Lana

With my crutch under my armpit, I join the others as we stare up at the building. We're lined up in front of it. It's a Sunday; the parking lot is almost empty. Surrounding the building is acres of beautiful Maine forestry, and far away, waves crash onto the rocky coast.

"You're sure this is their headquarters?" Rani asks, skeptical.

"It's one of them, at least," Taylor responds. "Hendrix is a low-key corporation, if you can't tell by looking it."

The building isn't what I expected a headquarters to look like. It's large, but not enough. It's not guarded or gated on the outside. There's not even a sign.

"Everyone who made what happened to us possible, works in this building," he continues. "It's Sunday. I doubt many of them are here."

"Who cares?" Rani asks, cracking her knuckles. "We're here to screw them over, and ruining their headquarters is enough. Even if I don't get to punch someone in the face."

Our excitement is palpable, and without saying anything else—we had more than enough time to talk on the long, long ride here—we begin.

I get the honor of blowing open the doors. The resulting whirlwind brings fallen leaves and dirt into the building as we enter together, a collective of extremely pissed off teenagers. Then, we split ways. Taylor had no idea what the layout of this building was, so we never came up with a way to cover the most ground. All we decided was that destruction didn't need a method, and we would do what we wanted.

I limp along on my crutch, the air swirling around me as I do. It knocks paintings off walls and cracks the statues of exotic looking, rich-people art. I hear a single set of footsteps behind me, and when I turn, what looks like a security guard is hightailing it to the exit.

I grow tired of the crutch within seconds, so I let it drop and begin to float along, hovering an inch above the ground. Doors blow off their hinges. Ceiling tiles fall and shatter into a million pieces. The air ahead of me and behind me is calm and serene, but near me it's a turbulent mess.

I use the turbulence to blow off a set of important-looking doors, keycard scanner be damned. Inside is a conference room, whose chairs very quickly roll away from me as I float inside. The table is bolted to the floor, and I decide to leave it alone in a show of ironic mercy. The glass display case in the wall catches my eye, and I stop the whirlwind and let my feet touch the floor.

Inside the display are extremely random, extremely show-off things. Little gems, vials of precious metals, and some very old-looking figurines. Each has a little nameplate with a description. It looks like Hendrix really wants the people using this room to know how rich and fancy they are.

I put a little air pressure on the glass, and it shatters. I quickly step back to keep the shards from falling on my feet, and then I reach for one of the gems. It's so small, it would fit in my pocket, and I'd never feel it was there.

Rani leans into the room suddenly. "Hey, thought I heard you here. You good? Where's your crutch?"

"In the hallway," I reply blankly. My focus is on the display and all its shiny glory.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her take a step inside.

"Would you judge me if I took this?" I ask, holding up the gem for her to see. "I was thinking I could sell it somewhere and donate the money to the town, to make up for the damages I caused."

Rani snorts. "Girl, I wouldn't judge you if you stole it, sold it, and bought yourself a world cruise. In fact..."

She comes by me, takes a few more gems and a vial of silver, and puts it all into the pocket of my pants.

"Take it all," she says. "They deserve what's coming to them."

Rani pats me on the shoulder and runs off to wreak her own havoc elsewhere. From the hallway, I hear her call back, "Don't forget your crutch before leaving!"

I smile. "I won't!"

______________

Rani

It's sweet enough that Lana wants to atone for the damages she caused, but to ask if I would judge her? For stealing from these assholes? Too damn cute.

I walk into every bathroom I pass by and raise my hands and raise the water pressure. Metal bends and creaks, and the pipes underneath the sinks begin to split before finally bursting. The toilets pretty much explode, the fancy porcelain shattering against the stall walls.

I feel like a child for finding this funny, but I let myself laugh. I'm willing to chuck these toilet-water-soaked shoes in the trash if it means ruining even the least-secretive, least-important part of their building. I drag all that water behind me as I move along.

I stop at a fork, looking down the left and right hallways. The left has vines growing along the walls, so I take the right. It leads to a locked door at the end, and I step aside and let the water push against it until the door is knocked off its hinges.

It's a computer room.

I let go of my hold on the water behind me, and it drains into the hallway, wetting the tiles. I'm not sure if the setup of this room would lead to electrocution, but I'm not going to take that chance. Instead, I grab monitors with my hands, rip them off their stations, and throw them to the floor. I do the same to the computers themselves. I know all of Hendrix's precious data and company secrets are elsewhere, either in a cloud or in a server room that will probably also electrocute me, but I damage what equipment I can.

