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When his predestined rival had crashed into him on the way down to Earth, it had fractured the hatch on his pod. He didn’t have enough oxygen on the way there. He faded in and out of consciousness the entire trip through the cosmos, not even being fully able to appreciate the once in a lifetime display around him.
When he landed in the prison yard he realized the bright orange color on these big, stupid creatures was a new thing. He cooed and smiled and he was theirs. Everyone liked him, from the very first moment he showed up in the yard, on Christmas back in 1990. The Warden had instantly taken a liking to the child from the stars, and he vowed to keep him safe as best as he could.
When he was a kid, his uncles would tell him stories of how they figured he got to Earth.
He only had bits and pieces of his infancy in his head; of course, he was so young when it happened. Once Minion developed better he’d be able to talk about what really happened, but until then, they would have stories.
The prisoners would talk about how he was like Mac, or E.T., from a far off galaxy with no particular purpose but to explore the stars and planets and see what could be seen. Maybe he was an alien prince, even, sent to take over the world as a gift for his people. Or maybe he wasn’t an alien at all, and he was a government experiment of some sort. (They’d talk about that one excitedly amongst themselves for hours and he would sit between them listening intently, silently, even though they all knew it wasn’t true. Fairytales came in times of trouble, and these were their fairytales.)
He wished it was true, he really truly wished it was true with all of his heart, but even before he knew the whole truth of the matter, he had a sinking feeling his origin story was one of torn ties and shattered glass rather than diamonds and stardust.
He was an exceptionally good child; quiet and shy, constantly hugging that glass ball to his chest and staring at people with those big green eyes. He learned to read when he was a year old but he didn’t speak until he was three, and by then he could speak full sentences. He treated all of the staff kindly and he didn’t talk back.
He got older. He got smarter. Being surrounded by people who were all ready to fight anyone and everyone at any given moment but still being the smartest and strongest person in the room tended to get to a child’s head. He liked riddles a lot. He loved tricking everyone he was in contact with; it was one of the few things he could be proud of. That little fire that sparked just under the middle of his chest whenever someone couldn’t figure out a riddle he had made. The burning flame of victory and an insatiable craving for more was something that truly shaped him.
He was incredibly good at getting his friends out of trouble. He was sharp about law, too, reading over about 12 Harvard Law textbooks in half a year. He used the information to get his fellow inmates time off for various things, getting him a very very good name among the other inmates.
They never gave the boy a proper name. Everyone called him Blue, or Azul, or just ‘kid’ if you were close to him. He didn’t mind, saying he’d choose his own name when he needed one. He loved to cook, but he admitted to not being the best at it. The inmates would fight for him if need be, and everyone knew to protect their lucky Blue.
So one may wonder what exactly happened that turned him into what he became as an adult.
School happened.
School took a good, quiet, studious child, broke him apart, and assembled the pieces into something downright evil.
He showed up on his first day of school with an excited sparkle in his eye and a smile on his face. He was going to make friends! He was going to be around other smart kids! Kids his age!
He took one step inside.
All eyes were on him; pointing fingers and cruel smiles and more eyes, glowing, burning red eyes and an overwhelming sense that he was not welcome here, within seconds.
He felt less trapped in prison.
Each day got worse. He was hurt physically, emotionally, and mentally. He wasn’t allowed to learn- he already knew what was being taught. If he got his books out so he could learn on his own, he’d be yelled at and punished.
He wasn’t allowed to bounce his leg under the desk when he couldn’t focus. That was disruptive and bad.
He wasn’t allowed to draw on the sides of his notebook. That meant he was ignoring the teacher, which was bad.
He wasn’t allowed to hit anyone when playing dodgeball, and he wasn’t fast enough to dodge since everyone would gang up on him at once, every single time. He kept getting hit so hard he couldn’t see anything for a while, and the sky went dark, the burning asphalt rushing to meet his bruised face. They all said he had a disease. Don't touch him, or you'll catch it too! His misery was a game. He'd sit there, in the back, crying his eyes out and clutching to Minion like a lifeline while they would walk by and knock things off of his desk and step on his legs until he bruised when he was sitting on the floor, or they'd knock his lunch out of his hands on 'accident' every day and he wouldn't be allowed to eat anything til he got back to the prison.
This was just the way it was, right?
One day he tried fighting back.
He was punished by his peers and by the adults supposed to be guarding him.
He snapped.
He wasn’t good at anything he was supposed to do. Why bother? Why bother trying if all he could do was bad?
He could do bad.
And with a beautiful blue explosion, that’s what he did.
He would do bad, he decided, it was the only solution. He was going to be good at something. He wasn’t worthless. He wasn’t worthless. He was bad.
He was going to be the baddest boy of them all.