He breathed in deeply, his body still and calm. As he felt the air fill his lungs, he imagined in his mind's eye an aura around himself expanding to accommodate his continued existence, reacting to the strength and power of the muscles in his throat and chest as he inhaled. He breathed out, and imagined the aura shifting again, twisting and growing based on the heat, scent and motion of the carbon dioxide he released. He continued like this for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, focused, his senses sharp. A howling inferno of sensory overload roared like a fire around him, sounds and smells and sensation, but he refused to let it consume him. Instead, he pulled it into that expanding and contracting aura until it burned brightly but he was at the center of it, in control.

Finally, he stopped focusing on the breathing, and instead focused on pushing the conceptual aura he had created outwards, willing it to cascade over the objects around him, extending it until it blanketed him for miles around. The aura became a sixth sense, a distinct guide that illuminated everything in 360 degrees, the data coalescing in his imagination into a burning imprint of the world around him. The fire contained, no longer raging.

He was ready.

He sensed the kick well before it happened, the moment the other person's leg twitched a fraction of an inch upwards, and he dodged the blow to the head effortlessly, feeling his center of gravity shift with the movement. The next punch was lightning fast, but he was faster, and he blocked it with an elbow and lashed out with a punch of his own. His opponent was ready for him too and he didn't make contact. With a rustle of fabric and an exchange of body heat a leg moved to sweep his feet out from under him. He leaped up to the exact height he needed, not an inch higher than necessary, on instinct. When his feet slammed into the ground again, he kicked out towards his opponent, catching him by surprise in the stomach.

"Oof!" Matt heard, and he sensed Stick keeling over holding onto himself. He stopped and the aura faded, the darkness and din creeping back in.

"Aren't you... gonna... go for the finishing blow?" Stick asked, haltingly.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Matt said.

"See, that's your problem, kid," said Stick. "You don't have the balls to go all the way."

"I'm sorry," Matt said, feeling like a disappointment.

"It's alright," Stick said. "You'll learn. Probably the hard way."

"You mean this isn't the hard way?" Matt asked with a smirk.

"If that's what you think then you've got a long road ahead of you," said Stick. "And I don't envy it."

"I got you good, though, huh?" Matt asked.

"You did," said Stick. "I'd say you got lucky but I know that you didn't. You were quick. Quicker than me."

"I've been practicing," Matt said proudly. "Controlling the fire, just like you taught me."

"Controlling it? Awww, Matty, you missed the point, as usual," said Stick, shaking his head sadly. "I don't know why I expected any better from you."

"What do you mean?" Matt asked.

"It's not about controlling the fire," Stick said. "It's about fanning it until it's a raging blaze straight outta hell and then stoking in the right direction so that it consumes the other guy first instead of you."

"That sounds painful," said Matt.

"It is," Stick said. "It's also necessary. You need to stop being such a goddamned pussy and jump into the flames, kid. Embrace it like it's your dead daddy and hope you live to tell the tale."

"I don't know if I can," Matt said, honestly, his voice going quiet. As he said it, he thought about the way the sidewalk scraped his knees through his jeans as he leaned over his dad's body in a dirty alley, about lying on a cold bedroom floor feeling splinters scrape his palms as he sobbed. "I don't know if I want to," he said.

"I don't know either," Stick said with a sigh. "Maybe you'll never be ready. Again."

With that, Matt posed his body in the ready position, breathing in deeply, and allowed the fire to burn again, determined.