An hour passed without any attacks. I have to admit that being alert for so long leaves me jumpy, twitching at every little fluctuation in the air.

The backs of my hands won’t stop burning after that fire spinner brazed them, so I’m rubbing them gently. It takes some of the edge off. The stupid vines around my fingers won’t shut off and they’re hanging like silly-string from my hand. Thankfully, the cameras are shitty quality and they don’t generate an absurd amount of bytes, so I doubt Eric has any idea what the hell’s going on with my hand. The low quality’s a welcome arrangement for everyone: if you show all your cards now, an ally now might have the unfortunate upper hand if you’re ever working opposing jobs.

Then I felt a subtle difference in the atmosphere, a sort of haze, gently pressing down on my body, like little fluffletts of down you can barely even feel across your skin. I shuddered involuntarily.

“Does anybody else feel that?” Eric asked slowly, carefully, like enemies could be watching from anywhere.

“It’s oppressive,” Alice commented quaintly. “Noxious, almost.” I could see her little nose scrunch up in distaste.

“You’d have to be dense not to feel it,” Rex grumbled wearily. I wondered if he really did feel the shift in pressure or if he was just full hot air. “So what are we going to do about it?”

Eric audibly sighed, then clapped his head to something bony, perhaps hands he had clasped together. I heard his skin smother the headset mic as he massaged his jaw roughly with irritation.

“Olivia, please neutralize the ominous air. Or whatever it is.”

“Why can’t someone else? I know Ciaran can neutralize magic.” I scowled, annoyed but not a bit surprised. Though I couldn't see her face, her tone said enough. Olivia always purses her lips when she tries to pass her duties to someone else; it fittingly reflects her irredeemable inner sourpuss.

“It doesn’t work like that,” I rebutted. “Just do what Eric says so someone doesn’t die from your incurable sloth.”

“Fucking really, Ciaran? You’re so effing melodramatic it’s insane,” Olivia spat.

“Jesus Christ. Seriously?” Eric laughed softly, the kind of laughter that precedes punishment. “You’re doing this now? Olivia, just work your fucking magic.” He roared the last part, to my enjoyment. The benefits of 224p cameras: voyeurs can’t see your sadistic smile.

“And Ciaran, I’m still fucking pissed at you for ruining yet another car even if I don’t act like it so don’t think you can go antagonizing Olivia without consequences.” I rolled my eyes skyward and tsked. Not like any of the cars I was issued were worth more than two thousand anyways.

“Sorry, Eric,” I replied astutely.

“You both better be,” he mumbled menacingly. Someone sniffed.

Even after all these years, I can’t stand assholes. So shoot me. Playing the unusual role of instigator, I intentionally coughed and rasped a certain name.

“Sorry,” Olivia nearly reluctantly snarled. Nobody bothers to interrupt her brooding now that she’s been set off; all is quiet.

I fiddle with the vines hanging limp from my main hand to keep my attention stimulated. The willowy strands are surprisingly limber and I keep twirling them like bits of rope. I twined a few pieces into little braids, using some tiny, lavender magnolia flowers to decorate the green weave. I’ve always found it easier to focus when my body is doing something physical. It’s an outlet so my mind can fully function.

Within five minutes, I realized I no longer feel any oppressing force. Despite everything I hate about her, whether her pissy attitude or the fact she wastes her ability to just coast through life, I have to appreciate Olivia’s power in action. She must’ve dispelled the root source of the oppressive haze within a minute for the pressure to have disappeared this far out. Impressive; she must have actually invested some effort.

Then I stop, frozen.

“Ciaran,” Olivia purrs malevolently. My hand twitches involuntarily to my knife and I feel the vines spurt out of my hand to cocoon it. Such wasteful growth is a nuisance; its refractory nature reminds me of how much better control I have over my other abilities. I shove a maned hand into my pocket. I run my fingers not over the knife hilt but the broad side of the actual blade.

“And to think I thought you were that good,” I chortled. I looked around, though not at anything in particular, and held out my hands in a mocking gesture. “How long until the haze is fully dispelled?”

“Not for a few more minutes. It's not like it matters, anyway.”

“Olivia,” Eric snarled. “It fucking matters to everyone else.” Olivia rolled her eyes.

Alice, Veex and Rex all voiced their agreement over the line. Scowling, Olivia raised her hands in dramatic fashion, splayed her fingers wide, and dropped them down. They seemed to meet resistance: either she was pushing against the haze, or, more likely, indulging in a dramatic flourish. Either way, though the haze had already dissipated around the general area, I could still sense it lifting from everywhere else, clarity spreading out in a radius like a movie explosion.

“Thank God,” Veex huffed. “It's like you just peeled off a layer of sediment from the air.”

“Because that makes perfect sense,” Eric interjected, matching Veex's overflowing enthusiasm. “Sediment,” he grumbled softly into the headset.

