess. Return to your seats or it will be more." Now I was getting groans or glares from all of them.

Due to Tony's odd schedule, he left for math class while the other students missed out on recess. I had him return to my room during his own recess period and sat him at the back of the room with the set of 10 sentences that needed grammatical corrections. He sat arms folded, scowling.

Over the next few days I noticed some of the students that liked him before were shunning him or complaining about how his dumb ideas made the class miss recess. He ignored my lessons, and when I'd walk by his desk I'd find him attempting to write the play I had denied him, but I'd also see him furiously scratch things out. I can't deny his intelligence, but he'd claimed that businesses had departments for a reason, just like schools do, and creative writing wasn't amongst his expertise.

It seemed like everyone was annoyed with the child for one reason or another and day by day he was becoming less pliable to adult directions. But the teachers were also discovering better ways to cope with his eccentricities.

Mrs. 3rd Grade Teacher's POV

Tony sat on the floor at the back of the room today. He quietly opened the textbook to a chapter the rest of the class had yet to get to. Within 2 minutes he'd finished reading his chosen pages and had pulled out a clipboard, paper and a pencil. Perhaps he was actually answering the questions at the end of the chapter for once! I didn't approach him though; why stop him from being studious? I found I could live with his academic independence when he wasn't dragging the rest of the class along with him.

Ten minutes later, when I heard murmured grumbles from the other students, I found out why you don't leave him to his own device. Tony was assembling something with metal parts. The other students were jealous that they weren't being allowed to do the same, and I was getting anxious that I was going to have another revolt on my hands.

"Tony, put your toys away and return to your seat."

He glared, "They aren't toys, ma'am." Then his face morphed, like he knew anger wasn't going to get him anywhere. His sales pitch face turned on. "It's a scale model of army barracks." He held up his clipboard. "These are the dimensions for the full-size version. I'm building a version that is 1/500,000 the actual size."

What to do? It was nice, not having him in his seat stubbornly glaring at me for assigning boring, useless work.

I'd heard in the teacher's lounge about his refusal to write out math equations, his army play he wanted the 2nd graders to put on, his attempts to procure a hatchet and use it to build a treehouse.

I glanced around and noticed the rarely used study room between mine and the teacher's next door. Perhaps a private space for him would solve several problems. I had him move his stuff into the center room.

Problem. Once ensconced he didn't want to leave.

Principal's POV

Tony hadn't made any true friends and the other children had a tendency to hassle him. He had a clever mouth and would sass back to them, often with insults that went over the student's head but would cause the teachers to have to hold back a chuckle, at least until they could re-tell the tale in the privacy of the teacher's lounge.

This past weekend he hadn't left his room. At first, no one had noticed, or had they noticed they choose to ignore, grateful for the peace and calm. Hopefully, the prior, and not the later. Neither a good show by my staff, but with hundreds of children to look after and with the expected pattern that children do leave their room to play and do show up to meals of their own accord, it is not entirely unexpected that when one child breaks that pattern it might slip through their notice.

It was far into Saturday afternoon when someone thought to check on him. His normally tidy room held the remnants of a tantrum. Broken pieces of one of his recent creations littered the floor. At first, the child appeared to not be in the room. Then he was spied, leaning against a wall near a corner, with his shield quilt wrapped around his back. Had he placed himself in timeout? Or was he turned to block his view of the things he didn't want to think about?

He'd been unresponsive to voices, just staring blankly. When touched, he'd shrunk away. I was called in and found him in the same state. But this time, when one of the female staff attempted to comfort him he'd shoved and shouted, "You're not my mom!" Then dove for under the bed, scurrying for where he couldn't be reached.

I tried contacting the Starks, hoping that if Tony could speak with his parents he'd calm down, and return to his normal self. They didn't answer any of their listed numbers. Like on previous calls, I left a message requesting they contact the school. Stark Industries was closed for the weekend, so I was unable to reach them through there.

Tony wouldn't leave his hidey hole under the bed. I had my staff leave a tray of food for him on his desk, hoping it would coax him out when he grew hungry.

Thankfully, Monday he turned up to class as though the weekend hadn't happened. He was acting like his normal self. Key word: acting. But in the brief moments that he allowed eye contact you could see the devastation in them. If this kid wasn't rescued soon he might be permanently broken.

Adult Tony, Iron Man II

Tony's POV

I took the summons and tossed it in Happy's lap. "How far's D.C.?" I may be a dick, but I believe in the law. Some rules are meant to be followed.

The one thing I'd gotten out of my first stint at boarding school was a deep understanding of the Constitution's Bill of Rights and its amendments. Though most of it was self-taught as the teacher wanted to just breeze on by the details.

The 1st Amendment being freedom of speech meant I could legally sass and say what needed to be said, courtroom or not, no matter how much Ms. Potts glared at me. And it felt good, showing to all the world that they were talking crap about other companies being able to make armor like mine. If other companies could make it, why did they want to steal mine so bad?

Granted, the Iron Man suit may fall under the 4th Amendment as something to be ceased as a weapon. But, I wasn't lying when I said I am Ironman. The suit is coded to my biometrics. No one else can use it. Except Rhodey. I did make one for Rhodey because a coffin was in my near future. I just had to figure out a way to get him to take it. Giving it to the army would mean they could do whatever they wanted with it. Same deal if I sold it to them. But if Rhodey took it then the suit would belong only to Rhodey.

I wasn't deluded enough to think wars magically stopped when S.I. stopped selling weapons. But I was paying a bit more attention to the play-by-play of who was sending troops where. Mostly, a bunch of unethical a-holes trying to make off with the goods of other countries. But Rhodey had made his way pretty high up in the military hierarchy and I could trust him to use it ethically.