When I was a child, I would often have dreams where magic wouldn't work for me. Everyone else would be able to make the doorway work, or the wand, or the raygun. But in my hands they'd be nothing more than dead hunks of wood and metal.
So you might think that I was being shortchanged. Everyone else was seeing shiny fireworks and pretty lights. I got a stick.
Except for one thing. When they pointed the guns at me, nothing happened.
When I pointed the gun at them, they died.
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