Fiction Challenge: Feelin' hot hot hot... WINNERS ANNOUNCED!!

[Glitch Girl]

Things have been too quiet for too long in the Fanfiction forum, so I think it's time for a new fiction challenge!

This is going to be a kind of casual one but there will be a prize.  At this point, there's only one judge (me); however if someone is DYING to help out I'd welcome the company.

Your theme, should you choose to accept:
Write a story featuring "Firebrand". 

You may make "Firebrand" anything you want, hero villain, anti-hero, object, whatever, as long as the name fits what you're writing.  You may set this story in any time and any place, as long as there is some elements of the "superhero genre" in there.  You may NOT use any character from existing comic companies, such as Marvel, DC, Image, Darkhorse, Oni, etc.  You may use characters from Freedom Reborn, provided you get permission first from the creator.

Your story must be at LEAST 300 words, and no more than two posts worth of words.  (I forget what the maximum is, but if you overflow, you can tell me)  Please spellcheck and grammar check before you post, as both count.  Do not post Works in Progress, however minor edits up until the deadline are okay. I will asume that anything you post is the final version though.  Please try to keep content within the PG/PG-13 area (ie: no gratuitous swearing/violence/sex)  If you think what you wrote MIGHT be over the line, then don't do it.

The deadline is Sunday, August 26 at 11:59 PM CST

Prize:
$25 gift certificate to either Powell's, Amazon, or possibly ThinkGeek, your choice

Best of luck all!

[EDIT: Rules clarification]

[Uncle Yuan]

Ooo, goody!  I keep meaning to start one of these, but it always slips my mind when I have time.  Thanks for this, GG!

[Previsionary]

This sounds interesting. I might actually try to give this one a shot...if I have time.

[BlueBard]

Um... can we find out what the word limit is for posting?  It may not be academic; I'm already pushing over 1,400 words and haven't hit the climax yet.

[DireWolf]

Humm, about to leave on a trip and will be back on the 25th. Maybe I can write something along the way...

:direwolf

[Glitch Girl]

Um... can we find out what the word limit is for posting?  It may not be academic; I'm already pushing over 1,400 words and haven't hit the climax yet.

I wish I could tell you, but that information was lost with the old database.  It was pretty high though.  If Mr Fiber were here he might be able to tell you - he hit the post limit on a story once. 

Also may I add, "DANG!" you work fast. 

[BlueBard]

Um... can we find out what the word limit is for posting?  It may not be academic; I'm already pushing over 1,400 words and haven't hit the climax yet.

I wish I could tell you, but that information was lost with the old database.  It was pretty high though.  If Mr Fiber were here he might be able to tell you - he hit the post limit on a story once. 

Also may I add, "DANG!" you work fast. 

Well, don't give me too much credit.  Starting a story is one thing... ending it is something entirely different.  And in this case I haven't settled on how to end it yet.

[RTTingle]

Well, don't give me too much credit.  Starting a story is one thing... ending it is something entirely different.  And in this case I haven't settled on how to end it yet.

-Nervously eyes his own "Cloak" story thread.-

Man, tell me about it.

Hooray for GG finally getting something going on back in here again!  :)

Firebrand, huh?   Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

RTT

[El Condor]

Sweet! A challenge that I can contribute to (I'm not an artistic achiever  :D)!  I may put something together for this.

EC

[BentonGrey]

I'd love to participate in this one.........provided I can find the time. ;)

[thalaw2]

Heck...I'm in.  I haven't written fan fic in ages.  I beginning to doubt I can do it again.  So this will be a good test of my rusty skills.

[DireWolf]

Fire and Stone

No light broke the darkness within the vault. The air hung still as well, unmoved by breath or wind. However, a scent lingered in the air, despite the fact there was no one to notice it. It was an odd smell, hard to describe yet unmistakable. A combination of special ink, special paper and perhaps, a touch of want or greed. It was the smell of freshly printed money.

The vault door filled the west wall, the back of the sleeves that held the massive steel pins affixing the door to the other walls radiating out from the center like the spokes of a wheel. In the hub, the cantilevers that controlled the pins were held behind a bolted steel plate over an inch think. The vault took three keys to open and was set on a timer as well. It was as secure a construction as had been built by man since the pharaohs of Egypt on their elaborate tombs. And like the tombs, it was meant to secure treasures untold. And like the tombs, it was still vulnerable.

A muddy glow blossomed in the darkness. A ruddy red spot the size of a dime formed on the vault door between the center and the outer edge, in the middle of the massive slab of reinforced steel, which was considered the most impregnable part of the whole construction. The red brightened quickly, shifting from ruddy, to crimson, to gold and then white as it expanded. The smell of boiling metal filled the vault, blotting out the scent of currency. Steel ran like hot wax sparking and snaking across the cement floor. Acrid smoke coiled off the burning metal. A hole opened up, gaining in size as a thin beam of scarlet light played across the edges. The gaping hole grew to a man-sized opening. The light winked out though the white hot metal still glowed like coals. A figure moved into the opening, the light shining off the deep red and yellow hues of some sort of armor. Oblivious to the residual heat radiating from the glowing edges, the figure entered the vault.

      ########################################

"I swear this city gets stranger and stranger every day."

Captain Wojoesky's words echoed back to him from the Paladin Security Incorporated vault. Joe took off his Patriot City police officer's hat and poked his head through the hole melted through the thick steel door. The smell of burnt paper greeted him. "No sprinklers in there, I take it?"

Officer Parker looked at the clipboard in her hands. "No sir. The vault's supposed to be fireproof. That's part of the service and why the Treasury uses them to stage currency shipments. Looks like a fire started anyway."

"And me without marshmallows," Captain Wojoesky muttered, looking at the hole in the door. It was as if a human sized blowtorch has walked through.

"Then it's a good thing I didn't stop for graham crackers and chocolate bars," a resonant voice behind the officers answered.

"Hello Dire wolf," Joe responded with out looking back, he recognized the young vigilante's voice, "glad you could make it."

"It sounded interesting." Direwolf moved closer to examine the burnt vault.

Again, Joe was struck by the physical presence of the young man. Direwolf stood six and a half feet tall. The long chocolate brown leather coat he wore tended to disguise his muscular frame but Joe saw the strength etched in the planes of his face and the cords in his neck. A simple black leather mask covered the upper part of Direwolf's face from the hairline, across the bridge of his nose and angled down across his cheeks. Sandy hair, tossed from the wind topped his head and the white wolf head on a black t-shirt covered his chest. He also wore black leather gloves, blue jeans and a pair of heavily scuffed motorcycle boots. Captain Joe was always struck by the contrast between how Direwolf dressed, and the more flamboyant attire chosen by Freedom Force.

Direwolf stripped off his gloves and ran his fingers lightly over the edge of the melted hole, his sapphire blue eyes narrowing in concentration as the edges of his mouth tightened. "It took a lot of heat to do this, yet it was concentrated..."

He tapped his fingers across the edge of the door, producing a faint ringing sound. It reminded Joe just how tough Direwolf was. His body was far denser then mere flesh was intended. And he was amazingly strong. Joe had seen him lift a city bus out of the way to help clear an accident.

"Here," Direwolf tapped the door again about three feet from the hole.  Joe noticed a slight change in tone. "The tramper is lost here. The hole was melted before the heat got past this point. Like I said, it happened very fast."

Joe whistled and ran a hand through his thinning silver hair. "What could produce that much localized heat so quickly?"

"I assume you checked on the whereabouts of El Diablo?"

"Yes, he's down in Washington DC with most of Freedom Force. Mister Mechanical tried to knock down the Washington Monument. If he'd gone after the IRS building, he'd have gotten more sympathy."

Direwolf chuckled and stepped through the melted hole, ducking his head and twisting his shoulders to make it through. Joe didn't bother objecting to a 'citizen' entering a crime scene. Something unusual had happened here and it was a safe bet that it would take something 'unusual' to unravel it as well.

"Do you know what the target was?" Direwolf asked.

Joe took the clipboard from Officer Parker and scanned down the notes. None of the other officers were objecting to Direwolf's presence. Despite his reputation in the press, the men and women under Joe's command accepted Direwolf as an unofficial part of the force. He had come through for them time and time again.

"So, what was the objective?" Direwolf stood in the center of vault, slowly turning to view the full interior.

"You don't think it was those?" Joe gestured at the two canvas covered pallets near the vault door. The nearest was charred open, exposing stacks of bank notes, many of them blacked as well. "There's more than two hundred thousand in each of those."

A tight smile curved Direwolf's lips as he shook his head. "No, for two reasons, - the hole is too small to take out that much money - not unless the thief planned on lots of trips or brought a lot of accomplices. The other reason is that it's still here. They found what they were looking for and left, correct?"

Joe nodded. He'd come to the same conclusion and was glad to see Direwolf reached it as well. "So, how do we figure out what was taken without sorting everything that's here to find out what isn't?"

Direwolf paused, his eyebrows knitting, "We look at the record of what's just arrived. Whoever did this knew just what they were looking for acted quickly."

Joe handed him the clipboard. Direwolf flipped the pages.

"Here," he said, "A special shipment from the Pentagon. Notice the delivery address and the recipient."

Joe looked down and whistled through his teeth. "Number One, Patriot Park Way, Mentor, signature required."

         *********************************

Violin notes of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring hung in the air like polished gems. A low fire crackled in the field stone hearth, not enough to overheat the room but enough to cast a cheery light throughout the study. Bookshelves lined the walls. The leather bound tomes were meticulously organized by subject and author. Most of the books dealt with the sciences, though a few touched on more esoteric subjects. A magnificent oil painting hung over the fire place. From this vantage point, the hard-eyed visage of Doctor Aries Drake surveyed the heart of his ancestral home. Aries' single living child, Leo Drake sat in one of the leather upholstered chairs, eyes closed to savor the music, a crystal tumbler of cognac in his hand. His fingers traced faint lines in the air as if underscoring the music.

The notes resonated through Doctor Drake's mind. The recording was from the London Philharmonic made a few years back and as real a record of the music as was possible. Leo was sure that some day, sound would be better stored on magnetic media rather than pressed into baked vinyl, but the technology wasn't there yet. It was coming. The wave of technological progress was rising, just as his father had predicted. And soon, it would erase the lines between what was possible for humans and the other rising tide, the metahumans. Leo was sure that an evolutionary war was imminent, and meant to make sure his species came out on top.

"Learn, adapt, conquer," he whispered. He sipped from the glass in his hand, savoring the smooth taste across his tongue.

An ember fell from the burning logs, momentarily brightening the room. The phone on the carved wood end table jangled. Doctor Drake picked it up at once.

"Did you get it?" His question hung like the music.

The pause that followed stretched far too long.

"Yes," a voice responded from the other end of the phone line. The single word sounded hollow and echoy. "It was where you said it would be..."

With a supreme effort, Leo forced his grip to loosen on the phone receiver. He knew what was coming. This was what happened when you had to rely on Mercenaries. It was too bad Scythe wasn't available. Still, Firebrand had come highly recommended. He decided to let her make the next move.

Silence stretched.

"I looked at the manifest," she said at last. "Considering what is here, I could sell it for far more on international market, or even see about incorporating it into my own armor. A working Domain plasma weapon is unique."

"True, which is why I hired you to secure it at the one point in its transit where it would be accessible. Do you have any idea how hard it was to assure it would spend one night in that warehouse?" Leo heard the hard edge to his own voice and banished it. "But I can understand the attraction; would you consider a twenty five percent bonus on your agreed fee and something...extra to help with your armor proper recompense?"

"What sort of an upgrade?"

"The design for a new servo motor reverse engineered from the Mister Mechanical Minibots. I can provide a working prototype as well."

"That should be acceptable."

"I can wire the funds but will have to collect the prototype. Shall we say tomorrow night at nine PM? Inside the old Northeast Fisheries Warehouse?"

"Very well, nine it is. I'll keep your parcel quite safe."

Drake allowed him self a hard edged smile. "I am sure you will. Until then."

He hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He had to think quickly. The situation was fraught with both danger and possibility. He looked up to the portrait of his father. The painting showed him seated at his desk, his hand resting on a large leather bound book. The book's spine displayed the Eagle and lighting bolts of the Jovian Imperium.

"Of course, use a proxy!"

Sparks whipped up as fresh embers fell from the burning logs.

         ####################################

"So that's what I am looking for. Something that can slag hardened steel in record time with nearly pin point accuracy." Jason Cross added a final layer to a sandwich that would have made Dagwood proud. Here in the house he shared with his two roommates, he didn't bother with the Direwolf mask. Skip and Devon had been with him from the start and he had come to rely up on their counsel. It was good to have backup.

Devon tapped a pencil on the scarred top of the old Formica table while Skip cleaned the coffee pot by the sink. Jason took a massive bite out of the sandwich.

"You know, there is one thing that might have done it, lasers." Devon tossed the pencil atop the papers he'd been grading. "A powerful laser could have cut through like what you described."

Jason nodded and gulped down his mouthful. "Good point, I hadn't thought about that."

Devon shook his head." But what could power a laser able to do that? It would take the output of a decent hydroelectric power plant to run one!"

Jason chuckled, "Something or someone powered by Energy X could do it. Well, I suppose I'll find out."

"One thing to keep in mind," Skip interjected as he set the cleaned coffee pot on the drying rack and adjusted his glasses. "Lasers aren't like bullets. They vaporize rather than tear. We don't know what the upper limit is of your regeneration since it's kind of hard to test except through experience. You haven't died...yet. If you keep pushing your luck, then sooner or later it's going to run out. Whoever this is burned through a vault door and from what you describe, most of the metal was gone. You've stood up to amazing levels of punishment, poisons, even radiation. Enough light might just be what takes you into darkness..."

This time, Jason didn't have a snappy comeback.

[DireWolf]

Part 2            

                   ######################################

For dozens of years, Northeast Fisheries had been a middle sized fishing consortium along the Eastern Seaboard. But a scandal involving tainted fish sold to the US Army during the Korean War ended the company's life. The shipping warehouse located on the East Riverside of Patriot City was one the corporate assets left unsold. The fact that it was damaged during Captain Kraken's last attack on the city hadn't helped the financial prospects. But tonight, it served Doctor Drake's needs.

He waited in partial darkness beside a pool of sodium yellow light cast by a nearby street light through a grimy skylight. An old steel sorting table stood beside him, still covered by old cardboard boxes. The rest of the warehouse was a maze of shadows from half seen piles of equipment. A river breeze blew in from the eastern end of the building that faced the river, bringing the rank scent off the river at low tide and the charcoal smell of burnt timbers. Drake shifted and avoided looking at his watch.  He knew timing was critical but didn't want to display any signs of nervousness. He had to trust his plan and his wits. As one of his role models, George Patton had phrased it, 'no plan survives first contact with the enemy'. Doctor Drake was sure he would have to adjust his plan but felt confident he would be able to. After all, he understood the other players far better than they knew him.

The faint rustle of chains and the creak of a floorboard told Drake that the first adversary had arrived. He pulled the overcoat tight around his shoulders and touched the brim of his hat, surreptitiously making sure it shadowed his face.

"Welcome, Firebrand." His voice faded into the darkness.

An armored figure stepped into the light. Doctor Drake had read the available information on the woman who went by the name of Firebrand before hiring her, but this was the first time he had ever met her. The available information was that she used to be a Soviet scientist, a specialist in optics who was exposed to Energy X. Her body was capable of emitting vast amounts of light. While perhaps not too impressive of a power, she used her understanding of optics to design an armored suit that collected her body's out put, channeled it down her arms and out through a set of crystal prisms mounted around her wrists. She had turned herself into a living laser generator. With her power, she chose to escape from her Soviet masters and set her self up as an 'independent operative' in Europe and Asia.

