POV: Nobody
The air in the pharmacy was thick with tension. I counted four of them, each one masked like they were extras in a knockoff fantasy flick. The leader wore an orc mask, an AK-47 slung at his side as he stuffed money into a bag. The tattooed thug, wearing a dragon mask, kept his shotgun trained on me and the trembling pharmacy staff. The third guy, stout and hunched over, had plugged some high-tech gizmo into the computer, likely draining the store’s e-cashier. The last one, in an elf mask, had disappeared into the back, probably raiding the drug cabinet.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the body of the store’s security guard. Blood pooled beneath him, a dark and spreading stain on the white tiles. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to keep my face blank. No sudden movements, I reminded myself.
“Hurry up!” barked the orc-masked leader, his voice muffled but sharp with impatience.
The dragon-masked thug’s shotgun shifted slightly, the barrel swinging between me and the employees. My hands itched to do something, but with a weapon pointed at me, I had to bide my time. I felt sweat trickle down my back as I tried to appear smaller, less of a threat.
The elf-masked thug emerged from the back, a bulging bag in his hands. “Got the stuff,” he said, his voice high-pitched and jittery.
“Good,” the leader replied. “Let’s get out of here.”
The tension seemed to ease for a fraction of a second—until the pharmacy door swung open again.
A woman walked in, completely oblivious to the robbery. She froze when she saw the scene in front of her, her eyes going wide with terror.
“Get down!” the dragon-masked thug barked, swinging his shotgun toward her.
She dropped to the floor with a scream, and for a split second, all eyes were on her. It was the opening I needed.
Grabbing the nearest bottle from the shelf, I hurled it at the dragon-masked thug. The bottle shattered against his head with a satisfying crack, and he staggered backward, his shotgun slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor.
Chaos erupted.
The orc-masked leader turned, his AK-47 coming up as he shouted, “What the hell?!” I dove behind a display stand just as he opened fire, the bullets tearing through glass and scattering products everywhere.
The dwarf-masked thug abandoned his gizmo, pulling out a pistol and firing wildly in my direction. I kept low, crawling toward the woman on the floor.
“Stay down!” I hissed, trying to sound calm despite the adrenaline flooding my veins.
The leader shouted orders, trying to regain control. “Grab the cash and let’s move!”
I glanced at the dragon-masked thug, who was still reeling from the blow. Blood dripped down his face, staining the neck of his mask. He reached for his shotgun, but I couldn’t let him recover. I grabbed another bottle and threw it, hitting his arm. The weapon slipped from his grasp again, clattering uselessly to the ground.
The elf-masked thug bolted for the door, clutching his bag of stolen drugs. The dwarf-masked guy followed, firing a few more shots to cover their escape.
The leader hesitated, his AK-47 swinging back and forth as he weighed his options. His eyes, barely visible behind the orc mask, narrowed at me. For a moment, I thought he might stay and finish what he started, but then he cursed under his breath and ran after his accomplices.
As the sound of their footsteps faded, I scrambled to the woman’s side. She was trembling, her face pale.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice shaky.
She nodded wordlessly, her wide eyes darting between me and the wreckage of the pharmacy.
The pharmacist slowly emerged from behind the counter, his hands still trembling. “Th-thank you,” he stammered. “You saved us.”
I nodded, trying to steady my breathing. “Call law enforcement,” I said, “and an ambulance for the guard.”
The pharmacist hurried to comply, but I knew I couldn’t stick around. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving me shaky and exhausted. The last thing I needed was the authorities poking into my life. I was an illegal immigrant with dubious prescriptions. This kind of attention could ruin me.
“Where are you going?” the woman asked. She had brown hair, freckles, and a timid demeanor.
“I need to leave,” I said, already heading for the door.
The pharmacy staff gathered, their expressions a mix of gratitude and curiosity. One of the male pharmacists spoke up. “You should wait for the enforcers. They’ll want to thank you—or maybe even commend you for your bravery.”
Another pharmacist, a woman, nodded. “You saved us. You could’ve been killed!”
I gritted my teeth. My eyes darted to the corner where the security camera hung. I had been careful when I entered the pharmacy, positioning myself in a blind spot. No one could tie me to this.
“The four of you will forget me,” I said, turning to face them.
“What?” one of them asked, confusion etched across their faces.
I locked eyes with each of them, focusing my power. This was the first time I’d ever used it on someone else. My ability to make people forget had always been something I used on myself—a way to dull painful memories. But now, I was testing its limits.
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Their expressions shifted from confusion to blankness, their eyes glazing over as if a fog had rolled in and smothered their thoughts. I felt a strange sense of unease watching it happen, but I couldn’t afford to second-guess myself.
They wouldn’t remember me. They wouldn’t remember what I had done.
I might have been shooting myself in the foot, but the benefits outweighed the risks.
The moment the law enforcers got a hold of my face, it’d be over. My likeness would be scanned, circulated, and analyzed, leading to questions I couldn’t answer. Why wasn’t I in the database? Why was I using a fake driver’s license? Was Thomas Clark even my real name? Where did I live? Why was I stateless? Why was there no genetic match for me anywhere? And, for some reason, why did I insist September 11 was my birthday?
I couldn’t afford that kind of scrutiny.
The tension in my body eased slightly as I saw their postures relax. Their blinking slowed, their eyes unfocused, and their furrowed brows smoothed. The memory of me was already fading from their minds. My power had worked.
I slipped out of the pharmacy, careful to avoid the cameras. My heart pounded in my chest as I made my way down the street, blending into the crowd. Each step away from that place felt like a weight lifting off my shoulders.
Still, I knew better than to feel relieved. My power wasn’t infallible, and I couldn’t rely on it to fix every problem. There were too many risks, too many variables I couldn’t control.