Olivia narrowed her eyes as the line died down and glared at me. She wiggled her fingers and on the wall in front of us, just out of sight of the cameras, Olivia began to write. It's this neon violet color that's ghostly, fluorescent like a firefly. In this environment, a lab that could have passed for a deserted doctor's office with it's many lettered doors and stark white walls, she reminded me of a mischievous child drawing with a torn glowstick.

'These headsets allow no privacy,' she wrote. At once, her expression turned from catty bitch to ice queen. Her mouth was a thin line, cresting ever so slightly upward, like the confounding lips of The Mona Lisa. Her eyes flashed violet from their normal hazel and her hair stirred ever so slightly, as though there was a vent nearby.

I could practically smell the magic swirling around her, its current invisible to the eyes but undoubtedly tangible. Magic like hers tastes like cotton candy and nail polish, sweet but off, almost industrial. Nail polish, once dried, doesn't taste awful, much like gasoline doesn't smell putrid.

'If you don't pay attention, you're going to get hurt,' the wall read. 'So stop being such a moron already. I think you and I are the most powerful people here by a long shot, wouldn't you say?'

I gave her a blank look, then walked over to the wall and started to spell out my own message. It’s entertaining whenever I stumble across human behavior impossible to take seriously. Sticking my index finger into my mouth, I coated it in venom from my interior needle-fangs and spread it on the wall. The substance is corrosive; as long as it's more potent than what it touches, it shuts all other magic down.

Unlike Olivia's glowing purple writing magic, my poison magic is milky in color and has the consistency of wax when dry. I could tell she had to squint to see what I'd read, especially considering I'd written with my left hand. I've been lefties and righties in past lives, but being able to write legibly with both hands is not a skill that passes down.

'What does this even say?' she wrote quickly, drawing an arrow towards the entire phrase while underlining ‘say’ several times for emphasis.

I rewrote the past sentence. 'Maybe you're one of the strongest, but me?'

Olivia's icy expression turned tundra.

'I'm not an idiot. I know when people aren't using their full strength,' she wrote furiously.

'You would know,' I wrote in tiny letters to slow her down. 'Nobody uses their full strength anyway, so I don't see your point.' Again, can't give away all your tricks to the same group of people.

'But you never use you full strength,' she countered. 'Even when there're five mages against you. Each time I see something a little bit different.'

I dropped my disinterested facade and mimicked her icy composure. I'm fairly certain I pulled it off better.

'What the fuck do you want?' I drew in cursive on the wall just to mess with her. 'This is stupid, because you aren't making any sense and we're in the middle of a job.'

She gave the wall a confused expression. “And,” I mouthed at her. “We're in the middle of a job,” I silently spat, making a sharp gesture at our location. It never hurts to repeat yourself when the person reading your handwriting can only make out half of what you write.

“Who gives a flipping shit?” she mouthed back. “Nothing's even happening.”

Shaking my head at her dismissively, I threw my hands up into the air in a defeatist gesture and walked in the opposite direction. It seemed like she was trying to impress me, which was kind of hilarious considering her childish behavior.

It's a simple, unfortunate fact in life that the people we often want to impress the most we disgust in trying to impress them. Jesus that's a mouthful. It’s a vicious, unfortunate cycle where you stop being yourself around a certain person, one who likely frowns upon your assumed alterego. Of course, “being yourself” for Olivia means being a lazy, insecure psycho bitch who enjoys roleplaying a cronie from Mean Girls. Sucks to be her.

“You wanted to challenge me, right?” I wrote directly into the air, setting it ablaze with a lightning blue flame. This time the writing was clean, like from a word-processing program. It usually is when I write with my mind

Maybe this time she sensed something foreboding about my appearance because she stepped back a bit. I usually keep my intimidation factor locked up, especially after I mastered it as both a tiger and leader of several human establishments dating back to ages when literacy was a symbol of opulence reserved for kings, emperors, pharaohs. It also helped that I'd led a band of vagabonds once. Fun times.

'What are you?' she wrote in front of her now, keeping the letters in the air with a bit of effort to not seem outdone.

'Human.' I grinned savagely when the flames popped up instantly and she gave me a startled expression.

'Fucking sure you're human,' she traced into the air. 'Just like Veex is a vampire.' A joke, since Veex lumps garlic on everything. Olivia sure loves her movies. I remember when Dracula was all the rage, half of the human populace I had contact with nearly convinced vampires existed after reading the novel. The vampire legend was sealed into their minds when the movie came out. Everyone kept looking suspiciously into mirrors, hoping to catch someone who didn't reflect. I thought it pretty entertaining, especially when I could use a tiny bit of illusion to bend the light and erase my reflection.

Let’s just say I received an abundance of crazy glances.