Now, Drake studied her armor, reflexively comparing it to Cold Iron's massive suit. This was quite different, bringing to mind a steam lined version of the classic Teutonic Knight's armor of a fairy tale, from the barrel shaped helm, breast and back plates, fully plated arms and legs, and even articulated boots. Only the bulging blisters of the crystal emitters that ringed each wrist and the featureless expanse of the helm as if the knight were in fact faceless broke the image. The color scheme came from some artist's fantasy as well, a deep crimson background embellished with stylized yellow and orange flames. Drake estimated she was slightly less then six feet tall, though it was hard to tell past the armor, and not very massively built, unlike Cold Iron. But then, she didn't rely on strength.

"You have what you promised?" Her voice echoed from the enclosed helmet. Drake was sure it was distorted.

"Of course," he answered. "The funds have been wired to your account, here is the telex confirmation."

He held up a printed sheet. A few moments later, she nodded and Drake stowed the paper in his coat. His eyes flicked reflexively to a battered cardboard box by the far edge of the table, seeming only a piece of forgotten trash. There was nothing there, but he hadn't really expected it to.  Now he had to play for time.

"I gather you have the merchandise?"

She held up a steel case the size of a shoebox. It was a standard shipping case. Obviously, the gauntlets didn't impair her dexterity much. She snapped open the latches with ease. Inside, the foam rubber had been cut out. Drake saw the plasma gun. He nodded and lifted a leather briefcase up to the work table.

"Just set it up there." He gestured to a corner of the table. "I need to explain some notations on the schematic and show you the prototype."

He opened the brief case and took out a sheaf of papers. "These are the basic designs. I want to make sure they are clear before you go."

Firebrand moved closer and looked down at the designs. Drake began a general description, while he watched the dusty cardboard box by the back of the table. He had set the box there this afternoon, and it was linked to a motion sensor on the roof. A few moments later, a dull red light flicked on in the box, hidden in the shadows unless you were standing at just the right spot. Drake nodded slightly, the other adversary was here just as expected.

      ################################

Direwolf moved lithely across the rooftop. His hyper acute senses probed the night, bringing back a tapestry of information. The taste of brackish water rising from the river, the scent of burnt timbers, the slight creak to the roof as it adjusted to his weight, and the murmur of faint conversation below.

"Looks like good information," Direwolf whispered to himself. He'd been chatting with Officer Parker not half an hour ago when Captain Wojoesky found him via the police radio. An anonymous tip had come in indicating that their metal melting thief could be found at the old Great Northeastern Fisheries warehouse right now but they had to move fast.  Joe might have otherwise ignored the call, but the tipster identified what was taken. There wasn't time for a warrant, much less to mobilize a full Patriot City Police Force Response Team. So Joe asked Direwolf to assess the situation and 'use his best judgment'.

"Right time to catch a thief." Direwolf saw two figures down there, just beyond the pool of moonlight filtering past the skylight. It was a safe bet the armored figure was the firebug.

"Incoming," he muttered as he leapt down through the skylight. Glass shattered around him, breaking the moonlight into a rain of silver kaleidoscopes and mirrors.

         ##################################

The sound of breaking glass overhead confirmed what Drake suspected; his plan had worked. One perk of running Delta Labs was that as the director, he had access to all the official reports filed on Metahuman incidents. They made interesting reading and gave him a lot of insight to these amazing individuals. For example, he knew that Direwolf had an unofficial relationship with Captain Wojoesky and that the good captain's command was responsible for investigating the theft from the Paladin Security Incorporated vault. It was simply a matter of working out the timing to assure the police couldn't respond, trusting that Direwolf would be reached, and then predicting the vigilante's 'angle of attack'. And Direwolf had a proclivity for coming through skylights.

"Must be the predatory instinct," Drake mused as he dropped to the floor and rolled under the table. "it makes him seek the high ground when hunting."

From his vantage point, Drake watched things unfold. Direwolf hit the floor with a shock that made the whole building quiver. Glass rained down around him. Firebrand lifted her arms and a wave of crimson beams lanced out. They seared through the space Direwolf had occupied, slagging a few of the lingering glass fragments as they fell. Direwolf had already leapt back up. The beams crossed beneath him. Direwolf landed to the side and more beams sought him. He rolled away. Firebrand spat something guttural in her native tongue. 
         ###############################

Direwolf rolled to his feet and leapt aside. His adversary was quicker than he expected. It was too bad the angle was wrong on his initial drop and he couldn't land atop the armored form. She had been too far from the skylight. Now, the barrage of beams kept him at bay. Trying to close through the maze of flickering lasers was apt to be suicidal. Skip's warning made a lot of sense. Jason saw the power of the lasers as they swept through the abandoned building, carving both steel girders and the timbered floor. Fires broke out as the transferred energy kindled wood and refuse. Acrid smoke billowed up.

One of the beams grazed his arm. The heavy leather coat offered no protection. Jason felt a moment of heat but no real pain. It was the lightest brush but he could tell several layers of his skin vaporized under the contact. A low snarl rumbled in his throat.

He grabbed a chunk of broken machinery and hurled it at the armored woman.  She ducked, blasting at it reflexively and carving of bits of smoking metal. He leapt towards her, and then had to duck aside as more lasers burned towards him.

"Lighting fast, "he muttered, "or maybe just light fast..."

She was circling away from her starting point, keeping up the barrage so he couldn't close. Direwolf realized she was heading for the exit. He had to think fast or he'd lose her. An idea blossomed. He reached into one of the pockets in his coat and pulled out four of the small grenades that Devon had created. A quick check confirmed they were the right ones. He pressed and twisted the detonators. Then he leapt high, tossing as he threw.

Red light stabbed out but before they found him, Direwolf was lost amid the rafters. The grenades landed and erupted in thick clouds of black smoke. Firebrand's lasers slashed through the smoke, but the particles deflected the energy and she was blind, striking out at random. Her first warning that something was wrong was the impact of something very large, and very heavy beside her.

"Lights out."

Direwolf's punch lifted her from her feet and propelled her into darkness.

By the sound of her impact, Direwolf knew his adversary wasn't getting up. He walked carefully out of the smoke and found her, limp beside a cross beam. He hoisted her over his shoulder and walked back towards where the fight began. He'd almost forgotten about the other person he'd seen. Presumably that was the buyer.

Back at the table, he found that some of the laser beams must have swept over the area. He spotted the smoldering remains of a leather briefcase as well as a cut open steel carrying case as well. But the tangle of electronic parts and the melted foam rubber, it looked like the plasma gun was ruined.

"Well, maybe Mentor can make a toaster out of the remains," Direwolf muttered. He left the pieces where they were; perhaps the crime lab team could find something amid them.

There was no sign of the would-be-buyer. Direwolf shrugged. One villain captured was better than none. With his captive over his shoulder, Direwolf sprang up through the shattered skylight. He headed over the roof tops towards the police station.

         #############################

Strands of Holst's "The Planets" sounded through Drake's study. He sat in a leather upholstered chair, a crystal tumbler of single malt scotch in his hand, the warm glow of a Tiffany floor lamp pooling around him. The plasma gun rested on the rosewood table beside him. Eyes shut, Drake sipped his drink and let the music flow through him. Things had gone rather well, he thought.

Once the battle between Direwolf and Firebrand moved away from the table, it had been a simple matter to switch the metal case and brief case with ones he had planted the afternoon before. He had cut them open with industrial lasers to simulate Firebrand's beams. The ruined the remains of a plasma weapon salvaged from the Domain battles of last year, some bunt paper and melted machine parts had been placed inside the substitute briefcase.

It was simple enough to predict what would happen. He knew that Firebrand was captured; Delta Labs had been informed of this from the Patriot City Police. As a Soviet national, she would be deported soon, he was sure though considering her defection, it was apt to be unpleasant. The money in her Swiss account should satisfy her and as far as she knew, the plasma gun was destroyed so he thought it was unlikely she would clamor for the servo motors. Drake could claim that he never got the prize so he doubted she would risk her reputation. If Drake publicized that she extorted more than the agreed to price, it would be that much harder for her to get contract work in the future.

"Yes, it all ended well," Drake murmured. The only thing he regretted was not watching the battle between Direwolf and Firebrand; he had been more interested in getting away before either of the combatants turned their attention his way. Still, he might have learned a great deal by observing. But there was no sense lamenting a missed opportunity.

Drake's eyes flew wide open. "Why not?"

The question hung in the air amid the notes. Drake studied the idea, engineering ways to set one metahuman against another in controlled and observable settings. He could even arrange specific challenges to answer a myriad of questions.  How would El Diablo deal with sudden lack of oxygen?  Was Cold Iron immune to powerful magnetic fields? Would Minute Man or Direwolf triumph in a one-on-one battle?  How long could Captain Kraken remain out of water?  Would a sudden cacophony of sound distract Alche-Miss? There were so many possibilities that could lead to so much useful data.

Drake pulled a legal pad and pencil from the magazine stand beside his chair. His eyes narrowed in focus, and he began jotting down ideas in a small, neat hand. Arrows connected linked ideas, forming a complex web. Drake murmured thoughtfully, checking his own logic as he underlined one idea and sipped his drink. Around him, the music swelled towards a crescendo.


The end

[BlueBard]

"Where There's Smoke..."
By Bluebard

The fire-fighter gingerly sifted through the smoldering ruins of the apartment building in the light of the dawning sun.  Since the ravaged structure was still 'hot', he was dressed in full gear: bright yellow-green fire-retardant overalls under a matching jacket, heavy black fire-retardant gloves and boots, bright yellow helmet, and a filter mask to filter out the smoke.  Nearby, other fire-fighters combed through the debris.

Suddenly his eyes caught sight of something he'd hoped not to find.  His heart sank.

"Firebrand!  Over here!" he shouted.

Ugh, why can't they use my real name? thought Chief Arson Investigator Rick "Firebrand" Brand.  Stupid media monikers.  He knew why, though.

Unlike the other fire-fighters on the scene, Brand was not dressed in traditional firefighting garb.  His form-fitting red jumpsuit was fire-retardant, but he had no need of insulation.  He ignored the smoke and the heat equally.  Invulnerability certainly had its' uses, however accidentally he'd come by it.

His internal musing was cut short when he saw what the fire-fighter was pointing at.  He groaned in sympathy, but the twisted, blackened figure partly visible under the smoldering debris didn't need his sympathy any longer.  Sympathy quickly gave way to burning anger and a scowl that darkened his face nearly as much as the soot from the extinguished blaze.

"I want this guy.  He's going down one way or the other."

# # #

Brand found himself standing in the Mayor's office a short time later.  He'd been peremptorily summoned away from the investigation site by "Hizzoner" Malcomb Talbot.  Talbot was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his mid 50's with a full head of wavy gray hair and a thin, well-groomed mustache.  Talbot's flunkies in expensive suits sat around the conference table staring at him, as if they could intimidate him into submission.  Brand understood the psychology of it and didn't like it, but he'd rather be dipped in raw sewage than let it show.

Brand didn't like Talbot politically, professionally, or personally.  He suspected that Talbot was more than a little corrupt.  But then Talbot didn't have the colorful nickname of 'Teflon' Talbot for nothing.  Numerous scandals had been defused, deflected, dismissed, and disclaimed and still Talbot ran Metro City by sheer force of personality.

"Your performance in this investigation is becoming a public relations issue, Brand," Mayor Talbot informed him grimly.  He sniffed deliberately and theatrically wrinkled his nose at the mild stink of soot coming off the arson investigator.  "I've got the media on my doorstep 24-7 wondering what I'm going to do about these arsons.  So now I'm asking you, what are you going to do about these arsons?  What answer can I give the media at the next press conference in ..." he glanced at the clock on the wall "... about a half an hour from now?"

"You can tell the media that we're on the case, Mr. Mayor.  These arsons are our top-priority."

"I'm sure the public will be relieved to know that these arsons are Firebrand's top-priority," Talbot replied mockingly.  "The media, however, smells blood in the water.  In fact, there are some pundits who are arguing rather convincingly that having such a high-profile figure as our Chief Arson Investigator actually attracts every pyromaniac on the East coast to our fair city.  I need something soon to feed the sharks with, Chief Brand.  I'd hate for you to be the chum."

I just bet that would ruin your day, Brand thought to himself sarcastically.

Later, as he drove back to the office, the Mayor's statement nagged at him.  Is this sicko torching Metro City because of me? he brooded.  Brand shook his head as if to shake off the thoughts haunting him.  This isn't productive.  I've got to concentrate on this case.

Brand began to review in his mind what he knew.  Five arsons.  One every three days, like clockwork.  Each of the fires had started sometime around midnight.  Each time, someone died.  The fires seemed to originate at the spot where the bodies were found, but no trace of any accelerant or incendiary compound had yet been detected.  The time and frequency suggested some sort of ritual killing, as the press had luridly reported.  The police were handling the investigation from their end to try to link a suspect and a motive to the deceased, but so far they had come up as empty as Brand.  They seemed to be completely random.  Brand hoped not, because if it were they might never get the killer.  There had to be something.  Sooner or later, the arsonist the media had dubbed 'Smoke' due to his ability to elude the authorities would make a mistake.

Brand decided to call Brent Gorman, the Chief Medical Examiner.  Brand knew that Gorman was as involved in this case as he was.  Maybe there would be something different about this one.

"Yes? This is Gorman, speaking."

"Brent, it's me.  Rick Brand."

"Oh, hello Brand.  I figured you'd be calling me pretty soon."

"Any results from the autopsy yet?"

"Pretty much the same as all the others.  Death by immolation.  Not much left, it was that hot.  Even the bones are carbonized.  I suspect if the fire hadn't been put out as quickly as it had been that the body would have been completely cremated."

"Yeah, lucky for us," Brand grumbled darkly.  "Anything else?"

"Well, just one thing.  We found a lump of melted red crystal fused to what was left of the right hand.  We've sent it off to the lab for analysis."

Brand was intrigued.  "Crystal?  Maybe a ring?"

"I doubt it.  Awfully big rock for a ring.  Pendant, maybe.  From the position I'd say the victim was holding it at the time of death."

"Thanks, Brent.  That's something anyway.  I owe you one."

"Just one?" Gorman chuckled.

Brand drove to the site of the previous arson.  Maybe there was another crystal that we missed, he thought to himself.  The blackened, debris-covered foundation was all that was left of the house that once stood here.  The charred remains of the house had fallen into the basement, where the fire had started.  Yellow crime scene tape still surrounded the premises.  Brand merely ducked under it.

The debris filling the basement had already been disturbed when they'd excavated the body, so Brand had no real trouble climbing down.  He grabbed a fire-eaten beam and heaved it out of the pit.  He was no Captain Ultimate, but the enhanced strength of his altered physiology was more than equal to the task of moving heavy debris without mechanical assistance.  He'd lifted far heavier things than this before.

Brand worked at clearing debris from the ravaged site the entire day, not stopping to eat or drink despite the heavy work and the heat of the sun.  He'd only stopped long enough to show his badge to a pair of patrolmen coming to investigate why someone was disturbing a crime scene.  Brand was black with soot.  He worked harder as the sun began to fall in the afternoon sky, hoping to find what he was looking for while there was still light enough to find it.  He only had two and a half days to prevent the next arson.  He was down to sifting rubble through his fingers.

Suddenly, he felt a particularly smooth bit of rubble buried in the char.  It was oblong, with molten edges that suggested a prism shape.  Soot-blackened fingers wiped at the grime.  It glinted red in the waning sunlight.

"Eureka," he grinned.

# # #

Brand had returned home to shower and change into clean clothes and then sat down at his home computer to do research.  The deep red crystal, now wiped clean of soot, sat beside his keyboard.

"Gotta love Google," he smiled, and dialed Gorman on his cell phone.

"Gorman here.  Is this the Mayors' office calling for another update, a reporter, or that pesky Firebrand guy?"

"You really ought to look into Caller ID sometime," Brand said.

"Nah.  I never want to talk to anyone anyway.  Hey, Brand; I have an update for you.  That crystal we found?  It's ..."

"Zircon," Brand finished.  "It's a volcanic crystal."

"Now how did you know that?" Gorman wondered.

