A/N: This is the start of what I hope to be a long and enjoyable story. It is my very first fanfic of any kind, yet I am open to any criticisms any ideas any suggestions people may have. I do not own Young Justice, only my Character Alex. I hope all of you enjoy.
Chapter 1 "the spark that begins a fire.."
~10 years prior~
Alex sat there in his bed smiling happily at his mother. he was only 5 years old. An angel as he giggled feeling his mother Lena runs her hand across his stomach tickling him. It was a simple albeit happy life. His mother was...determined to say the least. she had come over from Russia after the death of his father, and for lack of a better term she did what she had to, keep a roof over his head and food in her son's belly regardless of her own personal sacrifice or dignity.
The sound of broken glass could be heard as a drunken loser of a man stared up at the window, glaring. "I'll teach you to turn me down you overpriced wench. People will learn to fear the name Leon Kardis starting tonight." the smell of gas seeped the streets as the man ignited the fumes, starting a fire. Soon the fire began to spread wildly due to the old state of the building. Smoke filled the tiny apartment, and Lena, soon used an old wrought iron fire poker to bust out the window yelling for help.
flames licked at their feet, as Lena clutched her son, panicked hoping the Gotham Fire Department would get there soon, at least soon enough to save her son even if not her. She had already lost one of the 2 men that mattered most to her in this or any other world, Ravil, she wasn't she couldn't bear the agony of losing the other. creaking could be heard in the apartment as a section of wall caved in, Lena wrapping Alex up in his blanket, a green-hued fabric that at least this point in his 5-year old life, was the most important possession to him. the floor was starting to creak, and Lena knew what that meant.
The floor was about to give way. Whoosh, a sound similar to a jet engine, but actually it was Kara aka Supergirl. she was still a hero-in-training but a small emergency like a fire was something she could handle. Kara quickly moved to the window seeing the distressed mother who rather than let Kara help her was far more concerned about the safety of her child. in the midst of tearful begging to keep him safe in broken English and Russian suddenly the floor gave way, the woman falling into the blaze, Alex almost going to but the fire seemingly moved to his rescue as if the inferno itself had been moved by the mother's final plea, launching him into Kara's arms, the terrified child, crying as to the sudden disappearance of his mother.
Clark soon arrived as the boy sat there wrapped in that same blanket, his face soaked from tears. the boy looked up at Superman and pointed as if expecting the man of steel the legendary champion of champions to simply pull his mother from the burnt rubble and all would be well, just like in the cartoons about Superman, he watched while his mother was at work. the sight of the boy simply uttering "Mamochka" Russian for mother, even tugged on the man of steel's heartstrings. Soon Gotham DCS arrived, Kara looking at the boy who stared at her. "Clark...will he be okay? Clark?" Clark was digging at the rubble tossing it aside as if cotton. He may not of been able to bring the boy's mother back to life but he would see to it she got a proper funeral, rather than sit at the bottom of rubble for days on end while the crew dug it up.
~modern day~
Alex woke on the bench of a subway station, getting the railing of the bench tapped hard by a Gotham PD officer. "Kid, are you with anyone?" Alex smiled nodding. "Yes, my grandmother is in the bathroom. I was simply stretching out while I waited on her. Nothing wrong with propping you feet up right?" the cop was not buying it as he made Alex stand and began patting him down. "You understand what time of year it is kid? You should be home, not out on the town giving your mother a panic attack." Alex looked away getting a bit irritable the more these doughnut inhaling ticket writers used that line. "My mother isn't capable of having attacks anymore. Now if you are not going to buy me dinner get your hands off of me."
the Cop in frustration took hold of Alex's wrist but didn't anticipate the sharp-minded street rat, to out quick him latching the cop's own handcuffs around, one wrist and the other around the railing he had tapped to wake him up. "Happy Halloween, officer." Alex headed off into the city. Gotham was bizarro world this time of year. the freaky gangs, the odd criminals it just really gave him an icky feeling.
Alex was currently not in the bad part of town where he grew up, on the Upper East Side, trying to get dinner, as he bumped into a mouthy stockbroker, who was running down some poor bike delivery guy who almost ran over his shoes which cost more at one time than Alex usually had all year to spend. However, that was not the problem now as a wallet hung from Alex's mouth his fingers sliding the dollar bills through counting. The actual cash money was 130 dollars, not bad for a night's work. He held the wallet in hand, as it ignited, before tossing it into a metal bin, starting a fire for some homeless people splitting the cash with them.
