It was dark and cold and Doug was panicking. His fingers, seemingly of their own will, fumbled around until they gripped around his lighter. As his thumb passed over the ignition wheel and the flame soared up, images flooded his mind. A southern girl with white streaks in her hair, whose touch dropped him to his knees as police cars burned on the lawn. A man made of ice, who was a friend but not. Another man with claws that always had a cigar in the corner of his mouth. A red haired doctor. Alcatraz. Metal moving of it's own will. John. Pyro. John.
The smell of rotting flesh pulled him abruptly into the present. He was in a meat locker. He was in a Goddamned meat locker and he had to get out.