"It's my super vision," Brand replied.

"You don't have super vision.  Um, do you?"

"No," Brand laughed.  "I'm earning my reputation as an outstanding arson investigator.  I guessed zircon, but wasn't totally sure until you confirmed it for me.  I'm not a mineralogist."

"So you've figured it all out, have you?"

"Not really.  I've got a lot more investigative Googling to do."

"Google-what?" Gorman asked in puzzlement.

"For a highly skilled forensic examiner, you're awfully backward, Brent."

Brand disconnected and closed the cellphone with a snap.  He sat and thought a moment.

Time to talk to another expert, Brand told himself.

# # #

Late that evening Brand found himself in a darkened bar known as 'The Darklife Café' that catered to the 'Goth-lite' crowd.  Everyone was dressed in black, body-piercings and dark makeup were common among the clientele, and a few wore corpse-paint.  Brand knew that nearly all of them were posers.  The décor tended toward what Brand thought of as 'Ghetto-Occult'; posters for various Goth and Heavy Metal bands decorated the black walls along with a movie poster for 'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone' and there were enough candles burning all over the place to constitute a considerable fire hazard.

"Slumming again, Rick?" a young woman's voice asked from behind him in a sultry tone that left his ears burning.

"Hi, Delilah," Brand smiled as he turned around.  Delilah was a short, slightly chubby brunette with long dark eyelashes, pale skin, and long, straight hair that fell to her waist.  She wore a tight black knee-length dress that hugged her hips and a neckline that plunged low enough to make Elvira blush.  Her shockingly red lipstick emphasized the playful smile on her face.  Delilah was the owner of the Darklife Café, among other things.

"Hello yourself, Stranger.  How come I only see you when you want something?" she pouted theatrically.  Before Brand could open his mouth to reply, she held up a hand and said, "I know, this is about those arsons.  You have a crystal you want to show me.  You're thinking it might be connected with some kind of ritual."

"Uh, yeah.  Have I ever told you how much that whole clairvoyance thing creeps me out?"

"It's part of my charm, Hot-Stuff," she purred with a smile.  "So let me see this thing."

"Let's find a quiet table," Brand said.  He led her to a candlelit table in the back and held her chair for her as she sat down.  He took his own seat, then pulled the crystal out of his pocket and slid it across the table.

"Ugh," Delilah's face twisted in distaste.  "I don't even have to touch it to feel the bad vibes coming off it.  You found it at the site of one of the arsons, right?  Somebody died, I know."

"Tell me what's not in the papers, Delilah," Brand urged.  "I've got to find out who's responsible and how they're doing this."

"Well, I don't usually do freebies, but for you..."  Delilah held her hands over the crystal as if warming herself.  After a few moments she looked up at Brand.  "I can tell you that this has nothing to do with magic.  I feel a person behind this... a very cold person with a forceful personality.  He's..."  Delilah's eyes widened in shock and she shoved herself away from the table as a three-foot gout of flame shot up from the candle and set the tabletop on fire.

Brand was instantly out of his chair and swept out his hand to grab a pitcher of water off a nearby table to douse the flames.  He grabbed another pitcher full of beer, ignoring the protests of the patrons at that table, and poured that on as well for good measure.

"What was that?!" he exclaimed, helping Delilah back onto her feet.  He ignored the frightened stares of the people in the bar and focused on Delilah.

Delilah pursed her lips in anger.  "Another psychic.  He felt me and reacted.  He's using the crystals as a focus for a pyrokinetic talent.  If I hadn't sensed him I might have gotten burned myself.  The creep."

"But why didn't he just set the whole friggin' bar on fire?  And why this ritualistic baloney of starting fires at midnight every third day if he's a pyrokinetic?"

"Whoever this is has a lot of flash, but no depth," Delilah frowned.  "He's using the crystals to store up psychic energy.  That takes time, Handsome.  He doesn't have the oomph to pull this kind of thing off every day, and this lump of rock has been out of his possession for awhile and isn't perfectly formed anymore.  But he felt me snooping and panicked, so he tried it anyway.  The ritual aspect is probably just to throw people off.  I hope he gave himself a stroke pulling that stunt."  She pointed at the crystal lying on the fire-blackened tabletop.  "You'd better get that thing out of here, though, before he homes in on this place.  I'm pretty sure I don't have a rider on my insurance policy against paranormally-caused fires."

"Gotcha.  Sorry about this, Dee," Brand apologized.

"Hey, you didn't know.  But bust this jerk good for me, huh?"

"I would," Brand replied with a sour look on his face, "but how do I find him?"

Delilah stepped up close and playfully ran a finger down his chest.  "Follow the crystals, Hon; He's not getting these things at Wal-Mart."  Her expression became serious.  "One more thing, Brand; he won't stop until he's gotten what he wants.  I only wish I could tell you who's next."

# # #

Brand spent most of the following day at his desk at the main fire station, searching the Internet and making phone calls.

"Hello," he spoke into the receiver, "My name is Chief Fire Inspector Brand.  I understand your company does a lot of business importing gemstones and I was hoping to ask a few questions.  You handle zircon, right?  Can you tell me if anyone has made any unusual purchases of zircon recently?  Yes, I can appreciate that your customer database is very confidential, but this involves an arson case I'm working on, and – Yes, I'm that Inspector Brand.  Oh?  Well, I guess it isn't often a Fire Inspector has fans.  Um, my autograph?" Brand grimaced.  "Uh, huh.  I think I could arrange that, but you understand I really need to wrap up this investigation.  That list of customers would be really, really helpful if you could – Oh, yeah, a fax would be just fine.  If you'll give me an address, I'd be glad to send you my autograph."  Brand scribbled the name and address down on a yellow sticky note.  "Thank you very, very much, Miss Cale.  Ah, um, okay – Angela.  Girlfriend?  No, I – Uh, excuse me Miss – I mean, Angela – I mean I've got to go.  Bye!"

Brand studiously ignored the sniggering chuckles of his fellow fire inspectors who'd been listening to his side of the exchange from their nearby desks.  "I just hope she doesn't forget to send that fax!"

# # #

Later that evening, His Honor Mayor Malcomb Talbot was dining at a very, very expensive restaurant.  "Happy Birthday, Darling," he smiled charmingly at his wife Marne, an attractive blond woman in her early 40's.  He produced a small wrapped box with a flourish and placed it on the white linen tablecloth.

"Oh, Mal!  You shouldn't have!"  She picked up the present and unwrapped it.  Opening the box, she gasped at the sight of a gold pendant with a large prism-cut red gemstone.  "It matches my dress perfectly!" she gushed.  "A ruby?!"

Talbot laughed.  "Not quite, dear.  My salary isn't quite that generous."

"Zircon, isn't it?" a voice from behind Talbot startled him.  He quickly turned to see who it was, though he was pretty sure he recognized the voice.

"Brand!  What are you doing here?  Aren't you supposed to be out doing something about that blasted arsonist?  What's the meaning of interrupting my wife's birthday celebration?" he blustered.

"Oh, just," Brand paused to snatch the box away from Mrs. Talbot, "making sure she's around to celebrate her next one."

Mrs. Talbot gasped, her hand fluttering up to her chest nervously.  "What is he talking about, Mal?"

"Your secretary told me where I could find you," Brand continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted.  He continued to hold the jewelry box in his hand.

"I'll have her fired!" Mayor Talbot snarled.

"Oh, I just bet you would," Brand replied, returning Talbot's glare with a hard gaze.  "You've gotten pretty good at firing things, haven't you?  Like that poor man a couple of days ago.  How long have you known you were a pyrokinetic?"

"What?!" Talbot roared.  "What kind of slander is this?"

"You're a good actor, Talbot, but it won't wash.  I've got all the evidence I need to make sure you never get re-elected even if I can't put together enough to put you behind bars."  Brand nodded at Mrs. Talbot.  "That insurance policy you took out on your wife last week would have been a real boost to next year's reelection fund, wouldn't it?  Not to mention the sympathy vote for the poor widower."

"Malcomb!" Mrs. Talbot cried.

"There's no way you have any such evidence, Brand!  I'll have you fired for this!  You'll never work in this city again!"

Brand held up a piece of paper in his other hand.  "Bill of sale.  Ten specially crafted zircon pendants, ordered by you.  Identical to ones found at the scene of each of the arsons.  Mrs. Talbot was to be number six, right?  Then four more unsolvable arsons to cover your tracks and afterward no more 'Smoke'."

"Malcomb!  How could you?" Mrs. Talbot sobbed.

Talbot glared at Brand with raw hatred.  The paper in Brand's hand instantly caught fire and burned to ashes in a moment.  Brand ignored it.

"Not gonna help you, Mr. Mayor," Brand responded calmly.  "That was just a copy.  I've got another back at my desk."

"Burn in Hell, Brand!" Talbot screamed.  The jewelry box in Brand's left hand caught fire as the stone inside began to burn its' way out.  Brand immediately thrust the burning box into a handy bucket of ice water he'd appropriated for the purpose.

"That was pretty weak.  What's the matter, Talbot?  Your little candle trick the other day wear you out?"  Brand's fist shot forward and grabbed Talbot by his tie.  He lifted Talbot up onto his tiptoes.  "Try that again and you'll find out how well you can concentrate on flame with your feet dangling six inches off the floor."

"You won't get away with this, Brand!" Mayor Talbot blustered, but fear was showing in his eyes for the first time.

Brand chuckled.  "Yeah?  And how are you going to spin fifty people in a ritzy restaurant watching you set stuff on fire?"  Brand motioned and four policemen stepped forward, one of them carrying a high-tech helmet.  "Here you go, boys.  Put the Psi-suppressor on him and have him tested for the psi-gene."

Brand watched as Talbot was led away in handcuffs, breathing threats all the while as the shocked patrons of the restaurant looked on.

"Poof," Brand murmured.  "One career in politics up in Smoke."

[Premonitioner]

I tried something new with this story. A darker kind of style which I don't usually write. Hopefully it leaves a good impression...and just in case you don't want to read a lot of text on the forum's background, you can find the word-esque version here

"The Origin of Firebrand"

    It's kind of funny, you know? How all those people say, "This won't ever happen to me," and then the most gruesome thing ever happens or someone they care about falls sick or ill. Life ain't nothing but a bunch of drawn out games and I'm becoming an unwilling player. I watched my wife fall stricken with an incurable disease. I remembered the day clearly. It was a sunny Monday eve and my wife was out picking flowers. I remembered the smell of her hair as it sat gently on her shoulders, the color of her rosy cheeks as they blushed in the chilled winds, and the look of her relaxed body in that newly bought sundress. God, how beautiful she was.

     "She'll never awaken. She's as good as dead, sir. Pull the plug. You must if you are truly sane," spoke the stern voice of her doctor. His pale wrinkled skin contrasted greatly with the smooth skin of my wife even when she was a lifeless corpse. His face was forgettable to me because, well, he was just a faceless enemy out to ruin my life.

    "She'll come through," I remembered that a single tear rolled down my face like dew running off the tip of a leaf, "I believe in her. She loves me too much to cause me anymore pain."

    Weeks later, my wife remained in her lifeless state. I stood by her side always praying for the slightest miracle to bring her back to me even for a minute. A minute would be like a lifetime if only I could see her smile again. The next day someone knocked at the door. I was a little weary to let anyone in to see her or me in our current state. I had already turned away my family, but fate deemed it necessary for me to let this person in. A person, I later learned, who would lead me on a quest to find a mystical item. An item that was capable of curing any disease that was known to man and more. The firebrand, the man had called it, a small reddish-yellow flower located in a volcano in northern Hawaii. That's where I had to go to save my wife and that brings us up to date. I, Marshal Thorton, would risk everything I had---my sanity, my life, even my family---to save the one person in the world who saw me for who I truly was---a man with a sordid past who'd hurt many people, but was willing to make amends. That woman saw the real me...the good me...and I planned to give her a second chance at life. May God help us all.

########

    "What are you doing here," I questioned, gripping my wife's cold hand, "no one is allowed! No one! Get out!"

    The shakiness of my voice was astounding. I had never been so hurt, so scared to lose someone I loved, but the shapeless figure stood at the door harmlessly. He spoke to me. He commented about things and circumstances no one had ever known about me. Things no one should have known about me. He grabbed my interest just by the sheer intensity of his mysteriously cold voice. He started my adventure before I ever knew what it was.

    "How do you know this about me? How could you? My wife doesn't even know these things. Are you spying on us?" the questions continued to pour from my mouth like soup from a can. I needed to know everything. I needed to know why this thing chose me. Why did it have an interest in me? I'd never really know.

    The figure only let me know what it wanted me to know, never letting on too much or too little. He controlled the game and that was something I was not accustomed to at all. He pulled me along telling me little stories about the strangest things and then he mentioned it. The mythological firebrand stored in the heart of Hawaii. The heart, as it turned out, was a volcano and that volcano happened to be active. 

    "Then I must go. If this thing will save her...I'll do it," I whispered grasping her cold hands. I let go with a small sigh and walked toward the figure with short breaths. The aura around him was so remarkably cold. His cloak wrapped around me and lulled me into a false sleep. I felt my body being pulled in several different directions as the room around me became hazy. My ears popped, my tongue was dry, and the taste of hot salty sand resonated in my mouth. I was in Hawaii and the figure was gone. That didn't matter; I had a mission to take care of and a life to save.

####

    Hawaii was a horrible place for me to be in at that moment. I couldn't bear to be away from my wife for longer than a few minutes. The sun bore down on my back like a lamp in an incubator. Sweat poured from my frizzled hair and dripped down my neck like it was a waterfall. My shirt stuck to my back and I began to feel a bit itchy. A small price to pay for the love of such a pure woman and I'd be willing to put up with much more for her.

I quickly and silently made my way towards the volcano, ignoring all those I passed along the way. There was a faint smell of cooked meat and fruit in the air. It made my stomach growl and I drooled like an animal. I had to keep going because I was the only one capable of saving my wife. Nothing must detour me from my mission.

    "How do I get there?" I recalled asking the figure, "How do I find the firebrand?"

    I never got an answer and I guess he wanted me to find it without any help at all. The figure had already given me all the information I really needed and the rest was up to me. If I failed, it was my fault alone for not being worthy or good enough. I was willing to accept that.

    I was at the base of the mountain and fear struck my heart. I had no idea how I would make it into such a monstrosity. How was I to climb it? I had no rope or any form of support to sustain my ascent up such a steep slope. As I eyed the volcano, a bunch of grooves caught my attention. Fate was on my side for once.

I started up the volcano with little thought of my own safety. My nails dug into the hardened dirt and I forced myself to go further and further. Halfway up, my body was numb, bruised, and barely able to go on much further. Dirt clung to my face; my nails were non-existent, my fingers bled, and my legs felt like two heavy sacks of potatoes.

    My heart was pounding as if it was going to burst through my rib cage. Thump, thump, thump! My eyes began to water as the pain became unbearable. My head ached and the sound kept getting louder and louder. Thump, thump, thump! I barely had the energy to go on and I tried to embrace the wall. I turned my head and rested my right ear on the base of the volcano. Thump, thump, thump!

    "I'm going to die here," I thought to myself, "I won't make it."

    The thumping got louder and seemed to be closer to me. In fact, there seemed to be several thumps. That couldn't be my heart no matter how exhausted and scared I was. I turned my head to look upwards and short silent shrieks escaped from the recesses of my throat. Small boulders were heading for me. I clung to the mountain hoping the boulders would bounce pass me. I held on for dear life and I prayed. My eyes were closed and all I could hear was "Thump, thump, thump!"

    My breathing became heavy and I hugged onto the mountain as if I were a baby clinging onto its mother. Tears escaped from my eyes and the thumping continued. My feet dug as deep as they could into the mountain with renewed energy and all I could hear was "Thump, thump, thump!"  My body sweated as if my tears weren't enough to convey my fear. My hands began to shake and I knew my end was near. As I waited like a hunted deer, all I could hear was "Thump, thump, thump!"

