So, have a fic based on @impatentpending‘s fic Powerless! It’s an amazing fic, and I’ve been posting snippets in the comments for the chapters on AO3, so it’s about time I uploaded the actual fic. I had no idea how to START it though, so it took forever XD It’s rather short, but oh well.
Disclaimer: As per usual, this is a fic centered around my characters using a universe from someone else’s fic. I have permission! :D No worries. In fact, the author has actually been waiting for me to upload, so there’s that.
Warnings: Hint at blood and violence, prejudice, tell me if there’s more!
General Taglist: @whatwashernameagain (like, you’re the only one I can think to tag since I don’t have a tag list and I know how much you love Powerless, so... yeah XD)
"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?!"
A man with shockingly bright red hair turned around, raising an eyebrow at the figure who yelled at him. "Is there a problem?" In his hand was the last can of coffee in the store. The next store was a mile away, and one glance at the person's shoes revealed that they didn't have a car. The bright flash that buzzed past brought his attention back to the current situation as the figure grabbed his collar and snarled, another ball of energy forming in their other hand.
Oliver was used to this. Wordlessly, he handed over the coffee, and his opponent let him go, instantly a ray of sunshine. "Thanks! You're one of the good Unabled out there!" They turned and walked away, a skip in their step as Oliver's brow furrowed. Abled people could be so... unpredictable. It was quite ridiculous. Why couldn't anyone just get along, abilities or not?
Opting for a container of hot chocolate instead (because if he had to admit it, he prefered the sweeter beverage), Oliver made his way to the front of the store where the checkouts were. It was a rather chilly day out, and the hot chocolate would do good to calm his nerves.
The man cursed under his breath. He knew he hadn't made much money that month, but he could have sworn he hadn't spent all of it already. Waving a nonchalant hand, he turned and stalked out of the store. Making sure no one was paying attention to him, the young man slipped into a nearby alley, allowing himself to turn into a crow. Easier to get home that way, and it was quicker, as well.
He was proud that he managed to keep his abilites hidden. He preferred people not knowing that he was in fact Abled. The Unabled didn't trust the Abled, and vice versa. Oliver believed that everyone would be able to get along if they stopped being so damn judgy. The prejudice against the disabled faction of society has grown unbearable.
Of course, Oliver hadn't known about the split until his early teens. Sheltered wasn't the word he'd use, but he had been kept away from society. He only knew to fear his ability. He'd gotten used to it at this point, and knew how to control it, but his early life had been hard.
Landing with a light thud on the roof of his apartment, he took a moment to observe the neighborhood around him. Nothing was going on, as per usual, however, Miss Van der Beek was at it again, cooing at the gentlemen that would pass by. Oliver chuckled, shaking his head and turning to walk inside. He loved that woman to death, but she was eighty-six and still claimed to "work just fine".
The young male glanced at his reflection in one of the windows and cringed. He would never get used to the image that stared back. He was about to walk inside of his tiny apartment when he stepped on a pile of bills.
Groaning, he scooped up the mail and tossed it on his counter, slamming his door and dramatically faceplanting onto his bed. He owned a studio apartment, graciously given to him from his late adopted mother. While it was small, so was he, so it worked. Only standing at five foot and an inch, he could barely reach anything, which included the cookies that his friend Dexter had jokingly placed as high up as he could.
Oliver's feet left the floor as he slowly floated upwards. Hastily grabbing at the box of gingersnaps, he crossed his legs, beginning to munch on the cookies as he hovered six feet above the floor. He was guilty of stress eating. In fact, most of the food around his apartment was specifically for that purpose, as he typically forgot to eat on a daily basis.
Isaac Stevens, age 4. Blonde hair, emerald green eyes. A smile that shone like a hundred stars. Red is a terrible color on him. The look of horror was suddenly clear in Oliver's mind and he frantically covered his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. He slammed to the floor.
He hated seeing those scenes. Seeing was bad. It hurt. He stood slowly, grabbing the counter for support and shuffling his way back to bed. He just needed to nap it off. Praying for dreamless sleep this time, he let his head hit the pillow.
"Hey, can I try?!" the white haired boy yelled excitedly. He was only two, and he had an adorable lisp, but he was just so excited by his new friend's power.
The other boy brushed his sun-kissed hair out of his eyes, nodding. "Sure! And you can show me how to do that thing!"
He reached out, laying a gentle hand across the older boy's cheek, and suddenly, he was floating. The toddler had only borrowed someone's ability once before, and it had been as exhilirating then as it was now. He twirled, giggling. "Isaac, I can do tricks!" he screamed, flipping backwards in the air. The other busted out laughing, mixed with sounds of awestruck amazement.
"So it works... interesting..."
Red. He hates that color now.
At nine years old, the same boy sat hunched over. The moonlight made his hair turn silver. "Please no more," he begged, his voice coming out in a choked whisper.
A crooning woman petted his hair. "It's okay, my pet, you'll be fine. You'll be so amazing."
He ran until his lungs were on fire, until his legs felt like lead, until his head pounded. He jumped at every little sound. He covered his ears when he heard women speak.
At fourteen, he stared at himself in the mirror. "Momma... am I a monster?" A woman simply hugged him from behind as she smiled softly, shaking her head. That was all the reassurance he needed.
Seventeen found the boy holding his mother's hand as he sobbed. It was his fault she was fading. She wasn't as bright as she used to be. But then she gave him permission. He refused. But she insisted. He caved when he realized that it was all he would have left of her.
When he was twenty, he found a man who could change his appearance. He got permission and he was grateful when the change stayed, but the power no longer did. He thanked the man and disappeared.
Oliver woke up startled, holding his aching head. His dreams, when he did have them, were always so incredibly vivid... He sat on the edge of his bed, instantly noticing a new email on his opened laptop.
Curious, he clicked it open.
