Jimmy was a plant.
Not some kind of spy in an organization, sent to settle in and then disrupt. Nor was he any kind of performer, blending in to the audience with quiet skill until the appointed time, when a great reveal would happen.
No, Jimmy was a plant. A leafy, seeded plant, sitting on a desk, in an office. The office was on the eighth floor, the windows reasonably unobstructed. Jimmy never wanted for sunlight, and the carbon in the atmosphere kept him well-fed.
Occasional droughts came to Jimmy, most often during holidays. He weathered these as all must weather drought or famine.
Overall, his life was easy. No pressure to grow – mainly because there was no room for him to grow. He simply stood, day in, and day out, a leafy little air purifier, making the lives around him a little bit better. A little greener. A little less weary.
This, then, was why Jimmy so wanted to be something more. No plant in a pot on a desk in an office, but a creature, moving about. A human, like those always wandering, or the dogs or cats they always talked about, or something, anything other than a stationary little leafy thing, at the whims of others.
Jimmy was a plant, and he didn’t like it.