    The thumping then stopped and my body began to shake. I slowly opened my eyes to see what had happened. The grooves were altered, destroyed, and most became useless which made my path to so much harder to follow, but I had survived as the rocks had nearly missed hitting me. Fate wanted me to live even if I had become some type of amusement to the gods. I reached up further fingering the next groove and a burst of pain shot through my right shoulder. I was hit after all and very hard by the amount of blood that seeped through my shirt. I might not survive after all.

####

          I became a little dizzy as I looked around my surroundings. In my haziness, I noticed a mysterious black object floating just over the tip of the volcano. In an instant, it was gone leaving me to believe it was only a black mental spot from my own exhaustion. The blood continued to seep through my shirt and some had even found its way down onto my stomach. I didn't have much time to waste because my body was severely lacking in reserved energy and every little movement resulted in several bursts of pain.

          I placed my right hand back into its previous groove and used my left to climb upwards. The pain was immense and every groove required the utmost concentration. By the time I reached the top of the volcano, a small blood trail marked my progression and I smelled of death.

          "I'm doing this for you, Laura. All of this," I pulled myself onto the sulfurous smelling rim of the volcano and a smile formed on my face, "I'm doing for you."

          As I sat on the rim catching my breath, I began to fiddle with my wound. The smallest touch seemed to spark a million nerves to life. The bleeding had stopped, but that was the least of my problems. I still had to get into the volcano and find the flower that would make my pain worth it.

          I crawled to the edge of the rim and looked into the heart of the volcano. Nothing caught my attention, but the heat the inner cave emitted was almost unbearable. If this had been normal circumstances, I would have called for help and gotten off the volcano in a flash. Heck, under normal conditions, you'd never find me up on a volcano in the first place. Without a second to think, I flipped myself over the ledge.

          "Idiot!" the voice in my head screamed out. "What the hell were you thinking?! Why would you do this? You've lost it! How are you going to save anybody by killing yourself? IDIOT!

          My body ripped through the heat and the air of the volcano like it was soft butter. I was falling and there was nothing to stop my descent. I had no idea why I did something so stupid, but in my mind, I imagined myself being pushed by some skeletal beast. Was I imagining that? Probably, but it made me feel better...for a second at least.

          The lava got closer and closer and I felt my final fate rasping away my last moments of consciousness. My head felt light and I could no longer control my body. The last sight I saw was a small flower surrounded by rocks and skulls and I knew then that my journey was for nothing. I was just going to become another statistic trying to take a flower from its eternal resting place. A flower that had survived who knows how long in a volcano marked with the signal of Death. A flower that was also a minion of the Grim Reaper disguised in a natural form. I learned all of this too late because in an instant, I was splashing into lava and my body was burning away. Marshal Thorton was no more and my journey was over.

####

          Darkness surrounded me and I could feel the cold ominous wind blow past me like a spirit fleeing from life. I couldn't hear anything, but I imagined harps playing beautiful music before me. I envisioned myself lying in a field surrounded by yellow flowers. In front of me was the cruel, cruel Firebrand bathing in the light from the sun. In my dreams, I could touch it, but in reality, it was far from my grasp.

          "Awaken mortal," spoke an eerily dead voice, "awaken and claim your prize."

          My eyes popped opened at the sound of his voice. My vision was blurry, but I could easily make out that the black figure was standing before me. He was holding something. Something that was small and glittered like a crystal. I weakly got onto my feet and stared at the hooded-creature.

          "You've failed, mortal. You didn't retrieve the sacred Firebrand! Now," the figure pointed a bony skeletal finger at Laura, "she comes with me!"

          "What?!" My voice was shaky and I was pointing towards the flower, "I did everything! I died to save her! You bas---"

          "Your death is not my concern. The deal was, you get the firebrand, and I save your pathetic wife. You failed. You failed her and yourself."

          Anger consumed my heart. I never held so much hatred for anything or any person in my life. I clenched my hands into a tight fist. I began to grit my teeth and my eyes were bloodshot red.

          "Is this some type of game to you?! Take me! Let her live!"

          "That's not acceptable. You are lucky, mortal, even to be in my presence! You shall remain alive and your wife's spirit shall follow me."

          "You used me," I shouted lunging at the figure like a ferocious beast, "you used me for entertainment! You rigged the game and that's not fair! That's not cool! It's not ok!"

          The figure refused to move or even to react. My fist rammed into the creature's face and his hood fell off revealing a most disturbing image. It was a skull with maggots crawling in and out of every hole. Worms made a home on the top of his head and a rat was lodged in his eye socket.

          "You're disgusting! Foul! Stupid! You're every little thing I hate! You made a game out of my life and for that," I took a deep bitter breath; "I'll make you suffer. You'll pay! Not even Death and his bitterness shall stop me from saving Laura! Not even Hell itself!"

          "Big words, mortal, big words indeed." The hood magically covered the skull's head again, shrouding him in mystery and making him seem even scarier than before, "But even Death gets bored of the same routine. I know what you're capable of, human, and you scare me not! I chose you for my game because I knew you'd fail! You never think and nothing gets in your way. Well human," Death dropped the Firebrand and stomped on it, "your reign is over and Death has your number."

          I was motionless but anger still consumed every fiber of my being. I couldn't accept that I had lost. I gave everything...everything I had to save Laura but it wasn't enough. I glared at Death like a wolf would glare at its prey. I was hungry, but not for meat, but for pure revenge. Then something crossed my mind: What if the Firebrand still had its power? What if it could still save her? All I had to do was retrieve it and figure out how to use it. First...first Death had to be beaten. He had to be temporarily taken out of the picture and I was the man to do it.

####

[Premonitioner]

I could see him standing there. He was laughing at me. He didn't make a sound but I could hear every small noise in my head. He made a joke of me. I had become a living joke for his own amusement because of my ignorance, my stupidity, and my failure at retrieving a stupid flower to save an innocent person's life. He was laughing at everything I had done to spare my wife the misery she was trapped in, so I sprung! I sprung at this thing with such intensity that I hoped I would rip off his face! I sprung with such a force that I might as well be a speeding bullet. The figure dodged and I leapt again, clawing like a wild man! He wouldn't stay still and I was getting angry. Beyond angry, I was furious. Every punch landed on dead air. Every kick hurt nothing but the stillness of the room. Every attack, every movement, every attempt did nothing. I was a raging lunatic attacking a beast capable of sliding, dodging, jumping over, and out-speeding everything I threw at him. Then I fell and the room began to spin. Death stood there laughing while I passed out. Soon, there was a light and I was bathing in it while a surge of energy rushed through me like fire. A new man was being born. A strong man that was capable of doing the impossible. This man, who was once Marshal Thornton, was a hero that was capable of dealing with Death and all his tricks. I had become a person capable of manipulating the very element of fire and life. My old identity burned away and all that was left was a superhero known only as..."Firebrand".

I took to my feet and lunged through the air. My right hand shot out towards my opponent and ripped off its hood in an instant. My left hand found a home in the rat's nest and a small spark lit up the whole skull for a moment or two. Death stumbled backward and gave me the brief satisfaction of actually causing some type of damage.

"Marshal is gone and only I remain." I began to rant while snapping my fingers. A small flame danced gently across my fingertips, "The spark of life can even out last even the coldest touch, Death. I am Firebrand, an enemy you created yourself. Today will be a victory for me!"

Death seemed frozen and a smile formed on my face. I knew then that even Death was afraid of something. It had lost its hold on me and I now held the upper hand. I planned to exploit it to the best of my ability.

The door swung open behind me and a nurse rushed in to see what was going on in the room. I turned quickly to face her and found myself covered in the darkness of the cloak the reaper wore. Not a moment passed before I found myself on the volcano where my adventure began. This, I decided, would be where our final showdown would take place.

I flew at Death like a stream of fire ready to burn down anything in my path. The Reaper floated carelessly out of danger and struck me to the ground. His scythe, which formed out of thin air, found a mark in the volcano just a few inches from my right cheek. I pushed myself upwards, using a jet stream of fire as cover, and blasted several jimmies of flame at my target. Death simply phased through every attack as if they were nothing but hot air.

Before I could react, Death had me by the throat. The stench of his breath was unbearable and I began to feel nauseas. The butt of his scythe was buried deep in my gut and I could feel a cool wave of energy flowing from the tip into my body. I was repelled backwards into the innards of the volcano smashing forcibly into its side and leaving a deep outline of my figure.

I peeled myself from the volcano wall and rushed back into action. I fired several more jimmies of fire before giving up on them completely. Death anticipated each attack I threw at it and it was effectively countering them with very little effort. Although I was capable of hurting it, I still felt useless against it.

"Even with the Firebrand's powers," began Death swinging his metal scythe towards my head, "I am your superior and Laura now belongs to me!"

"NEVER! She'll never belong to you!"

His threats to take Laura spirit with him re-energized me and I found a newly formed confidence in myself. Even though I had only had these powers for minutes, I felt capable of defeating my nemesis. My hands were covered in dark red flames and my eyes were nothing but spiritual energy. Every part of me seemed different as if it was contributing energy into a final attack.

"I hope you burn," I shouted while waving my hands in a circular motion, "because I've had enough. Life and Death shouldn't be a game!"

A powerful ball of energy formed before me and sliced through the air homing in on the Reaper. The Reaper grinned and pointed his scythe at the fireball, which was as large as a miniature sun and hotter than 600 Kelvin in temperature, and cut through it without even damaging himself or his weapon. The ball split in two and literally rained hell on the village below. My heart broke in two and then I felt myself falling. All of my energy was wasted and I was out of the game and to make matters worse, Death was still out to get me.

Death grabbed me by the arm and hung me over the village so I was forced to watch the carnage I created. Burning rain flashed pass my eyes and set everything it touched ablaze. I felt tears welling up in the duct of my eyes, but I couldn't turn away. I was too weak...too tired.

Moments later I felt the cold scythe smash into my back. I fell towards the earth below before I felt another sharp pain resonating from my legs. Suddenly, I found myself being spun in circles before I was released and found a home deeply embedded in a patch of dirt surrounded by burning flowers and soot. I had truly failed even with the Firebrand's power. Everything was hopeless...or was it?

####

          Death stood over me and time seemed to have frozen in its place. Seconds later, the rain of fire ceased to exist and the damage I had done was reversed. I found myself lying on the floor of a white room looking out on the village in Hawaii. With a small amount of effort, I was able to force myself to look around and noticed that I was once again in the hospital room. The Firebrand was just a few feet in front of me still in its crushed state. I got onto my feet and snapped my fingers. Not a single spark of flame formed.

          I stared at Death questioningly wondering what type of game it was playing now. The hood remained off its head and there were signs of its left eye being slightly singed. I reached out for the Firebrand, but Death simply pushed me away with its scythe.

          "Marshal Thornton, you still live. It was not in my plans to fight you and those people are not meant to die! You have stolen the Firebrand's power and I cannot take that away from you! I chose you for this game and you have altered the rules!"

          I stared in disbelief not believing a word I was hearing. I had altered the rules? What could that possibly mean? I pointed at Laura and began to speak:

          "What about Laura? What about my wife? You can't take her from me!"

          "Only you can save her, but consider this my last gift. Give up something you love and she may continue on in your place."

          "I have to lose my life to save hers?" I questioned. It seemed like such a steep price. Something I had never considered giving up to save someone else.

          "Your life as a human for hers," responded Death with that eerie grin only a skeleton could perform, "that's the only way."

          "Then let her live and take me please. Just allow me a moment. A moment to let her know I gave it my all to save her."

          "No," rang the voice I had grown to hate but now was at the mercy of, "that is not acceptable!"

          With a swing of his scythe, the room went black and I could see the twinkling of the stars from inside that very room. It's as if the walls themselves had become a nexus into the galaxy. One star began to outshine the others and its faint light covered my wife. Her face blushed and her eyes slowly opened to reveal her hazel brown eyes. I rushed to her side and grabbed onto her hand. A tear fell from my cheek onto her soft flesh.

          "Marshal," she whispered, "is that you?"

          Before I could respond, the star began to flicker before it finally faded out of existence. A red star emerged from the debris, exploded from the wall, and struck my heart. A small fiery tattoo formed on my chest, first resembling the Firebrand flower, and then taking on a new form entirely its own. My body burned away leaving only a small puff of red sparkles to fall upon my wife's face completely healing her of her illness. Death remained in the room but was unseen by human eyes. The room slowly began to take on its normal form as the stars began to give way to old white painted walls. The nurse was at my wife's side grasping her hand and shouting, "It's a miracle! It's a miracle!"

          "That is your gift, Marshal, but your job is not done. For your sins and deeds, you have been granted an eternal job. I am the bringer of death and you can heal the sick. The Firebrand was a flower that no man could pick. Many have tried, but all have failed. Only you can use the power to fight off those who wail. With your powers, however, darkness will seep and each victory you gain will cause someone to weep. Your power to heal will come at a cost. Something they love will rescue the lost. The wielder of flame, the spark of life you've become. A rival to me, a savior to all."

          The words hit me like darts, quickly and sharp, but I now had an eternal mission that I had to accept. An odd gust of wind swept through the room carrying the remains of the flower out of a nearby window. The remnants slowly began to take on the form of a human body only magically and spiritually enhanced. This body would become my vessel. A shell for the spirit of a man who only wanted to make up for his past sins. A shell that forever will be known as...Firebrand.

[BlueBard]

Prem,

Grim, yes.  And not entirely to my taste.  But you write with passion and flair.  I'd say it's a very worthy entry, in my opinion.  Quite possibly the best story so far, in more than one way.

I'll not say much more so as not to influence the judging, but you should post stories here more often.

DW,

Nice work, as usual. :)  A well-thought out and detailed story.  Just one thing bothers me...

[spoiler]If Direwolf had ever encountered Drake before, and the odds are pretty high depending at what point the story falls in his history, wouldn't his sniffer have picked up his scent and recognized it?  I assume Drake would have taken necessary precautions, but that isn't revealed to the reader.  Also, it's not like Direwolf to shrug and walk away without even trying to track down the other person.  You've consistently portrayed him as tenacious and canny.[/spoiler]

[DireWolf]

Good points, BB, and ones that I missed. Just goes to show that good editing allways helps. Viking helped me spot some flaws but that one got passed us.

:direwolf

[Viking]

Clearly, DW's story needed an interruption mid-way for a commercial break:

Do you suffer from pesky heroes always catching up with you after you've gone to such pains to cover your tracks?  Are self-styled do-gooders always disrupting your latest nefarious plan, despite all attempts at secrecy?  Does the fear of being apprehended cause you to break out in unsightly and odiferous perspiration?

Well, fear no more!  Here at Delta Labs, we've perfected FIREBRAND - the latest in villainous anti-perspirants!

FIREBRAND briefly elevates the temperature of the outermost cellular layer of skin to 500 degrees Kelvin, causing it to painlessly and spontaneously evaporate.  This leaves your body clean and odorless as you enact your evil schemes.

Not only will you escape detection by the most sensitive nose of a heroic detective, but you'll also be the envy of your villainous cohorts as you remain calm and odor-free in the tensest of situations!

FIREBRAND - The choice of Evil Geniuses everywhere, for a better tomorrow!

[Ajax]

Being a Jackass Works
-------

People walked to and fro through the city, grass beneath their feet, avoiding the fissures and crags that polluted the landscape. Pavement long since stripped from the ground ever since it got out concrete made excellent fuel for their matter compilers. The buildings stretched into the sky like dead fingers grasping for something just out of reach.

A zeppelin of such girth and extravagance, it practically screamed 'rich and bored', loomed above the city.  The public transport planes littered the skies as they went about their daily routines. Unbeknownst to them, the zeppelin Dionysus was being robbed.