Police sirens screamed in three directions that he could tell. There was a building on fire somewhere ahead and to his right-he could see the orange light on the smoke against the night sky, hear the fire truck's siren. He had already seen one smashed storefront, picked clean of electronics of all sorts by the looters and gangs wandering were rough on this night, even by Gotham City standards. And all because it was around Halloween. The authorities-City Hall, police officers, EMTs, all of them-called it Hell Week. Super criminals planned crimes during the week, official gangs had turf wars, small gangs and thugs went around robbing and looting in the chaos and noise, certain they would be safe because of the bigger things going on.
Alex knew he was courting trouble by being out at night, but he had things to do, and more importantly, he had to eat. he couldn't just sit inside, He had to find a way to get food. He found himself staring at an old Flying Grayson poster as a memory flashback of sitting on his mother's lap clapping happily, as the Grayson performed their aerial stunts flowed through his mind like a river. However, in this part of Gotham sentimentality could get you killed especially this time of year.
Alex stopped getting a 2 burgers and a drink, already halfway through chowing down the first before he even made it out the door. Despite his rugged demeanor, fiery ability and less than honest ways, Alex still had his good points. He still had the blanket from his childhood. he couldn't bring himself to let it go. It was stained, filthy, to some people beyond any redeeming value at all but it was the sole thing he had that reminded him of his mother.
Alexander glanced at the skyline to take his bearings. He was near Park Row, skirting the edges of the seedier side of town. He decided to risk cutting down an alley to look through some garbage cans. The young man's free hand twitched.
As quietly as he could, he looked through the first garbage can he found, by some office's side door. He liked office cans-they can threw away more paper than food. And, sure enough, under someone's old apple, he found a newspaper. Alexander glanced up and down the street, and then began pulling the paper apart into sections. He held up the sports page, half-closed his eyes in concentration, and pushed his hand through the paper, which immediately blossomed into fire around the black edges of his handprint.
This was what pulled him from home on Hell Week. The chance to vent the energy that built in him, the forces that demanded release. He'd read around, and the closest word he found for it had been pyrokinesis. However, in all the comics and stories, they had some control over it. He didn't. He'd been playing it safe all week, staying out of trouble, staying in at night. But now he had to get rid of this energy, or he'd...he'd...
He'd set his house on fire in his sleep, he supposed, as he found the thick financial section and set it on fire with a long drag of a finger. Even this tiny use of the force in him was a relief, made it easier to control and restrain. But he had to bleed the rest of it tonight. Then he'd be fine for three or four days before the build-up began to bother him again. It'd be after Halloween, then, and he could find some homeless guys and start a fire for them or maybe burn some stuff in the middle of a parking lot, do anything safer than torching paper in an alley.
Near the waterfront, he stopped to look at a smallish warehouse. It'd been TP'd extensively. He couldn't imagine why someone would go to the trouble for just a warehouse, but he felt nervous just looking at it. "A hard sneeze," he muttered to himself. He passed it on the opposite side of the street, and cut past it. He was in the right area, anyway. He should be done and back home in an hour.
Alex crossed the quiet street and went through another alley, on the lookout for wooden pallets or old planks or anything more substantial than paper that he could use. And he was so intent that he didn't even see the man until he bumped into impact knocked them both back a couple of steps. Alexander caught himself on a lamp post and looked at the guy he'd bumped into.
The eyes tipped him off. He'd always laughed at long, drawn-out descriptions of emotions being magically shown in eyes somehow, but in this case, he felt it was justified. This guy's pupils were contracted down to pinholes; his eyes too light a gray. The man twitched constantly, his movements jerky and erratic but also as quick as a bird's. The wrong kind of drugs, especially for someone holding a knife. The rest of the man was an afterthought-stained t-shirt, jeans. Hair askew. Just cursory details behind the eyes and the knife.
Fear made his stomach clench tight, and Alex swung around the lamp post and run down the street the other way. He heard the junkie's breathing and footsteps right behind him. Alex was on an adrenaline rush now, but his pursuer was on drugs-and fully grown with longer legs besides. The guy caught up in a dozen steps, and hooked his fingers in Alex's collar and gave it a jerk.
Pulled off-balance, Alex came around swinging and the teen's fist thudded into the junkie's ribcage with a nice thwack. He hadn't been able to put any serious force behind the strike, and the junkie only barely stepped back from a wild punch to the gut. this time, however Alex swung low, aiming his shin for the knee as this wasn't the first knife-wielding thug he had dealt with. He knew he needed to get the man down so he could dislodge the weapon from his grip.
The man ducked a little, taking it on his thigh-though he still howled. He lurched forward, all clumsy and swift, and his knife hand drew got stopped by Alex's left hand while a burst of flame from his right brushed the doped up thug's face, singing eyebrows and setting hair on fire. The man released the knife and screamed, and slapped at his head frantically. The fire hadn't took hold for certain, and it was out again a couple second later.
