My hands are scorched by the delicate flames of chaos.
Ironic, is it not?
The flames are dancing around my fingers, the pain of it never existing. I feel nothing but a cool sensation. My skin doesn’t sting. I don’t feel the slightest burn. My hands are numb and painless and immune to fire.
But now I am starting to realize.
I am fire.
I snapped my fingers and almost immediately, power surged through my veins. Fire crackled and twitched all around me. Then, the flames quieted down and hovered as a fireball on my palm.
I felt the prickle in my eyes.
I watch the blue and orange, tedious before me. I watch as my hands have formulated beautiful ribbons of fire. So intense. So strong.
I am a walking weapon.
I am power.
I am not weak.
I press my right palm against the cold concrete of the building’s rooftop that I’m standing on. I watch as my flames snake down the pipes, the trail of fire starting to seep in the building and would soon slowly spread and set this whole mall on fire.
Ace Enderson’s son has been hunting me down for the past two weeks and I’ve grown bored of his stupid little goose chase. He has been spying on me, endlessly. He has been following me around Central City, trying his hardest to surpass me, to impress me, to win me over. Me. A mass murderer and arsonist. Possibly a master criminal and blood-thirsty villain, too. It’s incredible.
I have rejected his proposal to join his ridiculous secret agency countless times, and he still seems to want me there so badly.
Well. His father does.
It bothers me how unaware he is of my ability to shred him to pieces if I wanted to. It bothers me how unafraid and optimistic he is. He is starting to piss me off.
I hate it when people piss me off.
But he is in that mall at this instant, thinking I am in there and doesn’t know what the hell is about to happen to him.
He’ll figure it out soon enough.
It’s been decades. I’ve become the face of fear and horror in every city I ever came upon. My unique ability has given me immense power. Control. And I work alone. How degrading and pitiful of me to join a rebel group who catch bad guys and pretend to be the city’s beloved heroes just to feel better about themselves. Just to find a penny to feed themselves. Just to be accepted by people.
Well surprise, shorty. I am bad guys.
I will never find my way around in life like this. I work for myself. I feed my own mouth. I succeed alone.
I do not need anyone.
And for Enderson to talk to me so casually? It’s refreshing, but disrespectful.
This ends now. Once and for all.
I feel a wicked smile creep its way across my face.
Being a master criminal is getting real, real fun.