Physical crime will never go out of style, even in the digital age where paper and coin had been retired. For a robber can always take what you bought with the 1's and 0's in your bank account. These robbers were members of a gang of air pirates known simply as the 'Pink Flamingos'. It was less a creative decision and more a practical one that spawned this unusual name. They bought all their planes from the long since defunct Flamingo Airlines and instead of spending cash on useless ascetics just went with the theme.

The masked robbers boarded the blimp in midair and made short work of herding everyone into the central hall. Yes hall. The blimp wasn't really a blimp. It's designed to look like one and moved about as fast as one but was really just a giant dining hall with a jet engine attached to it. There is no practical need for such a beast, which explained its popularity among those who could afford it.

The hall had three suspended chandeliers spaced evenly lengthwise and had crimson silk wallpaper. Paintings, mostly classical, were hanged sporadically along the walls but the robbers had bundled them together and left them on the floor. The large dining table, that seemed to stretch into infinity, had a buffet of foods from around the world. At the end of the table, the boss, known simply as Dan, gorged himself while his three lackeys collected the valuables.

"Man you guys must be made to afford this. I mean mahogany floors, Christ how many trees you think it takes to make this tinderbox? No matter, the food is good and in a few moments we will be gone from your lives. I doubt you will miss much of what were taking and please don't pretend otherwise. It's insulting to you, it's insulting to me, and most of all it just makes things awkward."

Dan took a bite of the veal and surveyed the scene, making sure the hostages didn't try anything. They didn't get this rich being honest and upstanding. They're sneaky backstabbers who would sooner infect you with Ebola than shake your hand.

It's doubtful a single move inside the hall went unnoticed, but every ship has nooks and crannies. Before the Flamingos could herd everyone, a crewmember managed to hide his son in a hidden compartment with a cell phone. Several minutes later, the son had just finished navigating the maze of prerecorded messages that made up the city's emergency system, or more specifically 911.

The voice on the phone reassured him that his complaint had been sent to the proper place where it will be assessed by a city official who would determine the urgency of the situation.

Moments later, when the official realized it was the rich who were in need, a call was made to Captain Keri Andrew of the City Police Department.

Ever since the incident where she cursed out the Mayor for calling the CPD to get the family cat out of the tree, new recruits have been employed to answer her phones. This served as a form of weeding out of the undesirable. Since it was guaranteed they would bring a message to her, whether legitimate or not, that would send her off on a tirade. If the recruit lasted long enough to be rotated into the field, than he earned his spot on the force. If not, that was one less person who would crack from the daily verbal abuse cops often received.

So when the recruit delivered the message that a top priority case had been given to the department, he braced himself for the worst. After knocking twice, he waited for her to recognize his presence then opened the door.

"Cap. Andrews. The 'Pink Flamingos' are robbing the luxury zeppelin 'Dionysius' and they want you to head up the task force. "

She stood up from her desk and stared directly at the recruit until he was visibly shaking. For an instant, a satisfied smile spread across her face, than was instantly replaced by her usual scowl. She was a petite, five foot nothing, and scared the living hell out of men several heads taller than her, this thought brought her nothing but joy. She wore a white undershirt and brown dress pants with brown dress shoes.

"Prep the Operations Room (OR) and tell Lt. Johnson to scramble any available pilots on hand and to hunt down and drag any that aren't for reserve."

Thankful for orders to move, he ran down the hall to complete his tasks. Capt. Andrews strode out of her office, which caused those in her path to scramble out of the way. Her shoulder length auburn hair, tied into a pony tail, swayed in lockstep.

The OR was buzzing when she got there and Lt. Johnson was barking orders through his handlebar mustache. When she entered the room, everyone paused for a moment then went back to work.

The operations room had dim lights, bright enough to see what you're doing but not too bright that it caused irritability. In the center of the room was a digital map of the city, there they could look at a three dimensional scale model that updated in real time. Once the Techs got it up and running they waved the captain over and returned to their consoles that lined the side walls. There they could search for information and answer any question the captain hollered.

"Johnson, are the planes in the air?"

"Yes Capt'n. They will be on scene in two minutes. We've already downed all civilian aircraft in the area and created a temporary no fly zone around the blimp." The lieutenant was six foot three but felt small next to her, though he would never admit it.

"Tell the pilots to keep their distance until the gang leaves the Dionysius. No need to turn this into a hostage crisis. While we wait I want full reports on the Flamingos, what their numbers are, are they armed, and anything else you can find. You newbie, get me a cup of coffee and put a spoon full of Red Bull in it. "

The three dimensional map began to flicker offline and Andrews began to bash it with the side of her foot until it turned back on. "Piece of crap."

One of the techs turned to the Captain; hand over the mic on his headset. "Ma'am the Flamingos have left the ship, the pilots are asking for permission to engage."

"Swarm their asses."

The tech relayed the order to the pilots and Captain Andrews watched the map. The Flamingos were three in number and the police had twice as many. A dog fight commenced and a moment later a CPD plane got shot down, then another, then another. She clenched her fist and grimaced at what she had to do. "Johnson, call Boyle."

"Ma'am, we have reserves..."

"What will we do if our reserves get shot down? They are the only planes we have in working order at the moment and I can't risk them getting wiped out. I know we are going to receive a lashing in the press for relying on Boyle again but we....need....him." Her blue eyes seemed to intensify as she swallowed her pride.

Herman Johnson paused; he contemplated whether or not he should listen to the captain. He remembered when she was a new recruit. How she fought and clawed her way up the ranks with nothing but determination and caffeine. He respected her because she was a grunt at heart, just like the rest of the force. The thought of sending the reserves behind her back crossed his mind but decided to trust her decision.

Herman turned to one of the techs and said, "Call the consultant, John Boyle. Tell him we'll pay the usual fee and to head to the shopping district. We'll fill him in on the way."

Boyle was lounging in his hammock, suspended by two anti-gravity spheres, half watching TV when his cell rang. "Hello?"

To John the room seemed to be getting cooler as he listened to the police request. When the man on the phone was done speaking, he told him he accepted and rolled out of the hammock. Once on his feet, he stretched then thought about Andrews, he was six feet tall and still the thought of that woman made him feel small. The consultant-pilot suspected he wasn't the only one.

He put on his flight socks, extra thick on the sole, which he believed was one of the secrets to his success as a pilot. Most pilots wore combat boots, which doesn't mesh well with a delicate piece of machinery. For pants he wore faded jeans, strong enough to take a beating but loose enough to allow movement. John never wore anything more than a sleeveless undershirt when he flew, mostly because the cockpit could get hot quick. As he walked out the room he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his brown hair was unkempt and in need of a cut and his facial hair was reminiscent of man-eating vines.

Now dressed he ran up the stairs to the roof where he stored his plane, after entering the encryption codes the cockpit door opened and he jumped in his seat. Like most urban aircraft, the plane was reminiscent of WWI fighters. Key difference being these didn't have propellers but something not completely unlike a jet engine.  They were built to be more maneuverable.

Located below the wings, on both sides of the plane were the guns. When the CPD began hiring him as a consultant they made it very clear they wanted arrests not heads. So he had his guns upgraded so they can fire various forms of ammunition but he has mostly used the disabling shot. The disabling shot worked like a concentrated EMP pulse that when aimed correctly can shut down the enemies' computerized systems, which includes power steering, forcing them to land or risk crashing into a building. Without power steering it took roughly hundred pounds of pressure to move the control stick.

The cockpit slid shut and Boyle put on his helmet, which was linked to the planes mainframe. As he adjusted his oxygen mask a voice crackled through the speakers. He couldn't make out the voice due to bad reception, bad speakers, or a combination of the two but knew it was Andrews. He could feel the restrained anger in her voice as she spoke and it gave him great joy knowing he had her by the family jewels. She told him that the remaining CPD pilots would keep the gang busy while John made his way to the scene.

Once he finished making sure everything was operational, the plane began to hover off the ground than as it slowly gained speed and altitude he yelled "Here I come to save the day!" knowing it would piss off the captain. He could hear her cursing up a storm and smiled and thought, pissing her off is still as fun as it was thirty years ago, thank god for firebranding cause I want to enjoy thirty more.

Firebranding stopped aging; once you were branded you remained that age for the rest of your life, however long that may be. People still died of heart attacks and other medical ailments but the average lifespan is now expected to be in the three hundreds. No one is sure since the procedure has only been around for a little over a hundred years. John was in his 70's and Keri was in her 60's but both looked like they just graduated college.

The name firebranding came from a Greek myth involving Demeter. They myth took place shortly after her daughter Persephone was kidnapped and Demeter was looking everywhere. Along her travels she found a couple with two sons. She decided to stay there in the guise of a milk maid and nurse the boys. The first son she would secretly put in the fire at night like a firebrand, which was suppose to symbolize the burning away of his mortality. If she had completed the ceremony he would have been immortal but the mother caught her in the act and Demeter fled leaving the boy to grow up mortal.

By the time John reached the scene another CPD pilot had been taken down and the remaining two were on the ropes. Instead of being the aggressor they were the prey, one of whom had two bogies on his tail gunning at him, taking pot shots, chipping away at his tail. What the CPD had were amateur pilots that just happen to be cops, while the Pink Flamingos (and other air pirate gangs) were made up of professional pilots whom dedicated their lives to planes. It would be akin to a guy who waved around a sword for fun fighting a Spartan.

John flew in high, utilizing the position of the early afternoon sun, and swooped down at his targets. He couldn't fire too early or he would warn them of his presence which would make things more difficult. So he waited, brow furrowed, thumb hovering above the trigger, steady as a rock, then when he was within range, fired!

A torrent of lights flashed and warning signals blared as the pirate was bombarded with EMP after EMP, he knew his system, though built to withstand a certain amount of EMP, couldn't take anymore without risking a fatal crash.

The pirate pulled out of the fray and went to land, hoping that he could get away with his share of the loot. Unfortunately by the time he landed on the roof of a nearby skyscraper, gathered his loot, and opened the cockpit, there was a squad of cops, guns poised.

After seeing their compatriot shot down, the remaining two pirates high tailed it from the scene. John saw them and gave chase. They tried to lose him in the city, flying low and dodging buildings, but John had done this many times before and managed to keep up with the two robbers. The remaining two CPD pilots hung back and landed leaving Boyle to do the rest of the work. They probably would have gotten in the way. John told himself.

John could faintly hear something crackling over the radio but couldn't tell what, he was too engrossed in the chase. If he were listening, he would have heard the Captain telling him to back off, that they have tracers on the planes and would round them up when they stopped and to quit before something bad happened.

Unfortunately it was too little too late, for they were coming toward two buildings with a narrow gap between them, large enough to squeeze through sideways. The first of the pirates made through unscathed but the second clipped a wing and went hurdling into another building. John whizzed through still on the tail of the remaining pirate and gaining ground. Moments later he got a clear shot and managed to force the remaining robber down.

The police were on site almost immediately and arrested the pirate, but everyone was quiet. The pirate who didn't make it through the gap had crashed into a bank, killing two (not including the pirate) and injured eight. The city expected a lawsuit and the civilians were angry at the police, the police were angry at Boyle, and John thought he was hero.

John went to his usual hang out, a pilot bar on the edge of the good part of town called 'Zippos'. When he entered the bar it was fairly empty save for a few of the permanent fixtures, the type of people you see in bars so often that you wonder what they do for a living, if anything, and why it drove them to the bar every night. He could care less about them; the person he came to see was Sandra Shehan, a childhood friend. She had been married twice, both times to pilots, both died while flying, and both were close friends with John. Sandra had natural red curls, which accentuated her light green eyes. When she was working she wore her hair up.

"I'll have a...." He began to mutter as he sat down on a barstool.

"Daiquiri, in the form of a Papa Doble." She smiled.

It would be in those moments before the bar began to fill up around eight that the two would talk everyday. She had watched the news and knew he was going to avoid the issue. So Sandra decided to take the initiative and force him to think about it, to bring him down back to reality. She had been around enough pilots to know they always recognized the passing of their own and poured two shots of bourbon. "To fallen brethren." She had uttered the words a hundred times to a hundred different men, some close, some distant, but each time was just as sincere as the first.

"To fallen brethren." He raised his glass and clinked it against hers.

They downed the shots in a single gulp; she watched him for a moment and realized the act went over his head.

"Have I ever told you why Hemingway liked the Daiquiri? He said it reminded him of the wake of a ship, which gave him a sense of freedom.  It's one of the things that inspired him to write The Old Man and the Sea. I kinda understand what he felt; every time I drink one of these I can feel an ocean breeze brushing against my body."

She had heard this speech a million times and decided it was time to confront him before his head was completely in the clouds. "Maybe it's time to think about a career change, maybe we..."

She saw the look on his face, he was miles away, she sighed and got ready for the customers to start coming in.

----Three Months Later----

It was early in the morning, the morning dew was still prevalent and the press conference was about to go underway. Captain Andrews walked to the podium with a spring in her step. The news crews that were present looked at each other shocked and confused.

"Is she smiling?" One reporter asked to no one in particular.

"Why does that send a chill down my spine?" Another voice chimed in.

Captain Andrews cleared her throat and hushed silence settled over the press.

"Good morning. Thank you for coming down on this eventful day. I have one major announcement and I'll go straight to the point. As of today, our skies will be protected and policed by our newly trained elite pilots, who will fly our new planes, which are state of the art. This means we have no need for John Boyle!" She turned to a camera and smiled the biggest smile the human body was physically capable of. The captain knew without the royal screw up Boyle made months ago this would not have been possible, which made this victory all the more sweet.

"Now if you are watching this Boyle, we challenge you to prove us wrong. If you do we will reconsider never using you again but I highly doubt that will happen. The fight will take place this afternoon over 'The Park'."

She walked away from the podium followed by the torrent of questions from the rabid reporters, a wide smile stretched across her face.

Boyle was in his apartment and caught the announcement as it happened. He was lying in his hammock and as he watched began to laugh.

"You are going to regret this Captain." He coughed out, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes.

The news changed topics and showed a middle aged man sitting across from a female TV personality. "Well ladies and gentlemen; he's back again to bemoan Dr. Matthews winning the Nobel for his invention of Firebranding over a century ago. Please welcome Dr. Oswald. Now Dr. Oswald was nominated for a Nobel the same year as Dr. Matthews for his research in Cold Fusion...."

"Shut up you twit! Don't belittle my work; it is what powers your planes, homes, and cities! Without it where would we be? Still looking for fossil fuel that's where! Now we have no trash problems and our fuel is clean but noooOooOo we value firebranding more than that.  All firebranding does is further the vain superficiality of society!"

Boyle turned the television off and went to prepare for the challenge. It was hours away but preparation would be key.

[Ajax]

The Park was set up two centuries ago as a way to get the hippies off the governments back about urban sprawl. So the Mayor set aside about thirty acres of land outside the city and declared it a park. A hundred years later and it was surrounded by a newly built factory district. The companies used the park as a waste dumping site for a number of years until children started getting sick, which lead to an investigation that blew the lid off their illegal activities. Ever since then The Park has been a barren waste land of dirt and rocks. The City can't do anything about it because the state still has it listed as a hazardous site despite EPA reports that claim otherwise.

The challenge drew a large crowd and news crews were stationed all over. The planes were side by side, both pilots already in their cockpits. The man piloting for the police was named Riley Maxwell, he was considered the best of the new recruits. Captain Andrews walked onto the field with a handgun, pointed it in the air and fired. Both pilots took off, Riley swerved to the right and John to the left. The two planes kept arcing in their opposite directions until they were charging at one another. They both fired as they charged head on but only John managed to land hits (they were both using EMP). This slowed Riley considerably and his opponent jumped on the opportunity by looping upwards and coming down on Riley guns blazing. Maxwell banked to the left to avoid the attacks.

Captain Andrews was sitting by Lt. Johnson, away from the reporters.

"Ma'am Boyle is going to win. I told you this was a bad idea."

