My Only Familiar Is Me[A Late-Blooming Evolution Story]

Half a mile of cracked, battered asphalt separated the military base checkpoint from the nearest bus stop. There was nothing around to catch the eye: dreary ground soaked in gray morning damp, a few sparse patches of scrub, and pale fog rising from the drainage ditches.

Once I made sure the sentry had disappeared into the booth, I switched to bursts of S-Power. For someone with my capabilities, that distance was little more than a formality. Powerful, precisely controlled strides, the dry crunch of gravel kicked up by my combat boots, and sharp blasts of wind stinging my face. I covered the distance in a matter of seconds, barely having time to warm up.

I would have loved to cut the trip to the administrative center the same way, flying straight there. If I plotted a direct route through the air, accounting for the prevailing winds and an altitude of three hundred feet, the entire journey would take exactly thirty-seven minutes. That was not a rough estimate. I had calculated it down to the minute that morning, purely out of boredom while the platoon was taking showers. But I could not use my abilities at full strength.

Officially, federal law did not prohibit the use of superpowers within city limits or the surrounding metropolitan areas, but the Corps’ internal regulations were much stricter. Through experimentation, headquarters psychologists had determined that public displays of superhuman abilities had a seriously detrimental effect on ordinary civilians’ mental health. They triggered latent depression, panic attacks, and a suffocating sense of biological inferiority. Nobody liked feeling like a dead-end branch of evolution next to some guy who could fly across a highway.

That was why the protocol required ironclad, documented justification. If a gang of armed thugs jumped me in an alley and I flattened them with my abilities, the Corps would not say a word. Self-defense. Protection of the life of a U.S. officer. But if I flew over the capital simply because I did not want to be late for work, there would be a report waiting for me back at the base, followed by a review board and a guaranteed formal reprimand in my personnel file. I was not about to risk a spotless service record just to save half an hour. As I emerged from the roadside wasteland into civilization, I bled off my momentum, came to a stop, and switched to an ordinary walking pace, becoming the most unremarkable pedestrian imaginable.

A gray Toyota was already waiting at the curb by the bus stop, its hazard lights blinking. It was the taxi I had summoned through an app back at headquarters. I still had a little over eighty miles to cover on congested highways. The final fare displayed in the app was substantial enough to give an average office clerk a heart attack, but I had no choice. Buses out in this backwater ran once an hour according to schedule, assuming they bothered to show up at all. Besides, public transportation was the very definition of unreliability.

One incident from college had burned itself permanently into my memory. It was a cold, miserable Thursday in November. I had an important midterm, and my bus was crawling through the city at a tortoise’s pace, barely ten miles an hour. I had no idea what kind of mental lapse the driver had suffered that day, but I ended up stumbling into the classroom half an hour late to the professor’s mournful complaints. Public transit was always a lottery with a negative expected value, and I was not accustomed to putting my discipline at the mercy of someone else’s incompetence.

With those thoughts in mind, I opened the Toyota’s rear door, tossed my bag inside, and settled onto the cool synthetic leather seat.

The car pulled away, tires whispering over the highway. Rather than mindlessly stare at the monotonous scenery outside the window, Exxon stations, identical mall boxes, and gray interchanges, I pulled out my smartphone. My fingers moved automatically across the screen, opening automotive auction listings and dealer websites throughout the District of Columbia. The taxi solved the immediate problem, but in the long term, it was an unreliable option too. In this half-abandoned suburb, you could wait forever for an available car in the morning, and I was going to be commuting to Washington every day. I needed my own wheels.

I eliminated used cars from the auctions within the first minute. First, my current financial support from the Corps meant I did not have to look at price tags. I could buy a brand-new vehicle straight off the assembly line, in flawless mechanical condition. Second, as a former auditor, I knew how to calculate the true cost of time. I simply did not have the spare hours to call some questionable rednecks, work around their schedules, drive out to their greasy garages on the outskirts of Virginia, crawl under the chassis looking for hidden rust, haggle over every hundred dollars, and then spend another eternity waiting at the DMV to transfer the title. Money existed to buy time and comfort. I intended to make full use of that principle.

I set the search filters to show only officially certified dealers. Classic four-wheeled sedans and SUVs were, I had to admit, crossed off the list after a brief and somewhat painful deliberation. A car was comfortable, reliable, and warm. But when we hit a solid, motionless traffic jam approaching the Capital Beltway and the taxi’s navigation screen glowed a miserable crimson, reality forced me to reconsider. I needed a vehicle capable of cutting efficiently through traffic. Something fast, light, and as maneuverable as possible.

I settled on motorcycles. Fortunately, I had obtained a full motorcycle endorsement before the Corps dragged me into training camp. It was almost as if I had instinctively known that little piece of plastic would come in handy someday. Given my strict requirements for reliability, power, and the ability to maneuver between lanes, there were barely any suitable models left at dealerships around Washington, literally two or three options.

After choosing the optimal bike, I sent a short, dry inquiry directly through the dealer’s website asking whether they could complete a same-day purchase, with the bike ready to roll out that very day, paid for in cash or by an expedited transfer.

I did not get a response before we arrived. The Toyota finally cleared the traffic and eased to a stop at the curb. We had reached the administrative center. Fortunately, the department I needed was not located inside the Pentagon itself, where the security checks and general level of paranoia could eat up half the day.

I tapped my card against the terminal to confirm the transaction, slung my bag over my shoulder, and stepped out of the car into the cool city air.

An utterly nondescript, utilitarian building made of standard gray brick stood directly in front of me. Washington and its suburbs were littered with so many identical, unmarked federal buildings that you could stare straight at a facade like this for the rest of your life and never guess which agency was hiding behind those windows.