Alexander looked at his outstretched hand, horrified. He'd meant to push the man away, or at least stop the man with his forearm but in the heat of the moment he lost that control, and the power had leaked out. "Oh God, I'm sorry, so sorry-" he began as dropped his guard and moved to help. He knew how to handle basic burns, from long experience with treating thugs who had made the same mistake this junkie did, but Alex wasn't stupid he used his power to heat up the knife as a precaution in case the man picked it back up.
Instead, he got punched in the face, it was unintentional but with the strength of panic and drugs behind it. The junkie stopped worrying about his hair-which wasn't really in danger now-and bent down to snatch up his switchblade-and just as quickly howled and let it go with a stink of burned skin coming from his hand, the man cursing loudly due to his pain
Dull red streaks, where Alex's hand had held it, were coloring the gray steel. Alex's stomach twisted again, and now he looked back up at that face. It was twisted in hate and anger, an ugly, uncaring expression. One that he was no stranger to either from the snooty rich folks in the "good" part of town or the thugs he had taken down in the past.
Alex panicked."GO AWAY!" he shouted, throwing his arms out. He intended to throw a spray of fire around him, something scary-looking but undirected to run the man off. Grab him on the arm and burn him somewhere non-lethal if he had the rest of his life, he wondered how things might have turned out if he hadn't done that.
Fear, adrenaline, and pent-up energy gave it more power than he actually intended to. The flames rolled out from him as if he was the center of a bonfire-only for a moment, but long enough. He had not intended to burn the junkie more than necessary, even despite the threat the man posed. He knew he was drawing the wrong kind of attention to himself with this display but right now he needed to get rid of this drug fiend before he had to inflict further harm.
The junkie did take the hint and run. Alex panted, and took a long breath. That had been dangerous. He was going to take care of this during the daylight in Hell Week next year. That was too close, and he hated that he'd hurt the man, drugged-out knife maniac or not. Nothing in the world hurt like a burn.
He had these…panic attacks before in the middle of a fight, yeah that was the best phrase he had found to describe them. He just needed to settle his mind and breathe, slowly. His power was far more volatile and active when he was worked up. Clearer-headed He could smell the water near him, the garbage here and there around him, the stink of the addict's body, the smell of burning paper by him; Burning paper. No, he begged the universe at large.
He turned around to see the building behind him. It was the Toilet paper covered warehouse, its cocoon of thin white paper burning away as the fire climbed up higher, onto the roof, and began to spread across the streaming rolls. Then it began to take hold of the roof while Alex stared in horror at his creation. The universe hates me, he thought as Alex made his way toward the building, his mind felt it necessary to drag out another memory.
~10 Years ago~
sitting in Gotham station as he looked at a man talking with Commissioner Gordon, a guy by the name of Bruce Wayne, as he did understand a little of the English language but still he felt content to stay quiet til Superman returned with his mother. it was such an innocent naiveté, one that it was going to crush Gordon, who recently gained a new addition to his family, a daughter named Barbara. Bruce looked at him watching Ravil's son as he had every intention of tracking down the culprit behind this. "Mamochka?" Alex tugged on Bruce's pant leg, as Gordon looked from the boy to Wayne, "He's been saying that to anyone who goes by .We've tried to figure out what he's saying but no one here speaks Russian."
Bruce knelt rubbing his head. "He's asking for his mother. I take it she did not..." Gordon shook his head as Bruce headed off faking a phone call, as he was ready to go find the man responsible. He had been in that young man's shoes. He knew what it was like to see your parents taken away from you but he was not going to have him experience the lost in shadows feeling of the cops never bringing the man to justice.
~flashback end~
Then he heard the screams inside. Two people. Alex glanced wildly at the ground, and saw his pipe. He snatched it up, and looked at the warehouse. The door on this side was steel, no good. He ran down the alley beside it, and saw a battered barely together door. He was actually grateful that these warehouse bosses were too cheap to upgrade the doors.
Two kicks to the door had it loose. Another two knocked it in, and then he leaned back and jumped into the door, hard at the center of the door planting his shoulder where the wood was starting to bend. It finally gave in, stopping briefly to check on the fire to see the rate it was spreading, and He couldn't kick the door in quickly enough.
With a snarl, he stuck a couple of fingers into the doorknob's hole, around the bolt. He focused the heat in his body down into his fingertips, forcing a mini plasma torch at the deadbolt. After a long moment, he snatched the semi-liquid bolt out of the door, where it splattered against brick behind him. Then he kicked the door open and, still listening to the screams, ran into the inferno he'd created.