"In the aftermath, we all got our Talents. Some could conjure fire, others could command the tides. My Talent? I can take away the power of anyone named John Smith. That’s it. That’s the whole damn thing. Only people with that exact first and last name. Three years went by. Not only had I never met a single John Smith, but my useless Talent had made me a target. A punching bag. A Blank. Then, one day, while I was scavenging in the filth of the Warren, I found my best friend again. She was begging for scraps. We held each other and just sobbed. Through her tears, she wailed, ""Why did everyone else get something so damn cool? Why is my only Talent... renaming people John Smith?"" I froze. ""What did you say?"" 1. After the world ended, I made a living picking through the garbage heaps of the Warren. My days were a blur of wind, rain, and a gnawing hunger that came and went like a stray dog. Getting robbed was just part of the routine. I watched the rat-faced man snatch the stale protein bar I’d just unearthed. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete, immovable. That was his Talent. He kicked me over with a laugh. ""Can't believe there are still Blanks out there. How the hell are you still alive?"" A retort died on my lips. It wasn't worth the beating. I scrambled to my feet, forcing a grin that felt like cracking plaster. ""That’s an amazing Talent, man. Seriously. What do they call you? I find anything good from now on, I'll save it for you."" ""Smart girl,"" he sneered. ""If you find anything, bring it to the alley behind the old pharmacy. And the name's John… Strong."" My eyes shot wide. ""...Strong."" After the son of a bitch swaggered off, the tears finally came. When the Change happened, the world went crazy. Animals mutated, plants turned predatory, and every surviving human woke up with a Talent. Society recalibrated itself overnight, with the powerful at the top and everyone else at the bottom. Some Talents were god-tier, like pyrokinesis or weather control. Others were mundane, like duplicating paper clips or moving small objects with your mind. And then there was mine. The power to strip any man named John Smith of his Talent. Three years. I hadn't met a single one. That was the closest I’d ever come, but of course his name had to be John Strong. What good was a Talent like that in this eat-or-be-eaten world? Before the Change, I was a graphic designer in a high-rise. Now, I was less than nothing. I didn't know how much longer I could last. Cursing under my breath, I started back toward my shelter—a collapsed corner of a bus station, open to the elements. As I left the alley, I saw a bag someone was carrying tear open. A box of Pop-Tarts tumbled out. My eyes lit up. I dove for it, my fingers just brushing the cardboard when someone else lunged from the other side, grabbing the other end. Neither of us let go. Suddenly, the other person let out a desperate howl. ""Please, just let me have it! I haven't eaten in five days, I'm going to die!"" That voice… I looked closer. The person in front of me—hair matted, face gaunt and smudged with dirt, reeking of stale sweat—was my long-lost best friend. ""Anna?"" Her eyes widened. ""Chloe?"" We fell into each other's arms, the stupid box of Pop-Tarts forgotten as we cried. ""Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you!"" I sobbed into her shoulder. ""Some group grabbed me,"" she gasped. ""For research. They let me go when they decided my Talent was useless."" Anna explained her ordeal while demolishing the stale pastries. Shortly after the Change, some shadow organization started kidnapping people to study their Talents. But Anna’s was so pathetic, they deemed it worthless and threw her out. I had a hard time believing that. More pathetic than mine? ""Don't say that,"" I said, trying to comfort her. ""No matter how useless your Talent is, it can't be worse than mine."" She shook her head emphatically. ""Impossible."" ""Trust me,"" I insisted. ""No, you don't get it. Mine is the bottom of the barrel."" We were still arguing about who was the bigger loser when a little kid floated past us down the street. Actually floated. Flight. That's when Anna completely broke down, snot and tears and pastry crumbs flying from her mouth. ""Why?! Why does everyone else get to be a goddamn superhero, and all I can do is rename people John Smith?!"" The hand patting her back stopped dead. My whole world tilted on its axis. ""What did you say?"""
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