The Gifted

1 | Smoke, Spiders, and Jack Parker

The secretary was new. Everyone swore they'd never seen him before, but he had an official ID and walked around like he knew what he was doing. No one questioned it too much—there were at least a hundred employees in the building at any given time, so someone must've hired him. Someone everyone anyone. People had a tendency to remove themselves far away from the situation and use other words. Someone everyone anyone. No one questioned it because no one cared enough, but also because why else would he be here? What possible reason could a random person have to parade as an employee at a life-sucking job?

The name on his shiny but unusually small badge was John Flynn. Bright blue eyes, charming smile, very tall. Didn't really look like the type who'd settle for being a secretary, not at this age—he'd be more fitting sitting at the table with the executives, but no one said it out loud for fear of sounding superficial. The world judged by looks; make all the inspirational you be you and that's perfect! posters you want, but the world judged by looks and that was the truth. The secretary looked interesting, was all.

John Flynn spent his first and only day at Delorney Co. destroying the CEO's office.

Delorney was a small, moderately-renowned company—with trash security—that specialized in evading EPA regulations and bribing officials (and chemical synthesis—that was their 'official' business). They specialized in destroying the ozone and blaming other countries' factories for it, and they were run by an egotistical CEO who'd paid good money to have his assault charges brushed under the rug. Now, he was even considering running for president. The nerve.

And because John Flynn had absolutely nothing to lose, he went straight up to the CEO's empty office on the topmost floor and smashed a potted plant into the giant, narcissistic portrait that had been photoshopped to perfection. Once there were enough cracks in the glass frame so that the CEO's devil smile couldn't be seen, John moved on and broke the expensive-looking swivel chair tucked neatly under a desk. Then he grabbed all the pencils and pens from the holder and walked around the room, plucking them one at a time from his fist and throwing them in the air like he was playing darts.

If there were actual darts, he would've thrown them at the picture.

Ethical questions arose in his head. Sure, he's a douche, but do I have any right to vandalize his office? No, not really, but ethics didn't care about him and so he didn't care about ethics—at least not when it came to people like this.

John Flynn left the building in a good mood; his smile was contagious, and the others obliviously smiled back at him as he went through the revolving door, never to be seen again. They had his face on camera, but that was never and would never be a problem for him. He drove to the nearest gas station with a lockable bathroom and shut himself inside, running the water as cold and as loud as it could go.

He watched himself in the mirror as he shortened to his actual height, five-eleven. His eyes darkened from blue to brown. His face changed—small, subtle details at a time so as to not look like some quick, horrific transformation. His clothes altered and shrunk to fit him. He took the fake ID, burned it with a lighter, ripped it into pieces as the hot plastic scorched his fingers, and tossed the whole mess into the overflowing garbage can. He blew a kiss at it as if saying goodbye.