A plain glass door with no identifying markings. Unlike the Corps’ research facility, there were no armed guards or document scanners at the entrance. Apparently, upper management genuinely believed that protecting financial checks, payment receipts, and tax paperwork from outside threats was a waste of the budget.

As a former auditor with ten years of experience, I strongly disagreed with that kind of carelessness. If you knew how to read between the lines and cross-reference the data, ordinary shipping manifests and invoices could reveal far more juicy details about a person or organization than classified personnel files ever could. Money always left the clearest, most indelible trail.

“Mr. Ross, you’re late.” A heavyset woman with a mass of tightly curled hair shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, her pump making a dull tap against the linoleum. “If you’re not in the habit of respecting your own time, then please have the courtesy to respect other people’s!”

I cast a quick glance at the face of my heavy wristwatch. Ten past ten. Exactly ten minutes late. Technically, I could have come up with a dozen solid excuses and blamed external factors: the late-night troublemakers in the barracks who had forced me to personally rearrange the schedule and overhaul the unit’s morning workout; Dillon and his hangover-induced sabotage and refusal to sign the form right away; or the sluggish taxi driver who had managed to hit every traffic jam on the Capital Beltway. But the truth was that only one person was responsible for the delay: me. A Corps officer was supposed to anticipate every risk, build in reasonable time buffers, and account for unforeseen circumstances. I had failed to do that, which meant my time management had failed.

“I apologize, ma’am.” I calmly met her displeased gaze and adjusted the lapel of my perfectly pressed uniform. “Traffic was worse than I anticipated. I’ll do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Well... if you say so.” Her forced sternness and bureaucratic indignation evaporated with remarkable speed. The woman nervously adjusted her thin-framed glasses and flashed me a coy smile. “I’m Elizabeth Sarandon, the chief accountant here. Management sent me to get you up to speed and show you around. But for you, Mr. Ross... you can just call me Betty.”

“As you wish, Betty.” I gently but firmly took her hand for a brief handshake.

My mother had been absolutely right when she insisted that women had an irresistible weakness for men in a crisp military uniform. I could practically feel the magnetic effect of the Corps’ dress uniform, which emphasized my broad shoulders. My original strategy had worked perfectly. I had decided before leaving home that I needed to show up at my new workplace in full dress uniform. It established the right psychological boundaries immediately, made me look more serious and authoritative, and discouraged the local clerks from trying to crack stupid jokes.

Betty led me through the administrative center’s long corridors, and a sudden stab of nostalgia hit me. This was a textbook American office, exactly like the kind where I had buried ten years of my civilian life. Standard cubicles with gray partitions made of cheap fabric, the monotonous, soporific hum of the central air-conditioning overhead, men and women in crisp white shirts hunched over their monitors, and even the classic plastic water cooler with its blue jug sitting in the corner.

I had expected this sudden return to my roots to fill me with dull irritation, but the exact opposite happened. I drew a deep breath, caught the familiar smell of ozone from the laser printers and overheated plastic, and felt as though I had finally come home to familiar waters after a long, exhausting journey. The contrast probably had a lot to do with the previous night’s insanity in the barracks, surrounded by sweaty, uncontrollable kids. The predictable peace of an office was strangely comforting.

“Here’s your office.” With a quiet click, Betty opened the door to a small, private room.

Every inch of the space, from floor to ceiling, was packed with heavy cardboard boxes. Gray binders and an avalanche of miscellaneous paperwork spilled out of them.

“So what exactly are my responsibilities?” I surveyed the paper barricades stacked three rows high with a skeptical eye.

“Well, your cover letter from Corps headquarters says in black and white that you’re an outstanding accounting specialist and capable of handling analytical assignments of any complexity on your own.” Betty gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Think you can conduct a complete, detailed audit of every payroll statement, internal fine, bonus payment, and compensation record from all thirty-three years of the Corps’ existence?”

I barely managed to keep my lips from stretching into a satisfied smile. My résumé, prepared and fine-tuned under the [Special Command]’s strict direction, had worked flawlessly and landed me, without exaggeration, the job of my dreams. To the average person, this mountain of archived junk would have looked like a branch of hell on earth and months of hard labor. To me, it was a leisurely stroll through the countryside. Better yet, I had been given a completely private office with a solid door where I could work on whatever I wanted without worrying about prying eyes.

“When can I start processing the data?” I walked farther into the office and rested my palm on the smooth surface of my new desk.

“The sooner, the better, cowboy. But I’m not rushing you. Everyone understands this is a huge process, and it’s not going to happen overnight.” Betty backed toward the doorway and reached for the handle. “And one more thing, Thomas. Don’t stay late. At exactly four p.m., I lock this entire section and set the alarm. Good luck.”

The door swung shut behind her, cutting off the sounds of the office. I slowly surveyed the mountain of work ahead of me once more with an auditor’s assessing eye and gave a quiet snort. If necessary, I could function like a living computer. My brain could process massive amounts of digital information several times faster than top-of-the-line server processors. I could clear this entire mountain of paperwork, reconcile the debits and credits, and produce a flawless final balance in just a couple of hours.

But of course, I had no intention of doing that. My extensive experience in the corporate world had taught me one immutable truth: if you complete a difficult task too quickly and efficiently, management does not reward you with a bonus. It simply dumps another, even more miserable workload on your desk. That arrangement was decidedly not in my interest. My contract guaranteed me a fixed, stable salary of fifty thousand dollars, and there was no practical reason to go above and beyond for someone else’s reports.

And the best part of the whole arrangement was that I did not have to strain my eyes or personally wade through this tedious, dusty process.

[Special Command: Sort all documents in the office chronologically by date. On a separate clean sheet, produce a complete list of all missing forms, records, and statements.]