The World
Member
Δ - 1
Randall Smith stood naked in his bathroom. A reflection glared back at him. He had been good looking at one time, but now his appearance was gaunt, for lack of eating, and lack of sleep. He lived alone. He made excellent money. Day in and day out, the numbers on his screen dissolved into meaningless powder. He ordered people to do things and then took credit for it.
At night he traveled. His ability was teleportation. At first he had used it liberally, wasting time in the most exotic locations he could think of - he practically daydreamed all day about the things he'd do, the places he'd go. It was a gift.
It'd only taken a few months for him to feel like he was wasting it. It was just like all the money he was making. It was going towards nothing. He could give it all away and nothing in the world would change.
Then he'd made his mask, and bought his gun, and started the plan.
The shadows under his eyes were pronounced. He pinched his cheeks in one hand, running a thumb over his lip, where a small white scar cut away the symmetry of his face.
ONE YEAR AGO
Plane rides were part of the job. He was being paid major money to sit still, in peace, for hours at a time. Flying private. Who could complain about something like that?
Smith's fellow passengers were other Δcorp employees. He had been brought along with more senior management. To them, he was only a peon, even if he had the power to lord over his own associates. He spent a good deal of time working to impress them, but for the most part, he stayed quiet, secluded, staring out the window.
Pittsburgh was just below. He sighed whenever he thought of it. She hadn't wanted to move to Pittsburgh with him, despite the opportunities it would bring. Years, gone, just like that. She was on the other side of the States now. And all it would take was a plane ride like this one to connect them - but she wasn't even willing to try.
Stop, he thought to himself. Forget her. You're only hurting yourself.
He had to think about the future now. His future.
There was a conversation going on in the cabin. The bosses, smiling, laughing. He murmured something in assent with a small smile, mind elsewhere. He'd give the world to be anywhere else.
Then, a crunching noise. His brow furrowed as turbulence shook the cabin -
- then the plane started to disintegrate around him, like he was in a dream. The floor, the walls - there was no depressurization, because it all just turned into rust-colored dust -
- everyone falling -
- and he was gone.
Officially, Randall Smith had boarded that plane and was feared dead for a number of hours - no body found in the aftermath of the Chromewrecker incident.
Δcorp was thankful to find him alive and well, having made other travel arrangements to Pittsburgh.
Lucky me, he'd say. Can you imagine if I'd been on that plane with the others?
That was how it'd all begun.
Randall Smith stood naked in his bathroom. A reflection glared back at him. He had been good looking at one time, but now his appearance was gaunt, for lack of eating, and lack of sleep. He lived alone. He made excellent money. Day in and day out, the numbers on his screen dissolved into meaningless powder. He ordered people to do things and then took credit for it.
At night he traveled. His ability was teleportation. At first he had used it liberally, wasting time in the most exotic locations he could think of - he practically daydreamed all day about the things he'd do, the places he'd go. It was a gift.
It'd only taken a few months for him to feel like he was wasting it. It was just like all the money he was making. It was going towards nothing. He could give it all away and nothing in the world would change.
Then he'd made his mask, and bought his gun, and started the plan.
The shadows under his eyes were pronounced. He pinched his cheeks in one hand, running a thumb over his lip, where a small white scar cut away the symmetry of his face.
ONE YEAR AGO
Plane rides were part of the job. He was being paid major money to sit still, in peace, for hours at a time. Flying private. Who could complain about something like that?
Smith's fellow passengers were other Δcorp employees. He had been brought along with more senior management. To them, he was only a peon, even if he had the power to lord over his own associates. He spent a good deal of time working to impress them, but for the most part, he stayed quiet, secluded, staring out the window.
Pittsburgh was just below. He sighed whenever he thought of it. She hadn't wanted to move to Pittsburgh with him, despite the opportunities it would bring. Years, gone, just like that. She was on the other side of the States now. And all it would take was a plane ride like this one to connect them - but she wasn't even willing to try.
Stop, he thought to himself. Forget her. You're only hurting yourself.
He had to think about the future now. His future.
There was a conversation going on in the cabin. The bosses, smiling, laughing. He murmured something in assent with a small smile, mind elsewhere. He'd give the world to be anywhere else.
Then, a crunching noise. His brow furrowed as turbulence shook the cabin -
- then the plane started to disintegrate around him, like he was in a dream. The floor, the walls - there was no depressurization, because it all just turned into rust-colored dust -
- everyone falling -
- and he was gone.
Officially, Randall Smith had boarded that plane and was feared dead for a number of hours - no body found in the aftermath of the Chromewrecker incident.
Δcorp was thankful to find him alive and well, having made other travel arrangements to Pittsburgh.
Lucky me, he'd say. Can you imagine if I'd been on that plane with the others?
That was how it'd all begun.
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