[The second that question is uttered, it's like every thought in Tony's mind is pulling back, retreating and locking itself away, a flash of anger and bitterness, a few images of a large, fire-lit study, the back of his father's chair, a door closing in his face time and time again, disappointment in a harsh, lined face, mouth open in rage, hands ripping everything out of his grip-

And then nothing but annoyance, the push of video reels, of images of his parents at cocktail parties, bitterness still there, but only that of a spoiled rich kid who's mommy and daddy were too busy getting their asses kissed and their fortunes raised to pay attention to the little boy with grease on his face and a microprocessor clutched in grubby little fingers.]

My parents? Going straight for the big hits, huh Professor? Alright. Mom was obsessed with the social scene, appearance at parties. She was the one who taught me to stand straight, one arm behind my back, glass in hand. To smile at the right times, laugh and nod, listen without listening. To scan a room and go straight for the people I needed on my side, leaving everyone else in the dust. Socialization for business, not for pleasure.

Dad wasn't there much. The company was his baby, but apparently that was just him not knowing what to do with a kid? I got my apology from him, twenty years after he died, and he kind of saved my life, so there's that, too.