Again, I feel like a child. Like a girl in a rom-com who just went through a breakup and is having fun losing it. Who knows—maybe I'll cut myself some bangs later.

When there's only one undamaged setup left, I set myself down on the plush chair. My reflection in the dark monitor stares back at me as I simply sit and breathe, the excitement receding and getting replaced by a colder, calmer anger.

I wish we could call the police. I wish I had enough faith in this country's justice system to suggest that we tell the whole truth and throw these people in jail, but I know it won't work. The system is corrupt, and the Hendrix Corporation is rich and no doubt connected. We're four emotionally unstable teenagers who'll either be killed or committed. There is no legal battle to fight. Getting physical is the only revenge we can have.

I punch the monitor. The screen cracks, and some pointy bits dig into my fingers. My reflection in the broken screen is monstrous and damaged, but it's okay.

Because this building is going to look just as monstrous and damaged when we're through with it.

_______________

Jude

Thorns. Every single thing I make in this building, I make it have thorns. The vines crawling out of the vents and snaking along the walls? Thorns. The carpet of flowers growing along the sides of the hallway? Pretty, but full of thorns.

If we play our cards right, this building won't be salvageable, and they'll demolish it. If they want to keep it, they're going to have a hell of a time fixing it. But demolish or not, someone will have to come inside to check it out. Someone will see. And someone, a higher-up I hope, will know exactly what has happened.

A noise catches me by surprise, and I whirl around, raising a snake-like vine next to me, ready to pounce. But the person at the other end of the hallway drops a broom and raises his hands. He's a janitor. There's headphones on his ears—he hasn't heard any of the commotion. Hasn't gone running like the guards or the maintenance man I passed by earlier.

I make a gesture, and he removes the headphones. "Are there any other janitors in the building today?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

Using the vine, I open the exit door at the end of the hallway. "Go," I say.

He takes off running, clearly scared, and my world freezes. For a second, I'm reminded of what I've become. What we've become. We're here for revenge, but he doesn't know that. All he sees is a monster.

And, considering he's likely innocent, and I've just destroyed his place of work and cost him a job...I guess I am one.

I feel a pang of regret, and the vine I was controlling sags when I let it go. There will be no coming back from any of this, no pretending that I'm still a saint with a heart of gold. That part of me cracked the moment I slammed Lana onto the road, and now I'm swinging an axe at it.

But my mind has been made.

The vine lifts, and I drag its sharp tip across the walls, ripping through paint and stone.

They deserve this.

____________

Taylor

For obvious reasons, I can't partake.

I burn a few things here and there, but I don't let any fire spread or any spark make its way away from me. I brought them here to let loose, and I'm not about to accidentally blow up the building.

For the most part, I'm just walking. I can feel the building shake a little every time Lana makes a new whirlwind. I even heard the pipes in the walls quiet down when Rani burst something downstairs and forced the water pressure everywhere else to go low. And Jude, well, I don't see signs of what he's up to, but I'm sure he's doing his part.

And me, I stroll along, hands in my pockets. I'm on the top floor, eyeing the Maine forestry through the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the halls. A flash catches my eye, and I freeze and then backpedal, turning my head slowly to face a shiny nameplate on a door.

William Hendrix.

It's the devil himself.

I burn the hinges and slowly push in the door. It's quiet; there's no one here. His office is monochrome and sleek like the rest of the building, but unlike the hallways or the elevator or the stairwell, his walls are bare. There are no paintings, no photographs, nothing. No furniture, either, aside from a desk and a chair. There's not even a guest chair. It seems like he doesn't take meetings in here.

It's hard to see the desk when the window it sits in front of lets in so much sunlight; it looks like a black outline with a glint on the surface. So I cross the room and stand behind the desk, looking down at its surface. A calendar with important notes sits in the corner, as does an array of sharp pencils and sleek pens and a computer setup. I place my hand on the top of his chair, wondering what it was like when he and Jansen proposed their plans to each other and gave the green-light.

I step back, almost leaning against the window.

I raise my hands quickly, and the entire desk bursts into flames. The ink on the calendar smears for a millisecond before the calendar itself is reduced to ash. The computer melts, and the chair sags as its wheels deform.

As quickly as I raised them, I abruptly lower my hands, and the flames disappear just as fast. Silence and coldness follows as I stare at the charred remains.

His office is intact, except for the part that matters.

On my way out of the room, I notice his nameplate again. I heat up my index finger, press it against the W, and drag the heat all the way across his name, ending at the x. The letters are distorted now, ruined beyond readability.

And I walk away, satisfied.