"Don't worry lieutenant, I have it covered. By the way it isn't a bad idea. The city still worships Boyle as the best pilot to grace its skyline and if our guy wins that will transfer their faith in him to our new squad. Now before you ask 'but how is he going to win', I'll tell you. We are going to cheat. In a few moments a sniper is going to use an EMP rifle to disable Boyle enough so all Riley has to do is finish him off. It's underhanded but it's necessary that the public has faith in this program for it to work."

John was taking his time finishing off Riley, taking pot shots here, intentional misses there, and the occasional moment where he lets his opponent think he has a chance of gaining the positional advantage.

"As fun as this is, it's almost time for me to talk with Sandy so, game over buddy." Just as he was about to finish off Maxwell his system blinked as if it had been hit by an EMP.

After several more shots his power steering was down and Riley took the initiative and was on John's tail. Boyle knew who was behind this and was shocked that she would do this. If he were going to win he would have to do something a bit drastic, "This is going to be incredibly dumb and I hope I survive this stunt...again."

He pulled hard on the control stick and his plane lurched high into the sky with the young pilot close behind. Than when he was high enough, by his estimates, he turned off his plane and let the strong winds in the upper stratosphere push his plane 180 degrees, turned his plane back on and just fired. It would have worked too but his weapons system failed to turn back on. So he hurtled back toward the ground and to make things worse, small portions of his propulsion system were offline, which made a very rough emergency landing.

The rest was a daze to John; he sat in his cockpit and watched the media swarm Riley and people cheering his name.  He didn't want to leave his cockpit until everyone left and by then the sun was beginning to set. Once out, John assessed the damage, the landing seemed to have done a number on the body but it could last till he found time to repair it.

By the time he made it to Zippos, night had fallen and the place was full of customers. When he approached the bar, John saw the new pilots the CPD had just hired, including Riley. He decided to just stay quiet but that thought was thrown aside when the group of recruits, five in total, noticed John and walked toward him.

"Look who it is! Don't feel to down man, Riley is just a better pilot and as they say 'There is always someone better'."

"Hey it was a good fight; I thought you had me with that stunt you pulled near the end. It could have gone either way." Riley added trying to be amicable.

"Fair fight? Obviously you green horns are blind and stupid. I dominated the fight until all of a sudden my plane was acting like it got pounded by EMP. Yet your 'hero' here hadn't hit me until after that happened. Don't you find that as a bit odd?"

"Are you saying we cheated?! Look just cause you got knocked off your high horse doesn't mean you can accuse us of that crap."

Sandra interjected, "Here is your Papa Doble John, how bout you boys go back to your seats and I'll give you another round of beer on the house?"

She looked at the group hoping they would take the bait and back off. Any damages in the bar went out of her pocket, since it was her bar, and she wasn't fond of that. Unfortunately they didn't bite and moved closer to John. She decided to be more proactive.

"John, talk with me outside for a second." Sandra hopped over the counter and headed toward the door.

John shouldered his way through the young pilots and followed her outside. "What is it?"

"What are you doing in there?" She asked once the door shut.

"Setting the record straight, they cheated! My good name is at stake." His voice was emotional and strained.

Sandra crossed her arms, "So starting a fight in my bar is somehow protecting your name? You are smarter than that John Boyle."

"Look I didn't come here looking for them. You know I come here cause Ben and Todd would have wanted me to look after you...."

There it was, she thought, ten years of pining seemed to hit her like a lead brick. All those years wasted on a guy who was more concerned about what her dead husbands wanted.

"If starting a fight is your way of 'looking out for me' than I don't want you here and next time you come to this bar I'll let them beat the crap out of you. So I suggest not coming back." Sandra brushed passed him and went back into her bar.

John was shocked to say the least and stood dumfounded for a few minutes staring at empty space. What just happened?

When he returned home, sober and frustrated from the events of the day, he decided sleep was not an option. Instead he went to work on his plane; it would take all night and probably well into the next day, which is what he needed.

By the time he finished the plane the sun had risen and set. He reentered his apartment, acutely aware of his hunger and rummaged his fridge for food. A few moments and a nuked TV dinner later and he returned to his living room. There he turned on the television, sat down, and began to eat while the days news was recapped on some late night talk show.

Just as the host was about to introduce some celebrity the transmission was cut off and soon replaced by the image of Dr. Oswald.

"I'll keep this brief since I know how much you idiots love your 'late night TV'. I have found a way to reverse the effects of firebranding. If used, all those affected will be dust in the wind within an hour. Now, either pay me five hundred million dollars or I start wiping out the city block by block. Now if you are wondering why I'm doing this I'll tell you. For too long I have argued with your idiot TV personalities about why I was the one deserving of the Nobel and not that hack Matthews. But no you put me on TV just so you can laugh at the crazy old guy who is being a 'sore loser'. Well no more! If I can't have my Nobel than I want my money with interest, so to all those who have laughed at me over the years, I hope you had your fun cause it's the last time! You have till midnight, which is a whole two hours away!"

The signal zapped back to the TV host who spent most of the interview talking about him self while the celebrity smiled awkwardly.

"Did I imagine that? I mean, no sleep for a while does tend to take its toll but that was...too strange."

John flipped the channel to a twenty four hour news channel and found it struggling to find a way to spin it to their message. "Well the doctors message which seemed to hijack all major channels has created quite the buzz...hasn't it chuck?" The anchorwoman smiled unsure at the camera.

"Why yes Candice but is there any truth behind it I mean a way to reverse Firebranding? I say it's just a ruse. A trick to get money or fame or something. Right?" Chuck seemed equally confused.

Though they both found purpose when something came over their ear pieces, "This just in, the CPD has organized a press conference, we have a news crew their reporting."

Tom, the chief spokesperson for the CPD stood in front of the podium, with a face that spoke 'I know what I'm doing'.

"Okay quiet down people, I know you have a lot of questions but let me get a few things out. First, we will not be giving the doctor his money, we do not negotiate with terrorist whether they are foreign or home grown. Second, we had a lengthy chat with Dr. Matthews and he assures us that Oswald is bluffing and no such thing can exist. Now I'll take questions."

A courier moved toward the spokesperson and handed him a package marked urgent.

It had been cleared by security, probably just a gift from an admirer. Thought Tom.

When he opened the package a puff of smoke hit him in the face and caused him to cough. Inside was a note... "Time is precious".

He turned his attention back to the news groups chomping at the bit for answers. Within minutes people began to notice that Tom's once jet black hair was turning gray. By the end of the conference he had grown wrinkles and hair was visible in his ears.

Captain Andrews, whom was watching the conference on TV, noticed the change before the people present and managed to get the area secured for quarantine before everyone scrambled in fear.
Dr. Oswald once again interrupted the broadcast, this time pacing in the background, revealing more of his surroundings. Besides being located in what seemed to be a vacant factory, the other notable feature of his surroundings was the crop duster partially shown through the window.

"I told you to give me the money but no the city needed proof. Well the CPD is now going to need a new spokesperson so all those college graduates out there should get their resumes ready. Now you have one more hour before I start taking out large chunks of the population."

And suddenly the signal returned back to normal and everyone, the media included, went nuts. John noticed the crop duster in the background and tried to call the CPD but the line was busy, since more than half the city was calling, the rest were trying to escape.

The picture returned to an image of the Governor, whom was out of state, calling the news agencies to give them his decision. "We do not negotiate with terrorist. The Commissioner has informed me that he has every available officer looking for whatever device Oswald has hidden in the city. I am confident they will find it and the nutjob Oswald. Now I have a charity dinner to attend to. Goodbye."

"Crap. It's obvious that he is going to use a crop duster!" John slammed the phone into the ground in frustration after being put on hold for the thirteenth time.

"I can't assume they know about the crop duster. If they don't and I do nothing, than...crap."

John rushed up the stairs to his plane, he had yet to repair the body but beyond a few dents and scratches it was still operable. It had taken him longer than he expected to get the systems back up and some he had to rebuild entirely.

He took off and headed toward the factory district where he assumed Oswald was hiding. John was making another pass over the factories when he was fired upon by live ammunition. He took evasive action and looked for the origin, only to find a squadron of five planes bearing down on him from above.  Who the hell are they and of all the times.

As he looked closer he noticed the planes were painted pink and had the image of a flamingo on their side. You gotta be kidding me, the Pink Flamingos? I'll have to make this quick.

Boyle jerked hard on the control stick and went blazing straight up into the sky. Just as he broke through a cloud he looped backwards and went back through the cloud. Only a few seemed to follow him through the cloud, leaving two below incase he came back down. They obviously didn't expect him so soon cause John managed to drill one with EMP before he could evade. He stayed on the weakened craft's tail and finished it off with a few more bursts of EMP.

The other three had just come back down when he finished off the first of their squad. Boyle saw the fourth plane, the other one left behind when they chased him through the clouds, and used him as cover against his compatriots. He lessened his thrust just enough to get behind the guy and riddled him full of EMP.

It was just as he finished off the second Flamingo when he spied a crop duster taking off in the distance. Immediately he headed toward it, Flamingos on his tail, hoping that this was the right plane.

If it weren't for the Flamingos he would have caught up to the crop duster much sooner but since he had to constantly evade their fire, it took him longer than he would have wanted. When he finally got close to the duster he saw Oswald in the cockpit and noticed that the doctor, though a genius, was not the most apt pilot.

He saw they were about to pass over The Park and decided that this would be the best place to shoot down Oswald, this way if the chemicals leak when he crashed it would be far away from any living person.

So he banked to the left and then the right, to avoid another volley of machine gun fire, and boosted past the crop duster hoping he could loop around and shoot him down. Just as he began to ascend he was fired upon from the side, while the flamingos fired from behind. A few shots lodged themselves in the body of the plane before John could evade.

Soon a voice came over the radio, "John Boyle, land your plane now under order of the CPD."

"Why?" Asked Boyle hurriedly, who flew erratically in hopes of throwing off his pursuers.

"You are aiding Dr. Oswald along with these air pirates. Obviously you want to get back at the city for slighting you but this isn't the way."

"Are you insane the pirates are shooting at me, you green horns! Plus if you wanted to arrest me than why are you firing live rounds?! Also I'm the one trying to stop Oswald because some people can't answer the freaking phone!"

"Maybe that's because we don't need your help you has been. You aren't the only one who noticed the crop duster." Another voice chimed in over the radio.

There was silence over the line but Boyle was more concerned by the pirates taking advantage of his poor positioning. Soon there was response from the CPD, "If you aren't with Oswald than leave the area and we will handle Oswald."

It was obvious this wasn't a majority opinion since, of the four CPD pilots; three swooped down and joined the pirates attacking John.

What did I do to deserve this?! Crap. We are past The Park. I need to figure out how to get that idiot doctor back this way, while avoiding these idiots. My only saving grace is that they are getting in eachothers way and can't get a good bead on me. Maybe I can herd the idiot, though this is only possible if Oswald is as crappy a pilot as I think he is. Going to have to use live ammunition for this to work.

"Riley! Are you the one who isn't trying to kill me?" John asked hopefully.

"Yea. I'm trying to call them off but they aren't responding."

"Look, if you could maybe I don't know get these guys off my tail, pirates included, I might be able to herd the doctor back over The Park. Catch my drift?"

"You want me to open fire on my own squad? I'm not going to do that!"

"I'm not asking you to kill them! Use EMP! Plus you don't have to start with them, there are pirates on my [expletive deleted] too. Please...help me."

"Fine, but this better work."

John hit a button on his dashboard and an hourglass figure blinked on his helmets visor. When it finished a click could be heard from both wings. Riley got behind the group of pursuers and opened fire with EMP causing them to scatter. John used this time to get underneath the doctor and aimed his plane so his shots would force the doctor to pull up. He maintained his position and firing rate on the doctor until they were heading back toward the park.

It was then that he took a few shots on his broadside from a pirate that managed to escape Riley. John knew he couldn't afford to move out of the way, not until Oswald was shot down. When Oswald tried to turn left, John fired to the left, forcing him back on course. No matter what direction the doctor chose, John herded with bursts of well placed machine gun fire.

By the time they made it back to The Park, the damage to John's plane was starting to take its toll. He was out of bullets; his cold fusion generator had taken a few hit and was down meaning he was running on his reserve battery which was running low. On top of that his wings were close to being crippled. "Riley, where are you?"

"Look I can't take them all out, so get off my case!"

"Shut up! I need you to take down Oswald. He is over The Park, now is your chance. Take him down, I can't do it, so it's up to you. Quickly before he tries to head for the city again!"

John pulled up hoping to drag his pursuers out of Riley's way. He heard the gunfire from Riley's plane and heard the young pilot cheer over the radio, which he left open. When he looked to see who was on his tail he was surprised to find nothing.

"Riley did you take down all the pirates?"

"Yea!" The young pilot couldn't contain his excitement.

"Good job and thanks."

It took a few hours for Boyle to get his plane back to his apartment building and another hour to get to Zippos. By then Riley, along with the other three pilots, were on the news being celebrated as heroes. Any involvement by John Boyle had been covered up and John didn't mind. He had more important things on his mind.

When he walked through the door, Sandra glared at him. "I thought I told you..."

"Will you let me speak before you chew me out? Please."

"John Boyle, saying please? I think I need to sit down." Her tone was harsh.

"I deserve that. Look. I was thinking and you were right it's time for me to find something new in life. Piloting hasn't brought me much good and the city seems like it's in good hands." He motioned to the picture of the young CPD pilots on the Television.

"But I don't know what I'm going to do. So I was wondering until then could I maybe work here? Please, it's not just cause I need the work, I think I'll need your help to figure out what to do with my life..." He trailed off unsure of what to say.

"Fine but if you cause trouble you will regret ever setting foot in here. Understood?" Her words might have been hard but her voice was soft.

Some would say it was the desperation on John's face that persuaded Sandra to hire him. But in truth, what persuaded Sandra wasn't the desperation, though it helped, but the glimmer of the person she once knew. For the first time in years, she saw that boy who dreamed of flying a plane. She knew she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she didn't try and nurture that glimmer and try and help John return to his old self, before he turned sour.

The End

[Verfall]

Well I haven't been able to find anyone to edit it for me, but I want to get it up before the deadline. If some of the others around here would like to aid me a bit "cough" viking "cough", please do so! Also, some of the characters featured are from something else I'm working on unrelated to any other work, and I hope to eventually display something from it here.



It was a typical spring day in Minneapolis. The sun was out, the snow was finally gone and the first green glimpses of life were beginning to show in the plant life. At Rosemary Hehn high school however, things were far from ordinary for one student.

For 16-year-old Jenny Reynolds, today was anything but typical. First she got yelled at in her first period English class for trying to get the attention of her boyfriend Jimmy. Than she found out he was cheating on her with that witch Kim Carson. Now here she was stuck in an assembly having to listen to some theatre troupe spout on about safe sex, or drinking or driving or the hell if she was paying attention. To say she was experiencing teenage angst would have probably been met with the kind of words sailors refuse to utter.

Up in her 5th row bleacher seat Jenny sat, twirling her shoulder length blonde hair in her hands, staring down at Kim sitting in the front row near where the teachers sat in their own padded folding chairs. Jenny glared at her intently, her mind focusing on how much she just really hated the stupid whore. As she glared at Kim, she noticed Kim was looking to her left and smiling. Following the trail of her eyes, Jenny looked down right in front of her. There, sitting in the first row directly below her, was Jimmy. And he was making eyes back at Kim! Jenny's mind exploded with fury. Turning back to Kim she focused her eyes like two green laser beams aching to burn a hole in their target. Who would have thought a few seconds later they'd do just that.

As Jenny stared, a puff smoke became visible on the top of Kim's head. For a brief second, that's all there was before the smoke became a full-fledged inferno. Before Jenny's very eyes, Kim's head became a brown hair-fueled tiki torch. Kim's screams began to fill the gymnasium as she beat at her long locks with her hands, falling to the ground in fear and panic. The gym teacher, Mr. Grimson jumped from his nearby seat, removed his varsity jacket, and leaped on top of Kim, smothering her head. Within 5 seconds from ignition the fire was out leaving only the strong smell of burnt hair to permeate the corner of the gym. Jenny shook her head to remove the look of awe that had fallen upon and laughed. "Good for her," she mumbled under her breath.

