"Uhhhhh..." You say, voice croaking at a high octave as you stare at the Power Broker. You look back at the folder, the picture of Mrs. Claus on full display as she flashes a rosy smile towards the camera. "I don't know..."
"Come on, you'll enjoy it! You get to spend months wolfing down the delicious cooking of your new wife, and trust me, it's delicious, you get to hang around the house all day doing nothing, and you also get thousands of minions to command! All fun, all games, no work. Come on, boy, I've been sitting on this for years already. Kids aren't getting their presents."
You once again wrinkle your nose as you take another look at the manila folder sprawled out on the table. This could be you. This could be your life. But it's not you.
"Um... could I have something else?" You look upwards, seeing the content smirk on the Broker's face quickly vanish, soon replaced by a sharp grimace. If only looks could kill. "It's just... this is not me. This is not who I am. I don't just want to take the place of some old man. I want to be me."
"I can't believe this!" The Power Broker exclaims, throwing his hands up in mock surprise, as the candlelights on his desk flicker, causing the shadows of his fingers to dance rapidly and wildly. "First they tell you that they are not satisfied with their life. That they want to start anew. Then when you actually offer them something, they throw it back at you! All needy and picky. Selfish, all of them!"
You can only uncomfortably shift from one leg to the other as you awkwardly squirm in the chair, dodging the disappointed gaze that the Broker is throwing at you. This is even worse than dealing with your mother.
"Er.... um... sorry?" is the only thing that you can mutter in response as your eyes shift downwards in shame. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all.
A lingering silence fills the air as you examine the floor, the lacquer paint more thick on several wooden panels than on the others. You finally grow restless, raising your head to see the still and stiff Broker sitting in his chair, jaw agape. He slowly closes it.
"What did you just say to me, boy?" He growls in a low tone, gaze piercing right through you as if you were transparent. You flinch. Did you somehow upset him one way or another?
"Er... sorry?" You repeat, backing away into your seat as your body forms a contour in the leather, the elasticity giving in to your weight.
"Can you repeat it to me?" His voice is now softer, almost like a whisper.
"Sure. Sorry." Your voice is now firm, without hesitation, as you repeat the word for the third time. You aren't quite sure why the aged man is so interested in this, but you sure as hell aren't going to let this chance go.
"Sorry. Sorry. Sorry." The Broker mutters, repeating the word ad nauseam. It was as if though he was bewitched by the word, carelessly chasing it along a narrow path as it enticed further and further into itself. His repetitions last an entire minute before he snaps out of the spell, and upon realizing the smoke of the burnt out candles wafting at him, he quickly snaps his fingers as the wax seems to rebuild and light itself anew. Almost as if though it traveled back in time.
"Sorry. Now that's a word I haven't heard in ye-... no, decades. People always come to me, demanding powers as they incessantly bargain for more and more power. Yet do they ever thank me? No! All they ever say is 'me, me, me'. Yet what about myself? Listen kid, I like you. What is it that you're actually looking for?"
You scratch the back of your hair as you thoughts float through your brain, your nails rustling through the stubs of your growing hair.
"I don't really know." You finally admit, shrugging your shoulders. "At first I just thought that I wanted to be someone different. You know, to get rid of this life. But now that I think about it, I kind of want to change myself instead. To... improve myself? A better me, I guess."
The Broker nods his head in a short manner.
"Understandable. Humans always desire the sense of accomplishment, even if it dwells deep within themselves. Unfortunately, I cannot create such powers. I am a Giver, someone who trades. I simply cannot fulfill that wish."
Catching your dismayed look, he quickly interjects.
"But! What I can do is give you something. Not a power, but an item. Even though it is imbued with the essence of others, it's raw. Completely unnurtured. You can take it and make it your own. Become a new hero. It's possible, though it might take a milennia... or a couple thousand. What do you say, kid?"
Your eyes gleam. You get to become your own superhero? To leave your name in myths and legends? To maybe even fight against other superheroes and gods themselves? You definitely don't want to miss that opportunity as you quickly bob your head in an approving gesture.
"Great! I have a couple of items left over. What do you say about... oh, this one will be perfect for you! It is..."
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