What I could do, however, was train.
Two months later. May 10, 2030.
I had stopped taking the medicine. It was useless. No matter how many pills I swallowed, they did nothing to help me recover my memories. One time, I even consulted Dr. Melinda about my situation, spinning Chet’s explanation to explain my amnesia: that my superpower had triggered a sudden, complete loss of memory.
She hadn’t been optimistic.
Even for typical amnesiac patients, she said, memory recovery was a matter of luck. And I had run out of that a long time ago.
“I love you,” Britney said on the TV screen, her voice quivering with emotion.
“I love you too, but forgive me…” Greg replied, his face a mask of anguish.
I was watching a romantic drama, killing time before bed. After two months of hard work, I’d managed to afford an apartment. It was small—just a studio—but it was mine.
The room was cozy, about four hundred square feet. The walls were painted a soft beige, and I’d furnished it with the essentials: a small sofa, a coffee table, and a bed in the corner. The TV was mounted on the wall opposite the sofa, and a compact kitchenette sat in one corner.
It wasn’t much, but it was a far cry from the dingy motel room I’d been living in before.
As I watched the characters on screen navigate their tumultuous love story, a pang of envy stabbed through me. They had their memories, their pasts, their identities. I had nothing but fragments and an overwhelming sense of loss.
I felt… extra. Like a placeholder in my own life.
I’d tried everything—therapy, journaling, even hypnosis (the non-powered kind, of course)—but nothing worked. My past remained an impenetrable void.
Dr. Melinda had been kind, her words well-meaning, but her advice hadn’t been easy to follow. “Focus on building a new life,” she’d said, “rather than obsessing over the old one.”
It was sound advice. Easier said than done.
The romantic drama ended, and I turned off the TV. Silence filled the apartment, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. I stretched out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
Despite everything, I had managed to carve out a semblance of a life here. A job, a place to call home, and even a few acquaintances. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
I closed my eyes, letting the weariness of the day wash over me. Tomorrow would be another chance to piece together the puzzle of my past.
I woke up early, showered, and prepared for the day.
The apartment was a significant step up from my old life. I’d managed to secure it thanks to Chet’s help. My next goal was to upgrade from my hotdog cart to a hotdog truck.
Initially, I debated which to prioritize. The truck would mean more income, but the apartment offered stability—a place to call home. When the landlady offered the studio at a ridiculously low price, the decision was made.
The truck could wait. For now, I had a roof over my head, a TV to keep me company, and the beginnings of a new life.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.
Recently, I had taken to dragging my hotdog stand to different parks. Kane City State had no shortage of green spaces, and rotating locations kept me from drawing too much attention. My business was thriving—almost too much.
What was my secret? To be frank (and unethically clear), I made my customers forget the feeling of being full. Even those who had no interest in hotdogs suddenly found themselves overwhelmed with cravings and hunger pangs.
If I were a villain, then perhaps my grand scheme would be to single-handedly raise the city’s obesity rate with the power of processed meat. The thought made me inwardly scoff. What a legacy that would be.
For the past two months, I had been practicing my power—Forgetfulness—while on the job. It was subtle enough to use in public, and selling hotdogs in parks gave me plenty of opportunities to refine it. Through trial and error, I discovered three distinct ways to wield it:
- Remote Casting:This involved using my sight and sixth sense to induce forgetfulness from a distance. It was the least effective method, but still useful. I imagined it could be deadly in combat, making people suddenly forget how to see, hear, or even breathe properly. The effects were temporary but potent.
- Touch-Based Usage:A single touch could erase a memory for a set period—or permanently, if I so willed. This was the most effective and dangerous method. I had tested it on a group of thugs who tried to rob me. They left the encounter reformed and disoriented, forgetting their criminal tendencies altogether.
- Mental Suggestions:By speaking certain words, I could amplify the effects of my power. Combined with remote casting or touch, this method could leave a lasting impression. For instance, if I said, “You are blind,” while erasing someone’s visual memory, they might remain sightless for days.
Of course, my power wasn’t without weaknesses. Mental strength and willpower played a significant role. I noticed that older customers, particularly those with sharper minds, were less affected. They resisted the subtle manipulations more than younger, impressionable people.
The morning was crisp as I wheeled my stand into a park I hadn’t visited before. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a warm, golden light over the dewy grass. A few joggers and dog walkers were already out, their breaths visible in the cool air.
I began setting up, arranging the condiments and prepping the grill. Soon, the first customer of the day approached—a young woman in workout clothes, her face flushed from exercise.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling. “One hotdog, please.”
“Coming right up,” I replied, swiftly preparing the order. As I handed it to her, I let my fingers brush hers briefly—a touch-based cast. She’d feel hungry again soon enough.
She thanked me and walked away, taking a bite of the hotdog.
Mwahahaha~ The villainous thought popped into my head unbidden, making me cringe. Was this really my life now?
Business picked up as the morning went on. A family with two kids stopped by, their little faces lighting up at the smell of grilling hotdogs. Using remote casting, I erased their sense of fullness just enough to have them beg for seconds. Their parents reluctantly complied, grumbling about how the kids were "always hungry."
I couldn’t help but feel a mix of embarrassment and amusement. Was this what villainy looked like? Not chaos or destruction, but ensuring my customers left with slightly lighter wallets and fuller stomachs?
As I worked, I took moments to observe the park. A group of elderly men were playing chess at a nearby table, their faces etched with focus. A woman jogged past, her golden retriever bounding happily beside her. Two teenagers sat on a bench, sharing earbuds and laughing at something on their phone.
It was peaceful. Idyllic, even.
Despite the ethical gray areas of my actions, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction. I was building something stable here—a small business, a routine, a life.
At least I wasn’t some mad villain running around to cause real havoc, right?