Two weeks later, Jenny sat at home on the couch. Her parents, her father a wealthy business tycoon and her mother a well to do fashion designer, were of course not home. Jenny had gotten used to living a life surrounded by maids and butlers. She didn't hold it against her parents like many rich kids were prone to. When her parents were home, they acted like any normal family, and when they were gone, the maids acted like her aunts, only with a bit more subservience. Jenny wasn't your typical rich kid. Sure she was capable of the mean spirited stuck-upedness that most rich kids seemed to relish in, but her parents had always made sure to bring her down to earth by sending her to public schools, putting her in sports with regular kids and doing everything they could to try to make her feel more middle class in mindset. Jenny thought of herself as a less egotistical Veronica Lodge of Archie Comics fame.

On this particular day, however, she didn't feel all that normal. After a long Friday night of crying, and arguing and screaming and what could essentially be summed up as "teenage drama", Jimmy had basically told her it was over and to never call him again. She sat on the couch, her eyes swollen from crying, and seethed in her temper. Her maid, Gloria, came into the room with a dust buster. Glancing over at Jenny, she took notice of the large mess of crumbs the girl had left on the sofa and coffee table from a ham sandwich she was greedily chomping down on as she glared at the TV.
"My lord, girl, you have made quite a mess here!" Gloria announced as she hit the power button on the small vacuum and proceeded to clear away the mess. The noise of the vacuum brought Jenny out of her anger fueled zone-out towards the TV, and instead she brought her anger down on her maid. As Gloria dragged the vacuum back and forth over the coffee table, collecting the various crumbs, Jenny glared at her. As with Kim, Jenny's anger flowed from her eyes, directing it straight towards her maid. And than it happened again. As Jenny's eyes pierced the air her and her maid, a wisp of smoke began to appear on the top of Gloria's head. And just like before, a split second later the woman's hair was aflame. This time, the screaming brought Jenny out of her anger fueled trance, and the sight of her maid on fire caused her emotions to switch to full blown panic. Jumping to her feet Jenny rushed over to a nearby chair that Gloria had just recently set a stack of folded quilts on. Grabbing a quilt, Jenny ran towards Gloria, tossing the quilt up and over the maid's head and preceded to pat down on it in an effort to extinguish the flames as both girl and woman danced around in some sort of panic fueled tango.

After a few seconds of patting, an out of breath and noticeably frightened and concerned Jenny removed the quilt to survey the damage. Underneath, Gloria sat frazzled, a look of terror on her face. Jenny looked closely at her maid's hair, and sighed in relief. It wasn't Gloria's hair that had started on fire; it was a big bun like extension she wore that had gone up in smoke! Jenny wrapped her arms around her favorite maid and hugged her with all her might.

Later that night Jenny lay on her bed in her room, running the afternoons events through her head. "How had that happened?" she pondered to herself. When Kim's hair had gone aflame, she had chalked it up to the fact Jeremy Pool, a known fire starter around the school, had been sitting behind her. She assumed it was quite obvious he had done it, and the school had assumed so too, suspending him for 3 weeks. It didn't help his case that they found 7 different Zippo lighters in his pocket of course. But now, she wasn't so sure. Had she done it? Could it have been possible to light someone's hair on fire from 20 feet away? People with powers had become commonplace in Minneapolis over the last 20 years, could she be one of them? Jenny had to find out.

Jumping up from her bed, she reached down and picked up her bright pink, solid aluminum wastebasket. Tucking it under her arm, she walked over to her personal bathroom, pulled open the bright pink shower curtain, and set the wastebasket into the bright pink tub. Everything in her room was bright pink. The curtains, the bedding, the walls, the ceiling, the vanity, the carpet...hell, even the windows were tinted pink. It was as if Reese Witherspoon's Legally Blonde character had been hired as an interior decorator.

Jenny leaned back from the tub and grabbed hold of the toilet paper on the roll. Giving a sharp tug, she pulled a good 6 feet of paper off and gave it a flick to rip it from the rest of the roll. Clumping the paper into a ball, she tossed it into the wastebasket. As she stood up, she reached for the showerhead, which was attached to a long hose, and removed it from its mount. She slowly turned the cold water tap on so the water flowed into the tub but not the basket, and placed her hand over the tab that could be pulled up to activate the showerhead. With the showerhead in one hand, and the other hand on the tab, she looked down at the large wad of toilet paper in the basket.

"Here goes nothing," she said out loud as she began to concentrate on the paper. This time there was no anger to focus, but she hoped that that wasn't the trigger. Instead she just concentrated on making the paper burn. For 3 or 4 seconds, nothing happened. As she watched, however, she noticed the smoke. Just as before with the hair, there was a brief wisp of smoke before the entire wad of paper was engulfed in flames. Jenny jumped back surprised at how quick the paper had ignited, and in turn her left hand on the showerhead tab pulled up, activating the showerhead that was now facing directly at her head. After soaking herself for a moment, and swearing under her breath, Jenny turned the showerhead towards the wastebasket and extinguished the flames.

"So it was my doing!" she remarked silently to herself. Her water soaked face beamed with a large grin at the thought that she had somehow developed a super power. Skipping across to her bed like a toddler who had just discovered the joys of mud, she turned and hopped her pink pajama clad butt onto the mattress. Reaching over to turn off her hot pink lamp, she laid down, pulling the covers up over her head and drifting off into slumber. For any other person, having the ability to create flame from thin air would probably keep them wide awake for awhile, but for your average teenager, when you can one day wake up to notice your voice no longer works, you suddenly have a new pair of breasts or you have hair where there wasn't any before, creating fire just seems like another day at the adolescent office.


"Wake up girl!" came the loud voice through the door, followed by a sharp knock. Jenny rolled over onto her back and groaned in response. "Breakfast is on the table, hurry up before it gets cold!" yelled Gloria through the thick wooden door. Jenny raised her hands over her head and stretched, yelling out a semi-coherent "I'm coming!" Bringing her hands back down to her face, Jenny rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. As she brought her arms back up for a second early morning stretch, she slowly opened her eyes. Looking up expecting to see a pink ceiling framed with her manicured hands, her mouth fell open. The ceiling was still there, but her well-manicured digits were not exactly as she expected them to be. They were on fire!

Jenny leapt from her bed, holding her flaming hands out in disbelief. She looked down at her lower body, only to see more of the same. Her entire body was encompassed with bright orange flames! Rising quickly to her feet she began to jump about, flailing her arms around and kicking her legs trying to extinguish herself. After a few moments of prancing like a madwoman a lesson from some talking bear in an elementary school fire safety course popped into her head. At that, she fell to the floor, attempting to "stop, drop and roll". After rolling around on the floor for a minute, she pulled herself up to her feet, still aflame. And than the realization kicked in. She looked around her room. Her bed, her sheets, her pillow, the carpet she had just spent the last 60 seconds or so rolling around on, not a single one of them was burnt. Not so much as a gray spot was present on any of them. Jenny laughed to herself. Apparently whatever flame her body was currently projecting, it somehow didn't affect anything she touched.

Jenny decided to test this out. Walking over to her bureau, she plucked a tissue out of a cardboard Kleenex box. Holding the tissue, she rubbed it all over her flaming arms. The tissue didn't so much as spark. Jenny held it by a corner in her right hand, and raised her left arm up in front of her chest. Placing the tip of the tissue so it just touched her arm, she concentrated. As with the toilet paper, there was a brief wisp of smoke where paper met skin just before the tissue erupted into cinders, quickly burning itself out and falling as ash to the floor. Jenny giggled. This was going to be a great day.

Deciding to skip the ride to school, she told her chauffer she felt like getting some exercise. As she walked the mile and a half to school, Jenny tried everything she could think of with her fire. She managed to create "fire jimmies", essentially snowballs made of flame she could toss for explosive effect. She also found she could apply explosive force to them as they left her hand, allowing them to fly much farther than they could under her own arm strength. She also found that she could hold up her finger, ignited with flame, and much like a fire breather with a mouth full of gasoline, could send out a massive flame burst with just a simple exhale. She practiced lighting only certain limbs on fire, such as her leg, or just her head. Luckily very few people traveled the road that lead to the school from her house, so she could experiment without arousing suspicion. By the time she arrived at the front gates, she had quickly amassed a decent amount of control over her burgeoning abilities.

Six hours later, as she walked home tossing a fireball back and forth in her hands, she thought of what she should do with these powers. Should she be like Zenith and Mon-Dayne and the rest of  S.H.A.R.D., Minneapolis' premier super team? Should she become a simple vigilante like the Iron Sheik and The Templar? Or maybe she could just rob banks and stuff, for the sheer thrill of it. "Nah," she said to herself on the last idea, "mom and dad raised me better than that." As she rounded the corner of the long sound-muffling fence that ran the length of the last half mile to her house, something her annoying neighbors erected to block out the "noise" of the almost non-existent traffic, she came to an abrupt stop, though not of her own accord.

There in front of her meager 5 foot 3 inch frame stood the 6 foot 5 inch reason for her sudden stop. She had just walked nose first into the abdomen of a large, muscular, red-haired woman. As Jenny looked up, she noticed that on the woman's left stood a green haired woman, slightly thinner with a similar facial structure. To the right, another woman, this one even thinner than the other, her bright purple hair hanging quite long over her again similar facial structure. Jenny opened her mouth to give her apologies, only to never utter a word. Behind her stood what appeared to be a man covered in a black haze, whose right hand now disappeared into the back of Jenny's head.

"That was too easy," laughed the green haired girl as she surveyed the scene in front of her. Her giggling was suddenly cut off as the haze covered man brought up his left hand and flicked it in her direction, sending her flailing down the street 15 feet before she collapsed on her back.

"Do not annoy me girl," the man in the haze spoke harshly, as he removed his hand from Jenny's head. His name was Black Death. 5 years ago he was a well-known geneticist, famous for his research in stem cells and cloning. That was, however, until the day he used himself as a test subject. No one is sure what happened that day, but gone was the form of a man, or even a human, that he once was. His flesh, or what was his flesh, was now as black as coal, offset only by various white markings on his arms, legs and chest. His face was featureless, showing only a skull-like white visage seemingly painted over where one would expect a nose and mouth. What could be his eyes were just black pits, with no sense of a pupil or iris. His entire body permeated a fog-like haze, its purpose unknown. His powers were undetermined mostly, and since he constantly experimented on himself, varied greatly. But the power he had just used on Jenny had been with him since day one of his transformation.

Jenny's body stood there, her hands at her side. Her face showed no emotion, her eyes as blank as a clean piece of foolscap. When Black Death reached his hand into her brain, he had used the one power he had never altered, the ability to suppress another person's own mind. Inside Jenny's head, where once was a thriving sub conscious of an extraordinary teenage girl, these was only a black pit, ready to be filled with whatever Black Death felt should enter it. It was re-programming at a level few could comprehend.

He had discovered her the day she had set fire to Kim's hair. Three years prior he had built a machine designed to detect metahumans using mutant abilities. His plan was simple. Find young mutants who had just discovered their powers, ambush them, wipe their minds, fill in the hole with his own programming, and build up an army of disposable metahumans to use whenever he needed them. Jenny was the 14th victim. It wasn't till she had spent the last two days playing with her powers that Black Death was able to get a lock on her location. Than it was a simple matter of sending out his "daughters", three clones based on the DNA of a girl he once loved, only to be spurned in his advances leading to him murdering her in spite. Their names were based on their hair color. Crimson the red head, with super strength and durability. Emerald the green haired one, able to run and move at elevated speed levels, as well as wielding emerald colored katar's. Finally, Violet, the purple haired one, gifted with the powers of telepathy and telekinesis. Usually they would use their skills to subdue their "fathers" target, but unfortunately for Jenny, a fight just wasn't in the cards.

As Crimson bent down and hefted Jenny's lifeless body onto her shoulders, she looked over at her "father" and asked," So dad, what are you going to call this one?" Black Death put his hand to his chin, the haze around him retreating slightly so his skull like façade was visible, and pondered his response. "Hmm, for what I have in store for her, I believe a fitting name would be 'Firebrand'." He reached down and lifted up Jenny's head by the chin, gazing into her empty stare. "You are going to live up to that name my dear, I guarantee it."

Inside the head of the newly christened Firebrand, amongst the darkness, a small light could be seen. If one could look closer one could see what was left of Jenny's mind, forming a small white orb, subdued and chained into the tiniest existence. One would see her face, and would see words being mouthed, but in the mind of what was once Jenny Reynolds, of what was soon to become Firebrand, there was only silence.

[thalaw2]

Eek!  Time is running out and I've only a couple of paragraphs finished. 

[BlueBard]

Eek!  Time is running out and I've only a couple of paragraphs finished. 

But it's got a great ending, right?  ;)

[bredon7777]

Played a little loose with the rules, but here goes...

Be gentle with me- it's my first time.
__________________________________________________________________________

"Tales from the 'Drunken Hero'" -You Are What You Eat, After All

     It was a wet Friday night as I made my way to the "Drunken Hero".  Don't look at me like that - I know it's a supervillain bar, but I ain't no supervillain.  It's just, well, I'd been drinking there ever since it was the "Busted  Flush", and when it changed hands`I decided I wasn't gonna let a bunch of wannabees drive me out of my favorite bar.
   
    Besides, it ain't like I don't got powers - I just choose to make an honest livin with em, that's all.  I mind my business and after I took Otto outside and melted a couple of those arms a his together, everyone else minded their own business too. I keep my head down and my mouth shut. I just like nursin my beer and soakin up the atmosphere.

    Which I why I was pretty bummed when I ducked through the double doors under the drunken bat sign to find the bar mostly deserted; it was just me, Sid the robotender and a little weaselly guy. And when I say weaselly, I mean weaselly- beady eyes, extended snout and all.

    I sat on one of the reinforced asbestos stools, and ordered a beer, which Sid promptly poured.  I nursed my beer and started checkin out the tube; which was showin one of those competitive eatin contests.  I was on the verge of askin Sid to change the channel when the little weaselly guy piped up.

    He lifted his beer and in a loud, drunken voice toasted "To the end of the world!"

    Now, I ain't the quickest guy on the uptake, so I just kinda stared and went "Huh?

    He repeated his toast again, gesturing with his beer in my direction.  "To the end of the world!"

    I was bored, so I decided to indulge the little weasel. No pun intended.  I motioned him to sit by me, and called Sid over.  "Another for me, and one for my little friend."  Sid sped off and promptly returned with two beers.

   The little weasel smiled at me.  "Why thank you kind sir."

   I rolled my eyes. "Cut that sir crap out. In here, it'll just get the tar pounded outta ya.  My handle is Rocky."

   He attempted a bow and dang near fell out of his chair.  I took a forefinger and gently pushed him back into it.

   "Felicitations.  I am delighted to meet you.  My name is Arthur.  I'm a mole."

   "I thought youse government guys weren't supposed to talk about that?"

   He furrowed his brow.  "Well, technically I suppose I'm not, though given the current circumstances I don't know what harm it could do.  But in this case, I was being literal.  I AM a mole.  Well, half a mole at any rate.  Remember when Rodenticus tried to take over 30 years ago?"

   I chuckled. "And promptly got his butt handed to him by the League?  Yeah."

   He nodded.  " Well, he'd taken some women hostage to perfect some crossbreeding experiments, and one of them was my mother."

   He took another sip of beer, and went a little cross-eyed.  "Personally, I never thought he needed to experiment all that much; Mother was always more attracted to power than personal appearance."

  "Nevertheless, after Rodenticus' defeat, the government took us in and cared for us.  And when I was old enough someone with a sick sense of humor decided I should put my unusual appearance and skills in the Powered Espionage unit."

  "All in all, it was a good life.  At least until I found out about. . ."  He trailed off.

   "The end of the world?"

   "Yeah."

