HERO

2 / Spotting

Oscar sighed. He hated those types of customers. The ones who asked questions too many times, stalling until they made up their minds. Often, he'd be able to convince them to take all that were offered. He'd even do a discount.

The kid was different, though. Oscar knew his anxiety was eating away at him slowly. He was wondering if he'd made the right decision to come here. If he would have been better finding more legal methods of solving his problems. It was too late now. The deed was done. The transaction begun. There would be no backing out. Oscar had no qualms about mutilating a child. He'd done so before and would again. The deal must be finalised. Payment would be made either way, either financial or physical.

Thomas was, to be fair, one of the Fixer's youngest customers. Generally, those who sought him out were older. Adults or late teenagers. Actual minors were more unusual.

But, so what? If they could pay, they were welcome. If only they wouldn't be so indecisive!

Oscar sighed again, filling the sound with emphasised exasperation. Thomas's eyes widened briefly. He shouldn't have asked. He should have chosen one, paid and left. The Fixer was notorious and shouldn't be irked.

"Don't worry. Don't worry. I know. Sorry! I was just..."

"Draggin' yer 'eels. I know. Yer jist messin'. No intention o' buyin'"

"I am! Honest! I am!"

Oscar was just playing with the boy. He'd buy, Oscar had no doubt of that. The Fixer just wanted to up the kid's heartbeat a little. Pump up the afraidometer a smidge. It helped with the reputation.

Still, as bored as he was getting, Oscar did feel sorry for the boy. Late bloomers, or Nomads as they were called, would often resort to any means to bring out that which was shy to appear.

The term Nomad had no relation to its dictionary meaning. Instead it referred to the way that particular subset of humanity could sometimes go. Being powerless beyond your 8th year, when powers usually became apparent, made you something of an outcast. Even given that they always would come out, those left waiting were known to go mad with the waiting. A person's body would struggle with the anticipation of what was to come, the brain not quite able to relate to the delay. Body and mind could become fragmented as chemicals were released that were meant to interact with others and release the tsunami. When they didn't, the mind was prone to close in upon itself. The body would figure itself out in the end, but the end would be too late.

If a person was unfortunate enough to suffer from this, there was only one course of action to take. It was called euthanasia. It was also called The Spot. The highlight of a Saturday night's prime time viewing was a game show called Spotters. Nomads gone past the point of no return were contestants. They were too dangerous to be allowed to continue living. Unable to look after themselves yet with abilities that could tear their world apart meant they had to be removed.

Or Spotted.

They were given a chance, of course. Under controlled situations, that was. They were allowed to attempt escape, or as close to that as someone whose mind no longer functioned could. It was mercy disguised as sport.

The result was always the same. The viewers voted on which Nomad would last the longest. Not which would be victorious and survive, just the last to die. Even mindless, they put up a good fight. The audience demanded it. The producers were happy to concede.

Thomas stared at the vials. The Fixer had made it clear which was which, but he really couldn't remember. His mind was racing and everything was a blur. He didn't want to end up dying in front of millions of bloodthirsty onlookers. He had to make the deal. Buy the vial. The right one. Then leave. After that, everything would be fine. As it should be. He'd be able to make his father proud. He'd be the son his mother always wanted.

If only she was alive to see it.

"Please," Thomas asked, laying his voice on a bed of sympathy. "What's the difference? I know the blue is stronger than the..."

"No, no, no!" Oscar exclaimed. "You've got it entirely arse aboot face!"

He slammed his fist down on the table, bouncing the blocker and causing the dust to scatter. Thomas sneezed and Oscar laughed.

"D'you know where ya are, boy? D'ya know what ya rarely doin'?"

"I... I..."

Thomas was flustered and was failing miserably to hide it. He had to hold it together, particularly in front of someone like the Fixer. He just wanted to be normal. Just like everyone else. He'd saved every penny he could and, though his father would be furious if he found out, he'd managed to siphon some of the money left to him when his mother died. Ten was too late. Ten was a good two years after his body should have woken up and shown him his true potential. Ten was two years, at least, closer to losing his mind and his life.

Oscar, though sympathy was not something he was familiar with, could understand what the boy was going through. He had been well into his ninth year when his reflection finally visited another mirror. It was unplanned and totally unexpected. His older sister, whose mirror was the recipient, saw her brother. She'd had been dressing after a shower and thought he was shouting on her.

The resultant fireball, thrown by a girl whose hormones were reading through a body still accepting the power it contained, blew a hole through the bedroom wall. And that of their parents, asleep together after energetic lovemaking. Oscar said they never knew what hit them. He was wrong. They did, but their screams melted in the intense heat as lungs and throats collapsed and turned to ash.

The sister, Yvonne, could not contain her anger and sorrow. Nor could the building they lived in.

Fourteen died, five of them extremely painful and lingering deaths. Oscar was found wandering nearby by a neighbour. He couldn't remember, until much later, what had happened. He left his sister's name out of the reports, blaming it instead on his parents. His father was a known Jacker, one who has the strength to lift cars without breaking a sweat. His mother had pyrokinetic abilities. They weren't particularly well developed and she had never been interested in furthering them. That way led to the very reasons she believed the world had fallen about their ears.

No. The true Pyro in the family was Yvonne. But, maybe, Oscar had been right. Their mother, during one of her many arguments with her husband, had let loose the powers she'd held dormant.

Yvonne hadn't survived the destruction she'd caused, but Oscar made sure she was never held responsible. That glory was his own. It was, he knew, his fault. He had prompted his sister.

But, as is all too usual, he became a slave to his power. Then, his power truly became the master.

Oscar sighed again, though he internalised the feelings he was really sighing over.

"Fine, kid," he said. "It's like this."