EXTRordinary

1/3

Author's note (2024): Hey, Brennan here. I felt like this book needed an updated intro to provide some context.

This is a VERY OLD NOVEL, and as such I find it difficult to read back without experiencing a bit of cringe. However, I keep it up on my page because I like to see how I've grown as a writer since 2019.

Just keep in mind that it's outdated, and if you'd like to read something that reflects my current skill as a writer I'd encourage you to read one of the more recent stories on my page, such as the Iron Empire Saga.

Sorry to all the Unordinary fans, but this novel will never be continued. However, there's more in store on my page! Anyway, enjoy this trip down my memory lane!

THE REST OF THIS NOVEL IS UNMODIFIED FROM 2019.

OLD INTRO CONTINUES AS FOLLOWS:

-From the recovered journal of Jackson Quinn, six years before the incident

Journal X

Diary X

Log??? X

How the hell do you start one of these?

I guess it's a journal. Whatever.

I'm only doing this because I have to, remember that.

I suppose I have to put down my name, don't I? Alright. Well, the name's Quinn. Jackson Quinn, and for the longest time I thought my ability was simply good luck.

Well, that's not true exactly. I guess I hoped it was good luck, because otherwise... well, otherwise I would be here, writing a stupid journal for my psychologist.

I'm here now, so I suppose you can guess that my ability isn't actually a 3.4, nor is it luck.

Long story on that one, but to shorten it, I survived an encounter with a speeding truck when I was ten.

I was stupid, wandered into the street near my house. Didn't see the truck, didn't even think I'd get hit, you know? The news is something that happens to other people when you're ten. You're never on the news because all the bad stuff happens to everyone else, right? Wrong.

My parents swear I was dead center on that vehicle, looking away, but somehow, something told me to jump to one side. The vehicle shattered my left ankle, but it would've broken many other bones had I not, amazingly, made it aside.

I was in the emergency ward next thing I knew. Turns out your memory gets a little screwy when your bone is pushed through your shin. I was told I would never walk again without assistance if I lived, might now even survive the night if my leg kept bleeding. The cast was set, my leg was locked. Even the doctor's health tonics could only do so much.

Don't go getting all sad now, I'm fine. I healed in record time, a fact even the doctor deemed astonishing. I walked around his office in two weeks. Doc told me I may have been the luckiest boy alive, but encouraged me to stay on crutches to make sure I was ok.

That when I saw my parents studying me with wide eyes.

Ability defines our lives. Your ability level can be your greatest weapon, or a death sentence. Five or higher? You're in for a good life with few challenges. Four or lower? Bottom of the food chain. You'll be running errands for the rest of your life, or risk taking a beating from someone stronger. A zero? You're a cripple. I shudder to think of their defenseless lives. No cripple ever gets a decent education at school, some of them never even come. I don't need to tell you that, it's just the way our lives work. It's normal.

It's ordinary.

My parents are levels six and seven. Mom has enhanced senses, dad has your basic pyrokinesis package. Fairly mundane, but they make them work at their levels. Life was good. They follow the law. Dad worked in a bank, mom as a park warden. We ate steaks on Sundays, broiled in the palm of dad's hand. I would try to be super quiet when reading at night or mom would catch me.

God, I miss those days.

The day we found my "luck", everything changed. My life became a series of tests, ways to define my level, some of them painful.

Was I lucky enough to pick the right card from a shuffled deck of fifty-two? (I was.)

Was I lucky enough to dodge a fired paintball I didn't see coming?

(I was not.)

My luck seemed sporadic for a time, only able to appear when I didn't need it and never when I did. I could avoid a hole in the ground, but still walk into a door frame ten minutes later. I could catch a butterfly without killing it, yet miss a baseball. This lack of control lowered my assumed level to around a 3.4. My parents told me they weren't disappointed, but I could tell they had hoped I would inherit one of their powers.

I kept my crutches for another year, didn't run for another three. My parents insisted I be careful with my leg, as although it had healed they doubted I would have enough luck to survive a second break. I should have listened. I could've stayed ordinary, a simple 3.4, sporadically lucky. But then I had to run towards my problems, and it landed me here, in this stupid psychologist's office, writing in this stupid book while I wait for my new level results to come in. I probably shouldn't insult the psychologist, she'll likely read this when I'm -

Gotta go, results are in.

I'll explain more later.

-Jackson Quinn