'What's so funny, anyways? You're looking at me like-like I'm green,' she wrote-snarled, her mouth curved down and teeth grinding like cinder blocks. She'd totally lost her cool and I hadn't even done anything to her yet.

'It's not you, just... thinking,' I replied honestly. People tend to get pretty pissed when I space out. 'So you want to challenge me, right?” I repeated, parroting myself again.

'After this job, obviously.' She swirled her hand and the words appeared in a spiral before they flattened out. The display was captivating.

Then I set her words on fire and walked away, hands on my neck and elbows out in a relaxed gate. I heard her gasp behind me.

“What the fuck are you doing, Olivia?” Eric asked, boredom the prime factor in his voice.

“Nothing,” she responded testily.

“What news,” Rex snorted.

Now, the average person might begin to feel a bit sympathy for Olivia despite the fact that she's a dickish brat. Nobody likes it when one person is the center of nasty commentary or a rude departure. But honestly, we'd been working as a team for three months now, and there's only so much a team can take of one squeaky, square wheel of a co-worker.

I checked one of the wall clocks for the time. It was already 2 am; I highly doubted at this point that any group would try to break in, especially weakened by the loss of two people.

That's what I thought when, as though the universe enjoyed proving me wrong, I felt a huge physical force slam into my back. I didn't have any time to think as I rocketed into the wall and felt the drywall dent beneath my body.

Eyes wide, I groaned and began to push off the wall when, unceasingly relentless, my assailant backstabbed me with a knife to my gut. I gasped; being stabbed there is no laughing matter. Even today, with all the advances of science, a wound like that can easily be mortal. Most likely would be.

I gasped for air with a snarl, funneling the wind into my lungs to help them expand after being pancaked into the wall. Nobody fucking backstabs me and gets away with it.

The knife doing the stabbing in question was just about to disengage when I used a time-old trick: the pull through. Since I was already bleeding like a mother-loving fountain, I didn't have normal, life-preserving reservations.

Right then I was seriously thanking my gift of being able to numb pain. I usually don't use it, because pain is there for a reason, but in times like these it's the only way to keep functioning and trick your body into thinking it can win.

Without missing a beat, I speared my hand into my stomach cavity to grasp at the withdrawing blade. Now, when my body is on the brink of ruin, I stop thinking clearly as a general rule. I'm against the wall, pinned between this rock of a man and a hard place, with a knife gouging my kidney and my own hand embedded in my abdomen, and all I can really comprehend is that I need to get my assailant and his knife the fuck off. I go into overdrive, my mind a dictator hijacking the democratic parliament of my decision making process with a violent coup.

So I'm sticking my hand into my stomach with the slim hopes of disarming my attacker and wrecking his arm, but he's already too fucking far away. But the dictator up there thinks otherwise, masterfully exploiting my day-old endowment.

I didn't even question the “how” in the moment because it felt so natural. Out of my stretching fingertips, slightly out of reach, explodes a mass of thorny vines that grip the retreating hand and knife like a mass of barbed tentacles from a leviathan squid. He gasps and backs away, but I use my left hand to splash a section of pure oxygen all over his face. Taking advantage of the confusion, I ignite the oxygen with a furious glance of my eyes.

I heard his screaming, high pitched, the kind of screaming people make when burned at the stake. I just burned his skin, though. I don't have the kind of firepower to char someone to the bone. I usually use my gift of fire to cause pain rather than damning damage.

My instinctual plan worked well; within the span of five second I disarmed the man with my thorns and had him clutching at his face in agony. I spun around, right hand still surrounded by pulsing interior flesh, and dove at my assailant, pushing off against the wall with my left arm and from the ground with all of my remaining strength.

While I'm strong, that strength is greatly diminished when I'm on the verge of death. So I wasn't totally sure I had any chance of success when I flew towards the man who had dragged me so far into the clutches of my fathers.

My gasp of victory went unheard as I buried my teeth into his arm and locked my jaw. That gave me just enough time to take the knife from my right pocket and clumsily stab him in the chest, eviscerating his thoracic cavity with a miraculously well-aimed jab.

He choked, a pitiful sound, eyes wide, and stumbled onto his right knee. He coughed and blood splattered my face with crimson freckles. His look was one of total, profound loss, of a man in despair.

I know his pain won't last forever, probably only for a minute before he meets his full self in the other plane and completes another cycle of rebirth. His memories both new and old will collide and burst to form something better.

I try to say something comforting to him, now that he can't kill me, but then I find I'm hacking up equal amounts of blood. Perhaps this man has already killed me, I think as I see spots that weren't there before, chromatic and dancing in hexagons, then octagons, then squares, clouding my vision.

The man lids his eyes, as though going to sleep, a blessing because it's unfathomably disturbing to see a man's soul depart from wide, naked eyes, to see the intelligence leak out like brain matter after violent head trauma. I find that I don't even have a chance to say any goodbyes before I join him in sweet oblivion.