[ WP ] You are 16 , living with your parents , a man claiming to be your long lost brother shows up at your door with a gun , he slowly says , `` They ... are not your family ''

Clay was alone. Finally. How long had it been since he'd last had the house to himself? Weeks? *Months*? Callie was back from college and equal parts jobless and hopeless. She spent most days sprawled out on the couch in the living room, hugging a MacBook to her chest and sighing loudly. Dad did n't have any friends. Mom did n't have any interests. 
 
 Thankfully someone died. Well, it was n't great that the person had died, that was probably sad, but Clay could n't remember her. It was some old lady from back when they went to church. Used to babysit Callie back when the world was all ice and cavemen or something. Clay begged off, claiming a math test. And that had worked. Somehow, someway, that had worked. 
 
 He was scrolling languidly through PornHub, looking for *just* the right smutty experience, when someone starting pounding on the door. Clay zipped up, swore, and slammed his laptop shut. 
 
 `` Yuh?'' said Clay, as he cracked the door open. The man on the other side was young... hardly much older than Clay, but he wore a bone weariness you did n't often see from teenagers. 
 
 `` They're gone?'' 
 
 Clay stealthily slid his foot against the door. `` And who are you?'' 
 
 `` Are you alone?'' said the man, trying to sneak a peek into the house past Clay. 
 
 `` No, no, it's a full house here,'' said Clay. `` So who are you?'' 
 
 `` You're lying,'' said the man. `` They went to the funeral, right?'' 
 
 Clay scowled and tried to quietly slam the door shut, except the man already had his own foot jammed in the opening. `` Clay, do n't freak out. I need to talk to you. Getting this opportunity took a lot of work.'' 
 
 A system of tiny gears clicked in Clay's head. `` *Opportunity*? Are you saying...?'' 
 
 `` Mrs. Rosemont was already dying,'' said the man. `` Do n't worry about that. I'm worried about you. You *need* to hear what I have to say.'' 
 
 `` No thanks,'' said Clay. `` You need to get the hell out of here before I call the cops.'' 
 
 The man shook his head. `` Alright. Fine. I was hoping we would n't have to do things this way.'' Suddenly the muzzle of a handgun was leering at Clay through the crack in the door. `` Can you step back from the door now, please?'' 
 
 Clay did as he was told, backing away on unsteady legs. The man stepped through, closing the door and gesturing towards the couch. `` You may want to sit down.'' 
 
 `` Okay,'' said Clay, lowering himself slowly onto the couch. `` But how about you put away the gun first?'' 
 
 The man seemed to consider this for a moment. `` No,'' he said finally. `` I'm starting to think it'll be faster this way.'' Then he pulled the trigger and shot Clay in the head. 
 
 Clay screamed. And screamed. And kept on screaming. And only after 60 seconds of screaming did he finally realize he was still alive. He touched his forehead. There was nothing. 
 
 `` There,'' said the man, pointing towards the floor in front of the couch. Clay looked down and saw a crumpled bullet underneath the coffee table. 
 
 `` What the *fuck* kind of psycho trick was that?'' hissed Clay. `` You scared the shit out of me.'' 
 
 `` You think that was a trick?'' said the man. He aimed at the coffee table and pulled the trigger, blowing a hole through the center of the wooden top. `` Not a trick. Want to see it again?'' 
 
 `` Wh... what?'' said Clay, looking rapidly from the ruined coffee table to the man's gun. 
 
 `` We *really* do n't have time,'' said the man before firing another round directly at Clay's face. The boy screamed again and this time, under the burst of terror, he felt something... something like a mosquito brush against his skin. 
 
 `` They are n't your parents,'' said the man. `` Not your sister. Not your family. You're not one of them.'' 
 
 Clay was rubbing his forehead, only vaguely aware of what was being said. `` I'm not?'' 
 
 The man rolled his eyes. `` How many times do I have to shoot you in the fucking head? No, you're *not* like them. You're something entirely different. They told you you have diabetes, right?'' 
 
 `` Told me? I *have* diabetes, yes,'' said Clay. `` Since I was a kid. For as long... as long as I can remember. Why... what about my diabetes?'' 
 
 `` You're not diabetic and those shots you've been taking all these years are n't insulin. They're inhibitor shots. Mild doses of radiation. They keep your powers in check.'' 
 
 Clay picked up the second crumpled bullet. `` *Powers*? So I... no. No, wait. That does n't make any sense. I *got* my shot this morning. If those are shots are inhibit-whatevers, than how come... you know...?'' He held up the bullet. 
 
 The man smirked. `` Surviving a gunshot to the head is the least of your powers, buddy. The things you can actually do... you're going to change the world.'' 
 
 `` Me? Just... just by *not* taking my insulin I'm going to be...?'' Clay shook his head. `` But why? If this is true....if any of this is true and I can do... whatever it is I can do... why would anyone lie about that? Why would they hide that from me?'' 
 
 `` Because,'' said the man, `` some people are afraid to let the gods come down from heaven and walk among us. They're afraid you might not like what they're doing... and end up doing something about it yourself.'' The man stowed his gun and held out a hand. Clay took it and pulled himself off the couch. Maybe it was mental, just a figment of his imagination, but he already *felt* stronger. `` And Clay?'' The man smiled. `` We *don't* like what they've been doing. We do n't like it at all. So now we're going to do something about it.'' 
 
 And Clay smiled back. He felt something like the crackle of electricity tingling through his fingers. `` Good,'' he said. `` Lead the way.''
