Rush Hour Traffic

He was driving home from work, thumbing the calloused fingers of his left hand.  He always found the lack of feeling oddly comforting.

The drive home wasn't particularly long.  It generally took less than a half hour, but that was more than enough time after spending the entire day sitting in front of a computer trying to stay focused on whatever it was he was supposed to have been working on.  It bothered him that it didn't bother him that he didn't know what that was.

As he reached his third red light, he started to realize just how frustrated sitting in traffic was making him.  He came to a stop, stretched out his arms, and turned up the radio.

Then he closed his eyes.

Who was he kidding?  He didn't have to wait in traffic!  He was better than this.

Imperceptible to everyone around him, his arcfield slowly spread until it enveloped his car.  When he was sure he could feel every molecule of the car inside his sphere of influence, he lifted out of his seat and felt his entire body dissipate along with his car.  To all the suckers who had to actually wait in traffic, a pillar of smoke enveloped a car that was gone after the wind blew the vapor away.  To the young nexter, his car and body became a pillar of smoke that lifted into the air and took off in the direction of his apartment.

He circled the parking lot outside his apartment a couple of times choosing a spot which he then descended upon, rematerializing as he did so.  He then casually and calmly stepped out of his car, climbed the stairs to his home, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

"Took you long enough."

He jumped at the voice, assuming a defensive stance and looking for its source.

"Relax," said the deep, smooth voice emanating from the chair across the room.  "It's just me."  A lamp clicked on, revealing the sharply dressed, middle-aged director of the NSA's nexter division.

The nexter calmly took off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door.  "What do you want, Qualm?"

"Straight to business, then?  Fine.  We need you, Haze."

"I assumed as much," he replied calmly, walking into the kitchen and taking a bottle out of his bar.  "That doesn't really tell me anything, though.  Does it?"

Qualm smiled.  "He's back."

Haze sat a glass of Scotch on the table next to the director as he passed him to sit in the opposing chair.  "Who's back?"

Qualm sipped the Scotch and simply raised an eyebrow.

"Oh," Haze said knowingly.  "Well he's not my problem anymore."

The director leaned forward in his chair.  "He's all of our problem and you know it," he said with a new level of gravitas added to his voice.  "You're the only one with enough experience and know-how to deal with him.  He is your . . . "

"If you don't mind, director," interrupted Haze, "I'd like you to finish your drink and leave."  And with that, he stood, dissolved into smoke, and faded from the room.

Qualm slumped back into his chair.  "He's in Lexington."

Haze felt his stomach drop . . . or what used to be his stomach.

The director smiled as the nexter slowly rematerialized.  "I thought that would get your attention."

"When do I leave?"  Hazed asked flatly.

Before the director could answer, the loud blare of a horn melted the world of the nexter away.

And he opened his eyes.

He looked up to see a green light staring down at him, the traffic around him moving smoothly, and the driver in his rearview mirror showing off his IQ.  Accepting the sudden return of reality, he pulled into the intersection and continued on his way home, knowing that another day at work was waiting for him tomorrow.

He hated traffic.