Highest Rank: #144 in Adventure. He was 18-years-old when his father died. He was also 18-years-old when he received his powers, one of which was the ability to manipulate metal.
After running into the city of Politum, Tyzon Foster is kidnapped by...
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In the mornings, when I would wake up, my mother would come home from her job and sleep for most of the day, whilst my father would remain in his room doing even more work, but, before long, he would make his departure. Once my mother would leave for work, I was then home alone, except for the times when multiple different home tutors had homeschooled me in different subjects, who were aggravatingly coming in one after another. I never liked being the center of attention when it came to the teacher's perspective, because having to be waited upon for an answer was not only stressful but time consuming.
Usually, with a full class of twenty five, the teacher would educate students in a fast pace, whether they could keep up or not, and as mad as it sounds, I enjoyed the rush of having to keep pace with the teachers and maybe even some of the other students. With this teaching pace, more information could be received to my head, whether I had it written down or not, as it had been imprinted on my subconscious.
However, these student to teacher face offs I had with these different robotic home tutors were much more intimate, for when a question was asked, nobody else could have answered it for me, and so followed the awkward moment of silence and hysteria, until the teacher would give in and answer the ill fated question for me with a deep explanation to why the answer was what it was. They would ramble on until I would utter 'oh' or nod in assent to represent when I understood what their explanations meant.
As I was given a few tests back to back on a single day, most of the time given during the exams was used to think about when I could progress into rehab, for the feeling of desperation slowly crept in. Once I was finished with these exams, the tutor thanked me for my cooperation and left, then the next one would come in, being overly energetic at first, but would then return to the same dull teacher, who had to dive more in depth in clarification to satisfy my needs.
Then came in the bathroom breaks, which I will not go in thorough depths to describing my experience with. Though, I will mention that at least my arms could work as well as anybody wanted them to, so wiping my ass was not an issue. Falling into the toilet was, and to make circumstances such as taking a dump even more difficult, my wheelchair with faulty brakes would fail to halt the chair at times, which led to countless collisions with my knees.
Once the last tutor left, leaving me to wonder however many there were, for I lost count as they all looked the same, my father came home from work. After each dreary day of hard work, my father and I sat on the couch with a preheated or microwaveable dinner. For the past week, I had a liquefied paste or some form of chunky soup as after coming straight out of a coma, the stomach had trouble digesting foods that would not normally come out of a tube. Admittedly, toothpaste was tempting as a dessert.
Staring blankly at the television each time my father came home from work, we never conversed. One time, I dared to play a conversation in my head and planned out my ideal interpretation of how a father to son chat would be like. How were your tutors? Terrible, how was work? Terrible. When I brewed up the courage to start this perfectly analytical conversation, a news report about a field test of a missile gone wrong, as its warhead nearly destroyed one of the islands in Maine, completely captured the interest of my father. This urged him to increase the volume as if he wanted to mute my insignificant voice, and so I remained quiet while he dedicated himself to a screen with lights, until the term 'conspiracy theory' ruined the story for the both of us.