   "See, that's what I don't get.  How does an eatin contest lead to the end of the world?"

   'Well, I probably shouldn't tell you this, being that I got involved through my government contacts and all, but given how little time we probably have left."

    He took a deep breath and continued.  "As you can imagine, due to my appearance, I tend to get all the scutwork in my division.  Still, occasionally people hand something off to me that turns out to be a gem.  Like when Gil Bates, the world's richest man decided to sponsor an intergalatic eating contest."

   "Gil Bates, the software billionaire?  Why's he sponsoring eating contests?"

   Arthur shrugged.  "When you've got that much money, you get to do whatever you like.  Anyway, he pulled some strings, and got me assigned as a government judge."

  "At first, it was great- I got my own suite on Bates' private tropical island, welcoming all the guests as they arrived, sorting out their gifts to Bates- making sure they weren't dangerous, etc.  And when that was over, I got to use Bates' extensive," and here he blushed, "recreational facilities and robotic staff."

  "Then came the day of the contest itself.  Bates had a pavillion constructed to display the presents the various races across the galaxy had given him; there were jewels, exotic food and drink, alien technology- you name it.  There were customized seats for every one of the fifty contestants."

   "Then the contest began.  50 of the oddest looking races you've ever seen from an ordinary Earthling to what I can only describe as an animated Jello mold tucking in to plate after plate of things from Earth Hot Dogs to Arcturian fried beetle rump.  It was like a train wreck- food was flying everywhere and yet it was oddly compelling; even if I were not a judge, Id've found it difficult to turn away."

  "But how's all that lead to the end of the world?'

  Arthur gulped down the last of his beer.  "Patience, my stony friend.  We're almost there."

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

[bredon7777]

     Sid took the break in the story as an opportunity to serve us two more beers.  I hadn't touched my last one, but I'd forgotten to control my internal temperature, and most of it had evaporated so I was glad of the refill.

    Arthur picked his up, downed half of it in a gulp and shuddered.  "Almost as soon as it began, the contest was over.  The walking Jello mold simply flowed over every plate presented to it and cleaned it instantly."

   "Bates was both impressed and dismayed. He likes to brag about how Earth is the best at everything, and here we were, the clear losers.  Still, he rallied magnificently, declaring Jello mold the winner and reaching for a bottle of liquor to make a victory toast to the winner."

   He had taken a pen out of his pocket, and had begun idly tapping it on the bar as he spoke.  "And then he made the fatal mistake.  I'll never forget that moment- not until my dying day.  He had reached for a bottle of scotch, but distracted, had come up with something that looked like liquid gold and moved like lava.  The bottle appeared to be made out of pure diamond, with cut glass symbols in a language I didn't recognize."  He began to doodle symbols on a cocktail napkin as he continued, seemingly unaware of what he was doing.

  "I could tell that something was wrong, but I couldn't put my nose on what.  And after all, I was the one who certified everything as safe.  Still, this feeling of dread swept over me as a diamond cup was shoved in front of Bates, and filled with that liquid gold."

  "I wanted to yell at him to stop as he saw he hadn't picked scotch.  But I was a coward, and he was reckless.  The same recklessness that earned him his billions, so soon to cost not just him, but all of us, everything."

  "He raised the glass and declaimed 'To X'hdfhjfgjrh (that was Jello mold's given name, apparently).' And raising an eyebrow downed the liquid in a single gulp."

  Arthur shuddered again.  "And then..and then..he simply dissolved.  That liquid burned through hisi mouth- through his stomach..he melted into a pool of protoplasmic slime, which then turned to steam on contact with the liquid."

  "And it wouldn't stop!  A hole had formed under where Bates was, and it kept getting wider as the golden liquid seemed to instantly and effortlessly dissolve everything it came into contact with.  The Pavillion cracked in half and started to fall into the ever widening hole.  Chaos and pandemonium were everywhere- contestants and staff alike scrambling to get to their escapes ships.  And then the liquid ate through the island entirely- cracking it in half and letting the sea pour in.  And even the sea couldn't stop that liquid..water kept pouring in, but the hole only slowed its growth, never shrunk. "

  I was on the edge of my seat. "What did you do?"
 
  Arthur sighed.  "I'm a coward. What do you think I did? I ran.  I made it back to my personal escape craft in time to see the rest of the island disappear into the sinkhole.  The sea kept roaring in, only to be asorbed as well. When I left there was a giant hole in the surface of the Ocean- a roaring whirlpool slowly growing wider and wider."

  "And thus, the end of the world...eventually that hole will become large enough to engulf us all."

  I sat back, scared, and lemme tell ya I don't scare easy.  "That's terrible- what are we gonna do?"

  Arthur hiccuped.  "We're doing all we can do, friend.  I'm sure you noticed that Chilliblaine has been missing for a while now?"
 
   "What, the ice guy?  Yeah, now that youse mention it, I ain't seen him in a few weeks.  Wonder why?"

  "Oh, I know why. And it's not just him. Any hero capable of generating some sort of matter- ice, rock, vines- anything; the government office I work for has drafted them all and have stationed them around that hole, pouring whatever they can generate into that liquid.  But we've only managed to slow the hole's growth to a crawl.. We've only got one thing left.."

  He broke off and went white as a sheet.   I followed his gaze back over my shoulder to the two suits that had just walked in.  They didn't look like much to me- ordinary humans in black suits and sunglasses with little earpiece thingies, but they scared the crap outta Arhur.

  "EEEEK! They've found me!  Thanks for the beers, friend! I hope to see you again sometime!"

  I turned again to look at the two men, one of whom was quietly talking into some sort of communicator, and when I turned back again, Arthur was gone.

  The two suits tried to grill me for a bit, but I don't intimidate easy.  I just told them that I'd let the weasel guy ramble on without payin any sort of attention to what he said, and eventually they were satisfied with that and went away.

  I ain't seen Arthur since, though I wouldn't mind - the little weasel tells a hell of a story.  And you just gotta wonder- I mean no one's seen Gil Bates for a while, not to mention those matter generatin supers Arthur went on about.

  And there were those symbols on the napkin.  Eventually I called in a favor and got it to Thousand Tongue, to have him translate.  I still have it at home; I don't know why I don't get rid of it though- just thinkin bout it gives me the willies.

   Still, does it mean the end of the world?  I dunno.  But thats the crazy story, just as he told it to me, and if it does mean the end of the world, I'm goin out drinkin.  You want another?

  What's that?  You wanna know what the translation was?  Sure I'll tell ya.

  According to Thousand Tongue, the symbols Arthur sketched translated out to: "Arcturian Fire Brand liquor- not for consumption by carbon based life forms."

  Crazy, huh?  You want another beer or what?


THE END


(Hope y'all enjoyed it :) )

[Mr. Hamrick]

was wondering if you could extend the dead line by a couple of days.   have been swamped and I am trying to get a piece together.  plus, i have a friend who is trying to throw something together kinda last minute.

[Glitch Girl]

Porbably not.  After today, I'm going to be in pre-con frenzy and wouldn't be able to judge anything for abotu a week.  Unles there are a few more who need more time, I gotta let the deadline stand.

[Viking]

Office Politics

"You're fired."

The words still echoed in Daniel's head, though it had been days since it had happened.  He had protested, of course.  He'd been a mail boy at the company for five years already, keeping his head down, and doing what the job required.

Apparently, that was the problem.

"You just haven't been showing any initiative, Daniel," his supervisor had remarked.  "For five years you've been coasting – putting in the minimum effort to get by.  That's just not enough in this company.  You need to be more of a... firebrand, to succeed here."

And just how am I supposed to be a firebrand as a flippin' mail boy? 

The question was rhetorical – being a mail boy was dull.  As far as Daniel was concerned, there was nothing to be enthusiastic about.  True, he might have been slacking off more often than not to read the latest book on occultism, his favorite hobby.  But he still got his quota of inter-office mail delivered by the end of the day, every day!  That should be enough, shouldn't it?

Well I'll show 'em.  I'll show 'em all!  They want a firebrand, do they?

Daniel quickly looked over the ingredients he had assembled in his mother's basement for the ritual.  True, the candles weren't black – more of a dark blue, really – but they were the best he could find at Wal-Mart.  And while they did have pure white chalk, the yellow stuff was cheaper.

"I'm sure it's more of the thought that counts," Daniel muttered to himself.  "I mean, I'm unemployed, for cryin' out loud!  Besides... it's not like an occult power would refuse a contract, right?"

Assuaged by his rationalizations, Daniel proceeded with his incantations.  At the very least, he was confident that he was getting the words right.  Most of them, at any rate.  Surely the dark powers gave points for inserting dramatic pauses, right?

Daniel's excitement rose as he continued with the ritual.  It was a simple plan.  Make a standard boilerplate deal with a demon, get supernatural fiery powers, and then burn down his former company.  He'd be the newest supervillain in town – Firebrand!  What could go wrong?

He flipped open his Swiss army knife, heating the blade over the flame of one of the candles.

"By marking my skin with the heated silver of this blade," he intoned, "I show my loyalty unto thee...  OW!!!  Damn, that stings!"

The knife clattered to the floor as Daniel stuck his blistering thumb into his mouth.  All thoughts of pain subsided as he saw a burst of smoke erupt from the chalk pentagram he had drawn.

"Summumma biff, ith workth!" he exclaimed, suddenly remembering to remove his thumb from his mouth.

He eagerly stared at the pentagram as the smoke cleared.  Excitement gave way to puzzlement as he saw that what remained in the pentagram was not a demon, but a carefully rolled-up, black piece of paper, tied shut with a dark red ribbon.

"I guess that's the contract they want me to sign," he muttered with a shrug.  He reached into the pentagram, retrieved the black scroll, removed the ribbon, and unrolled the paper.  The lettering inside was flowing and elegant, in a tasteful shade of red.

Dear Applicant:

We appreciate you applying for the position of Infernal Thrall.  We have reviewed your background and qualifications, but unfortunately do not see a need for you at this time.

Thank you for expressing your interest in our organization.

Demonically Yours,
Infernal Affairs

Daniel blinked in stunned shock.  What the heck had just happened?

***********************

"BRAND!!!"

The voice thundered through the offices of Infernal Affairs.  Frank Ire Brand, Demonic Requisitions Clerk, winced as he heard his name called out.  It sounded like his supervisor had it in for him, once again.

Frank scrambled up from his desk, removing the green visor from his horned head to hold it meekly in his small, red claws.  His barbed tail swished nervously behind him.

"Yes, Mr. Grumpsnugget?" he inquired.

The fuming, bloated form of his supervisor towered over him.  The pinstripe suit failed to entirely cover his bulging gut, and ashes fell in a steady stream from the stubby cigar that he gnashed between his fangs. 

"What in blazes is this?"  Mr. Grumpsnugget held a crumpled black letter in his clawed hand, which he waved in Frank's face.  The little demon felt a lurch in his stomach.

"Er... it's a rejection letter, Mr. Grumpsnugget."

"I know it's a rejection letter, you snot-nosed clerk!  That was a rhetorical question!  What I want to know is why you issued it?"

Another trail of ash fell from Grumpsnugget's cigar to pile on Frank's head.  The demonic clerk took a deep breath, and dove into his answer.

"The applicant was clearly unqualified, Mr. Grumpsnugget.  His record indicated that he was a sloth at work, and he made at least six errors in the summoning ritual... and that didn't even count the pronunciation errors!  He would have been a waste of limited resources, and..."

"Unqualified?" guffawed Mr. Grumpsnugget.  "Unqualified?  I can't believe I'm hearing this!  What kind of business are we in, ya little pipsqueak?"

"Er... is this another rhetorical question, sir?"

Mr. Grumpsnugget slammed his fist down on Frank's desk, sending requisition forms flying.

"We're in the damnation business, you little upstart!  We're Team Evil!  A Growth Industry!  Always hiring!  What John Q. Sinner asks for, John Q. Sinner gets!"

"B-but sir!" stammered Frank.  "I've been running the numbers, and that really doesn't seem to fit a favorable economic growth model!  I mean, if we open our doors to every Johnny-Come-Lately that happens along, we'll have nothing but incompetents down here!  After all, why should Heaven get all the good recruits?"

Grumpsnugget's face paled to an alarming shade of grey.

"You sayin' I'm a Johnny-Come-Lately, punk?" he growled.  "That I'm some sort of an incompetent?"

Frank's heart sank.

"N-no, sir!  I'm just trying to point out..."

"I don't need you to point out anything, you uppity little pipsqueak!" howled Grumpsnugget.  "Just like I don't need you running numbers or making economic forecasts!  It's not in your job description!  There is no place in this organization for a firebrand – when are you going to learn that?"

"Sir, if I could only..." started Frank, but Mr. Grumpsnugget cut him off with a gesture.

"Pack up your things, Brand.  You're outta Infernal Affairs."

Frank's eyes widened in shock and disbelief.  "You... you mean I'm fired?"

Grumpsnugget grinned evilly.

"Naw, I'm not gonna fire you.  We're the very definition of affirmative action down here.  Everybody gets a job.  I just think it's time to transfer you to a division better suited to your... individual talents."

Frank shuddered.  He really didn't like the sound of that office jargon.

****************************************************

Daniel sat down on the floor once more, lighting the dark blue candles amid the yellowed chalk figures.  Since the last incantation hadn't worked, maybe contacting a different demonic entity would yield better results.  Of course, the new ritual called for extra ingredients that he didn't have on hand, but Karo syrup mixed with red food coloring looked like a close enough substitute, right?

"By the pricking of my thumb, do I summon thee..."

Daniel hesitated.  He'd gotten some nasty paper cuts as a mail boy, and those things were painful.  Maybe the Dark Powers would be satisfied with just barely breaking the skin...

Smoke flared within the pentagram.  Daniel held his breath, expectantly.

The smoke cleared.  Standing in the pentagram was a three-inch tall imp, with a bald, horned head, and an angrily swishing barbed tail.  It kept its gaze lowered at the stone floor as it fumed.

"All right, all right!  I'm here, already!" grumbled Frank through his grinding teeth.  "Just stop with that lame excuse for an incantation before I'm forced to stab my own ears out with a letter opener!"

Daniel looked skeptically at the diminutive demon.  The pentagram seemed ludicrously large for such a small result.

"Wait... you mean, that's it?" he asked in confusion.  "I mean, you don't look like the Dread Lord..."

"Listen, buddy," snarled Frank.  "You should count your lucky stars that you didn't just get a rejection letter.  I swear, hiring standards have gone down the toilet..."

"Hold on a second," interrupted Daniel.  He fumbled for the black letter.  "That's what this is?"

Frank's gaze snapped upwards.  His eyes widened as he looked at the familiar paper with its red lettering, and then winced as he slapped his forehead.

"That was you?  Oh, for Christ's sake, why did I have to be assigned to be your case worker?"

"What?  You mean, you sent this?" asked Daniel incredulously.  "And... wait a minute – did you just say Christ?  Is that even allowed?"

Frank shook his head in disbelief.  "Oh, for the love of God...  Taking the Lord's name in vain – it's the second one for crying out loud!  Just what the heck are they teaching you nowadays?"

Daniel felt like the situation was rapidly escaping him.  He tried to bring things back to familiar territory.

"So, uh... you're like, bound to grant me the powers I want, in exchange for my soul, right?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," grumbled Frank.

"Okay – cool!" exclaimed Daniel.  "I want to have powers over flame, so that..."

"Not so fast, hotshot!" retorted Frank.  "Yes, I'm stuck with you until I've provided you with customer satisfaction.  But you're not getting so much as a match flare from me until I'm satisfied that you're not just going to louse it up!  So I'm going to stick to you like glue, every hour of every day, until I've whipped you into proper shape befitting an Infernal Thrall!  I swear – I'm going to make a firebrand out of you... even if it kills us both!"

Daniel ran a hand through his hair in disbelief.  Why did the occult books never mention things like this?

[Ajax]

Finished the changes to the story. By the way, the character limit is 20,000.