Title: Wildfire

Summary: Life isn't a joke. Death isn't a joke. Reincarnation isn't a joke. But she'll do her hardest. SI OC (of sorts).

Rated: Teen, due to swearing.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own misery and the half-baked character I've spent too much time pratting about with. If I did own the franchise, I'd most likely have progressed with the story instead of drawing out a battle for a year and a half.

A/N: One of the several characters I will eventually get around to writing the story for, now typed up. Partially. And yes, I'm jumping on the SI bandwagon.

Prologue

Being reincarnated, from experience, isn't some gentle, seamless transitional process from which you are one person, then very suddenly another, without memories of your previous state.

Being reincarnated isn't a deeply profound experience, in which the mysteries of the universe are suddenly exposed for your leisurely perusal and your mind becomes infinite in it's own wonder.

Fucking frightening is what reincarnation is.

Traumatizing is what reincarnation is.

Faulty, was what mine was.

It's also hard to explain. It was one of those 'You-had-to-have-been-there' situations.

Assuming it had occurred before, and there had been a long stream of perfectly average and infinitely boring (in the grand scheme of things, of course) people who housed my soul prior to my existence this time around, I had either hit a limiting number or something had overloaded the cosmic recycling system because the whole 'fresh start' thing didn't happen.

Not this time.

I remember dying.

I remember the sheer terror and confusion I felt, horrified at my impending death. I remember the heat and the smoke and the building collapsing around me. I remember the dwindling sensation of hope as it became apparent that no one was coming to help me.

I was being left to burn to death.

I remember crying when I came to that realization; screaming my throat raw against the smoke and dust and ash as the ceiling caved in on me, flames licking at my skin.

I hadn't wanted to die.

I don't think most people do, really. There are the odd few cases, 'Please-don't-resuscitates', euthanasia seekers and those who are ready to go in peace.

I was none of the above. In fact, I was quite attached to my life.

I had dreams, aspirations of travelling and seeing the world, of growing as a person and returning to impart wisdom on those who didn't want it. I wanted to be remembered.

Now I was nothing.

Now I was a nameless statistic, unidentifiable due to near cremation and with no family to mourn for me.

I remember the fire continuing for so long, longer than I anticipated it to. I know time can seem to stretch when you don't want it to, but I'm fairly sure once the nerve endings went, you weren't supposed to be in pain. Then again, theory and practice were two different things.

Drastically different.

I remember the fire burning, licking at my insides, searing through my veins, heating my very soul. It sounds poetic but felt fucking horrible. It lasted to a point where I almost felt connected to the fire, if that's possible. The fire used me as an energy source; therefore I was tapped into it and could livebreatheexist in it.

It carried on burning me until I realized it didn't'. I could feel it, but it didn't hurt anymore. It didn't consume me anymore.

I figured that was because it had eaten too much of me away, but then questioned how it was I could ponder its motives if the fire was supposed to have cremated my internal organs.

I half felt as if I was high, following in the venerable footsteps of those who were up until questionable hours of the night on the computer, posting sleep-deprived posts on Tumblr, painting the room in neon colours at two in the morning or doing really early calls to twenty-four hour supermarkets.

It was almost a numbness, except for the burning, which was more of a flame from a tea-light, the wild forest fire constricted and concentrated until the smallest flicker. It oozed its way through my veins and permeated every fibre of my being.

I was slammed back into my mind violently, the feeling similar to being punched in the stomach. I was winded, but had no need to breathe, hurt, but nothing to feel hurt with. I could see, but had no eyes. I could hear, but had no ears.

I knew this, but had no idea how.

It was white, like looking into a blank Microsoft Word document for too long, for as far as the eye could see. It pervaded every sense that I had, every dimension of thinking.

I had been stripped of everything.

I had the memories, sure.

I could remember who I had been, with a hell of a lot more clarity than I could prior to being burnt alive, but I didn't associate them as mine.

They weren't my memories.

They were someone else's.

I had no physical limits, no mental blocks.

I didn't do anything, nor feel the need to do anything either.

I was there, and then not, and merely existed.

And then the world turned on end; I took a deep breath, and screamed.

A/N:

Chaotic, I know, but the lucidity is supposed to fade toward the end for good reason. I don't imagine the process to be anything other than a pure mindfuck, personally.

The beginning of a story you may ask? Yes, yes it is.

Have you got it planned out? Not really.

Reviews would be appreciated given it's the first time trying something like this…