[ WP ] Everybody made fun of you in hero school because your superpower was `` free refills , '' but now you discover it has bigger implications than anyone realized .

A lot of people have ambitions when they ’ re older. Some people dream of being movie stars, some want to be musicians, others authors. Something which fires a passion, something which fuels your heart, something which you want to live for. I don ’ t think many people, however, aspire to work in their father ’ s chippy. 
 
 My dream is to be a superhero. Ah, I can hear you laughing. But trust me, they do exist, even if you can ’ t see them. Because it ’ s generally believed that they don ’ t exist, your brain doesn ’ t see them or notice them. They ’ re usually glossed over in every day life, and many take up roles like firemen, police officers, something heroic where they can use their power to do something good in the world. Unfortunately, I possess possibly the most useless power in the history of superheroes. I have the power to refill anything at will, for free. I guess really, it ’ s perfect for working in a chip shop but not much else. We ’ ve ran out of chips for the fryer? Zing. My drinks empty and I ’ m too lazy to get up? Bam. Of course, I don ’ t make those noises when I refill something ( although I might call them out every now and then, just for fun ). The most useful one I discovered recently was that I could refill the battery of my phone without charging it. Pretty cool, but not exactly “ I ’ m going to change the world material ”. 
 
 At least, I didn ’ t think so. 
 
 Now, you have to understand that even though this is my power, my special ability if you like, it ’ s not like I know everything about it. In fact, I didn ’ t know much about it until a few years ago, just before I was planning on starting high school. I half knew I had it at first, knowing that I definitely didn ’ t put that much coke in my cup or finding a bit more money in my pocket, but the real giveaway was when I was absolutely furious with my sister, and wondered whether I could put my power into action, so I refilled my sister ’ s stomach. She must have been violently sick for at least an hour if not longer. My parents were ambitious, considering that if I had this power I might have others I could use, to change the world. To be their hero. They were very idealistic but set their hearts on this idea, so sent me to a special school ( which took some finding, I can tell you ) to enhance my skills further. Of course, it did enhance slightly ( I find myself able to fill things much faster than I could, and I have a lot more control over when that happens, and how much I refill ). But no other powers appeared, nothing which I could use. Of course, the kids took the mick. They were all proper superheroes, with powers like super strength, like invisibility, like telepathy. They could do amazing things which I could never aspire to, and the greatest thing I could do at that point was refill my pen with ink. This was definitely a weakness, and boy did those kids exploit that weakness. It wasn ’ t bullying but it wasn ’ t far from it. 
 
 But now that I was free from school, I was exploring what I could do more. I assume it was because I no longer had the constant thoughts that I was useless, that I was a disappointment. Sure, they were still there, but other thoughts apart from my power were filling my mind too. I had a break. 
 
 It never really hit me how useful my power could actually be, not until a night where I was working late in the chippy. It was the local festival outside, and that means more people and more customers. My family wanted to watch the festival, so I offered to keep it open and get a bit more profit in, and after I swore I wouldn ’ t refill the till ( my Dad said the tax man would be on him like a hot shot if he had a load of extra money from nowhere ), I was on my own. Quite a few people turned up, but by 12am the festival was starting to draw to a close and I was about to shut up. I didn ’ t expect a burly guy to burst in through the doors, especially since there were so many people around, especially with a gun. 
 
 “ Put your hands up! ” he yelled, waving the gun around wildly as he rapidly approached the counter. I flung my arms in the air, resisting the urge to run and stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. He was a man in his mid 30s, probably. He was completely bald, with tattoos running from the top of his head down the right side of his face and along his arm which was only covered by the short sleeved jacket tossed ruggedly over his arm. 
 
 “ Empty it. ” He waved the gun in the direction of the till, and I slowly took fistfuls of cash and pushed them over the counter. He smiled greedily and I sighed as I put the last of the money down. He looked it over, keeping the gun raised at me as he piled it into his pockets. 
 
 “ This it? ” he demanded, and I nodded quickly. He stood there for a couple of seconds, and before I knew what was happening he broke into a sprint out of the shop. And I ’ m not sure why, but instead of calling the police like any normal person would, I ran after him. Maybe it was the sudden realisation of the situation. Maybe I had gotten over the shock of what was happening and decided to do something. 
 
 Or maybe it was the desire to be the hero my parents wanted me to be. 
 
 I had no idea what I was going to do when I reached him, IF I reached him, but I needed to stop him. I had the advantage when it came to speed, as I was much lighter and I could move in a more agile manner. What I didn ’ t consider is that I definitely wasn ’ t agile enough to dodge bullets, and as he shot wildly behind him, one clipped my arm. I yelled out in pain, being so close but having to stop running after him and grasped my arm. I expected the warm feeling of blood running down my forearm, but to my surprise I felt nothing. My arm was completely dry and although an ache, presumably from the blow of the bullet, remained, the searing pain had gone. I had managed to refill, if you will, my wound. Refill the skin and blood I ’ d lost. 
 
 Not giving myself time to rejoice, I sprang to my feet and ran after him. Luckily, he ’ d chosen a long narrow alleyway without any turn offs, so I knew the direction he had headed and I soon saw him in my sight again. When I was closer, he shot at me again but missed and I kept running, when a thought hit me. I concentrated hard and before I knew it, the man in front of me had skidded to a stop and had one hand grasping the wall and the other grasping his stomach. I smiled as he fell to his knees and vomited repeatedly, stopping only to gasp for air every now and then. I banged on the doors of the street, finally finding someone who could call the police. By the time they arrived he was practically unconscious, still vomiting. He looked a mess, as did the street. But nevertheless, they carried him away and I finally felt like I ’ d done some good. 
 
 The story was in the paper the next day, with recounts from a few of the neighbours mentioning how I had heroically chased the criminal, who suddenly collapsed to the floor in a fit of vomiting, something the paramedics were unable to explain. I smiled, and thought about how I also managed to heal my wound. I could refill my wounds – I mean, how cool is that! I smiled, thinking maybe being a hero was something I was destined for, afterall.
