Gary, the Key Bearer

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

Being the Key Bearer was a difficult job, but it came with its benefits. Gary never got locked out of his hotel room. Never needed to free a hand to rummage in his pocket. And being a locksmith of this caliber paid well.

Granted, he was also on every government watchlist ever, and everyone he knew invested heavily in deadbolts while loudly assuring him of their trust, and also it was hard to get people to pay for what looked effortless.

Still. Of all the supernatural forces which claimed chosen ones, this wasn’t a bad deal. Plenty of everyday utility without disrupting a normal life. People shipped him around the world often enough that he didn’t have to pay for holidays, even if those trips weren’t always where he’d want to be. And he got to see far more museum troves than the average person.

The problem was… no matter how effortless magic looked, it took a lot out of you. Every second spent Tranced involved a mental workout akin to doing cryptic crosswords upside-down in your non-native language. And when you finally got the Threads herded and shaped, which usually felt like hours, and came back to yourself, flush with victory, the people around you acted like it was nothing.

Which from their perspective was fair. They’d only seen you squint at the lock, go utterly still for a few seconds, and suddenly it unlocked. A neat party trick. Small wonder nobody thought to ask you if you were alright, did you need a sit down or anything, at least have a pat on the back.

No, it was always ‘nice’, often followed by ‘here’s the next one’.

And then grumbling about how much you charged. After the job was done, of course, they never said a word while you could still refuse to do the work.

He’d occasionally relocked something to make a point. Yes, doing a job three times in short succession was annoying but he’d be damned before he let them rob him. This was work. Often work only he could do. They could swallow their bean counting and choke on it.

Maybe he should have become some… secret agent or something. Surely they didn’t have to argue agreed rates after a successful sting. Or maybe they did, and management was a universal pox on workers.

Gary flopped onto the hotel bed and pulled a face at the pristine ceiling.

‘I ought to become a supervillain. Probably doesn’t pay better once you factor in all the expenses, but at least I’d be badass.’

Prompt was the first sentence.