Page 1 of Static/Cling

CHAPTER 1

GETTING TO KNOW YOU

Bjorn didn’t know what he had expected. There weren’t a lot of office buildings right downtown, and this one… well, every other building around looked newer in comparison. As in, built in the sixties and seventies—the decades that architectural design and beauty not just forgot, but actively kicked in the metaphorical girders for spite.

At least the building housing his new job was older, and, therefore, prettier.

There was a Tim Hortons across the street, too, so that was good.

But old buildings meant old wiring. Old wiring could mean some very funky things, especially with his… abilities.

At least it was made of brick-and-mortar. His last job, in a fancy new high-rise building, had literally left his hair standing on end constantly. The static electric build-up in his body had not reacted well to the steel beams that, by design, broke through the glass and concrete skin of the structure at regular intervals.

He’d felt like a walking electrical outlet the entire six months he’d been there.

His friend Leif had taken every opportunity to ask him to hold things like incandescent light bulbs and those tiny plastic fans with the battery housing open just to see them blink and whir to life in his grip.

To be fair, he totally fell for it every time. Or at least, he let Leif believe he did because, well… Leif got away with a lot of things Bjorn would never take from anyone else. Again, because, Leif.

Speaking of—Bjorn glanced at his wind-up wristwatch.

“Late again, little dude,” he muttered as he stopped outside the door to the building.

“Ex-cu-use me!” A harried-sounding voice from behind an armload of cardboard file boxes made him jump.

“Sorry! Sorry.” He stepped out of the way.

“Maybe you could get the door?” The face that peered around the boxes was thin, slightly pinched, and very annoyed-looking, there and gone so fast he wasn’t sure it hadn’t been an apparition.

“Yeah. Right. Of course! Sorry.” He grabbed the wooden handle and yanked the door open, trying to move back at the same time.

He wasn’t quick enough. A spark flew from his free hand, arched, and zapped the box-carrier on the behind.

“Sorry!” was out of his mouth even as a sharp “Fresh!” cut off his apology.

“No, I?—”

“Well, come on. You must be Bjorn Bik-ey…? Blike-y?

“Bielke,” he corrected.

“Right. Him. You’re him?”

He stepped inside as the door swung shut behind him. “I am he.”

“You are he? He? No, him. You are him. I had that right. We’re on three. Four. We’re on four. Is that what I said? Button’s there. Push the buttons.”

“Can I take the boxes?”

“Push the buttons.”

“You don’t want me to?—”

“Buttons! Push!”

He glanced around frantically for something metal to touch other than the glowing golden brass of the elevator buttons.

“Oh, for the love of?—”

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