"Stop wastin' my time," he said.

His words snapped at the boy like angry dogs, chained to a fence but straining for purchase at the throat of their intended victim. His eyes watched him, their curious stare not sharing the bite of the voice. The dark pupils had a thin rim of angry red, adrift on an anaemic sea of not quite white.

Whatever the light shining in them, they never changed. The pupils didn't dilate at night or contract to pin pricks when the sun hit its high point. They were fixed spheres that offered and took nothing. They simply watched and waited.

"I'm not wasting your time," Thomas said.

He knew Oscar Sovaris, also known as (or AKA, an acronym Thomas had learned three years before and thought too cool not to use) the Fixer, was playing with him. The man would allow any amount of time to pass if it meant a sale. He'd push, sometimes letting his words free of their leash, but he was harmless really.

At least if you bought something. If you left without making a purchase, you were at risk of waking up to find you were missing a limb. Or worse.

There'd be no proof other than mounting coincidence, but you knew. So you went to see Oscar knowing what you wanted. Any time spent over and above the actual transaction, was taken up with haggling the price or choosing from his wide range of variations. Whatever you wanted, Oscar had at least a dozen options to select from. But no sale meant you were leaving with the knowledge of who and what he was. You could talk. If you'd bought, however, you were incriminated also.

"You ain't pickin' yer nose eiver, but either way, I'm not gettin' no money."

"I'm just unsure. I was told you were the man who can. It has to be right."

"Oh, I'm sure it does. But I ain't got all day."

That was a lie. Oscar had nowhere to go. His agoraphobia kept him contained in his shack, with his sales his only interaction with other people. Once Thomas had left, there would be a short period where Oscar sat and watched his reflection in the only mirror he owned (and the only item he refused to sell).

He envied his reflection. It could go wherever it wished, and did so frequently. Oscar had become a voyeur in the life his mirror self had, but was refused him. Once upon a time, he revelled in it. He enjoyed and prompted the trips to other rooms. Other mirrors. Other people's lives. In doing so he became a hermit while his reflection became dominant.

Now, he could only watch and wish.

Thomas didn't know that. To Thomas, Oscar was a man to be respected and, in no small measure, feared. To a certain extent, even envied. The assumed life of the Fixer, was one of wealth. Of a vast web of helpers. Of women desperate to please, in any way they were asked. Of others so eager to please and be a part of his entourage, they would do anything.

Oscar knew this and let the legend grow. The web existed. The list of people glad to do his bidding almost inexhaustible. But they were not friends. They each believed the lie and, for Oscar, it was all he needed. Even though his reflection didn't listen to his requests, and had too many times ignore the man that gave it substance, it still helped him when it felt amenable. For Oscar to be in the position he was, was useful. To be in that position required information. To get said information, one had to be able to go where no one else could. Into the hidden lives of influential folk. Their bedrooms. Their meeting rooms.

Any and all of the places a mirror could hang.

Thomas was afraid. He guessed that the Fixer could tell. There were no outward signs of sweat or trembling. His voice didn't waver or stumble over its words. But this was the Fixer. He knew everything, so he surely knew that.

Oscar didn't, but guessed. A ten year old boy, walking into the den of someone with his reputation, and reputation was everything regardless of the truth, would be stupid if not scared. Fear was an emotion that kept you alive. It was the body's way of telling you to be careful. To run and hide. It should be listened to.

Thomas needed something, however, and the Fixer was the only person who could possibly get it.

The light hung low in the shabby back room. Its glow was dim, sharing only a portion of its potential with the occupants. It flickered, as if to tell the pair that they were lucky it could manage this. The room was dirty and cluttered. Dust coated everything with a layer of grey that dragged your mood down into the shadows occupying all corners. Where there was paper on the walls, it was stained and peeling. Patchy. Faded. Where there was none, the bare plaster was cracked or chipped or missing entirely? Bare brick peeked through, thankful to be uncovered, if only in parts.

Why would the bulb wish to reveal all that?

Thomas's blindfold, a mandatory fashion accessory if you wished to do business with the Fixer, hung around his neck. He tugged at it, hoping his fear would be wiped away and he'd be able to act like the grown up he so wished he was. The fear didn't want to leave him, though. It liked oozing from his every word and mannerism. The blindfold was a blocker, as was the grubby dome sitting between them. The former prevented the wearer from using any form of GPS technology to trace their whereabouts. The latter prevented anyone from finding the Fixer's lair.

Both were outdated models, superseded three times over, but they did the trick. Oscar didn't believe in upgrading unless absolutely necessary. The blockers kept his location and that of his treasures a secret. His customers would go to random locations, found after a series of clues. They would be met by his only real companion, his dog, Ridley. The canine knew every passageway and dark alley in the city, and led the customer along them in a meandering path. Only, though, after they donned the blindfold. Any attempt to see beneath it or refuse to wear it was met with sharp teeth and a deep bite. Ridley, a King Charles, Chihuahua Cross, might look like a calm, friendly hound - and usually that's exactly what he was - but he could turn in a second.

If the potential customer was either the police, such as there still were such a force, or a competitor trying to rid themselves of someone much more successful, Ridley would know. His nose was keen. He could smell a lie. He could see it in a look or a stance. He was never wrong.

In such cases, his attack was swift. If attacking was not the best option, with the customer having a power that could best him, Ridley simply left. He would go along those discreet pathways until he was sure he wasn't being followed, and then return to his owner. He'd do so even if it took days. A month and a half in one extreme case.

The table they leaned on was unsteady on its feet. One leg was slightly shorter than the others, a deliberate measure designed to set the customer off balance. It would distract their focus, giving them something to be frustrated with, as every movement made wobbled the table. And Oscar was sure to make as many movements as he could, to the point he sometimes appeared to have a twitch.

There were four vials on the table. Two filled with a red liquid, one blue and one green. The red ones had dark particles floating slowly through them. The blue was pale, the colour of an early summer morning, with black spots appearing and disappearing so quickly it was difficult to look at one before it was gone. You only really saw them when you looked at the container as a whole rather than more closely. The green vial's contents were a vibrant jade. It was a solid colour, unspoiled by foreign bodies floating inside, and it seemed to glow when you looked at it, a glow that stopped when your eyes were diverted.

"What's the difference again?" asked Thomas.

I wasn't entering #NanoWriMo this year. Then I went to Croatia for my wife's birthday and, on the flight home, wrote 2,000 words of a new story on my phone.

So I guess I am! Here's HERO, the story about an ordinary boy,. The old kind of ordinary, before everyone had superpowers.

Thank you to the lovely Loutka for the brilliant cover! I hope you enjoy this story!