Flame tainted retina
Mick waited on a cold metal bench in the back of a truck, feeling the vibration of the engine under his feet and flicking his lighter, watching the little flame flaring then snapping the lid closed. No-one sat on the opposite bench to irritate and driver was behind a blacked out window, soundproof by the lack of response at his fists pounding on it in a futile attempt to drown out the torturous tinny Christmas music that was playing loudly through the rear speakers.
Suddenly, the truck abruptly slammed on it's breaks, a door slammed, the driver he assumed, though the engine was still going. The doors flew open, leaving Mick to clamber out into pitch black, with the hold-all that held all his worldly possessions landing on tarmac with a thud. The oily smell made him pause when it caught in the back of his throat as he breathed in. He leapt out the way as the truck spun it's wheels in reverse, then sped off.
Leaving him standing alone, the contact for the job nowhere to be seen. They'd stood him up, something that hadn't happened since high school when he bothered to go. He waited for a while, growling with impatience. Three days until the next pick up with nothing thing to do. If there even was a pick up.
Peering into the darkness, he pulled out his hood up from under his jacket to shield his neck from the cold breeze that weaved its way through the holes in his jeans and wrapped around his bones. The surroundings appeared to be industrial. Discarded metal and engine parts scattered amongst abandoned brick buildings. Lights blinking in the distance caught his attention, where off in the black there was a vague approximation of music.
Picking his bag off the floor, he grunted at the situation. Couldn't stand there til morning and get collared in the process.
Sticking close to the towering buildings he pulled up his hood, camouflaging his face, his bag slamming into his back with it's not inconsiderable weight. Pacing between closely packed factory buildings, a newspaper fluttered against his leg, caught in a breeze. He glanced at the headline and above in large print.
Central City Citizen, November 21st 2020.
What the fuck was he doing back in Central City? The words he went to Saints and Sinners, who would be there? Were the rest of the rogues still around? What he would give right now to squash the tight ball of pain mixed with uncertainty in his chest.
Suddenly, orange flared hypnotically in his peripheral vision. Distracted, he moved closer towards it, breathing quickly, gasping, like there was not enough air in his lungs.
A blinding white light threw him backwards, body flying through the air like a rag doll, only stopping with a crunch against a brick wall, crushing his shoulder.
He blacked out.
The white light was gone when he awoke, the sky still dark, but closer to dawn than he would have liked.
He staggered up, using the wall as support and scanned the surroundings. Ignoring the pain, -he was used to his shoulder giving up by this point-, in his mind the location of the flames taking priority. Heaving his bag back onto his other shoulder, a bridge caught his eye and he turned in the direction, taking medium sized steps, towards it, wary incase it happened again.
The great mouth of the bridge gaped blackness as he crunched his way towards it over grit and old sleepers. Under one of the arches, there was a figure hunched up in a corner squashed up close to the wall. Too tiny in the shadows to be an adult, he noticed they were untouched by what had happened. Their hands were on fire, but no screams escaped their lips, eyes diverted towards their fingers, as hypnotised as he had been.
He looked away and took note of the surroundings, brickwork mixed with graffiti, soot, darkness. White people shapes against the wall in various positions of terror.
The child raised their head and finally noticed him through flame tainted retina, fingers flaring.
A girl.
"They tried to hurt me" her voice small, but defiant. "Are you here to hurt me too?"
"Not gonna touch you Kid." He tried to say as gently as he could, stepping closer at the same time. She curled up smaller, the closer he stepped. "What did you do?"
"I got scared. It happens sometimes. Leave me alone"
"What's your name Kid?"
"Torch" she whispered, so quietly, that he could barely hear.
Her flames turned blue.
He edged towards her, like you would approach an apex predator. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
How are you doing this? How are you still breathing? No-one can ever be around me."
"Special talent kid."
"Are you a Meta too?"
"Me? No kid"
"Torch" she said "Not kid." her voice insistent as she stood. Coming up to the middle of his chest. The flames licked higher up her arms. The fabric of her clothes stayed in tact like she was protected.
"Close enough old man." She waved her hands at him, as if she was shooing mosquitoes.
He looked down at the girl, who looked about 10. She was tiny and blonde and out of control. He smirked, she reminded him of Sara.
Pale blue eyes watched him suspiciously from under a greasy looking fringe as she pushed bedraggled shoulder length hair away from her face with her hand, leaving a smear of dirt across her cheek.
The jeans and sweater she wore had so many holes that they were just about being held together. Black tape secured the soles of scuffed trainers.
He could recognise someone who needed help, though this was not quite altruism if there were flames involved and possibly a little destruction.
"What do I call you?" She asked.
It was a good question. He was many people. A ghost.
"Heatwave" he said without thinking.
The words left his lips and he felt numb. How was he going to be Heatwave without his gun? Without Captain Cold?
He slumped down next to her morosely and wrenched his arm back into it's socket.
"That's not a real name?"
He grunted, half in pain and half saying 'and yours it?, without actually speaking. She got the point and they sat in silence, waiting for the sun come up.
"What can you do?" He asked eventually
"I burn things."
"Awesome" He said unenthusiastically.
Sirens cut through the silence. Mick looked towards the entrance. He could see lights reflecting in the puddles made by drips from the ceiling.
"Cops" he spat, before looking over at Torch.
Her face distorted with abject panic.
"They can't find me. They'll kick me out this time" she spluttered.
He'd had seen that look before and the tone that accompanied it, defiant with a lingering hint of afraid.
He grabbed her arm without speaking and started dragging her through the darkness until their lungs burnt. They came out by bars, familiar shops and street corners. When the sirens were far enough away that their ears were no longer ringing, they paused under a street lamp.
"Ok. Time to go home kid."
She said nothing and he left her leaning against the street light, her hands flaming a little at her fingertips.
He'd saved another dumb kid. He seriously hoped that it wasn't getting to be a habit. Hopefully, this one wasn't going to follow him home and try to be part of his life. He couldn't handle that again.
He turned and walked away, leaving her creating shadows in the light, justifying that she could take care of herself. Half way up the street he turned back and she had gone. His body letting go of any agitation, he continued following his memories, taking alleyways, hugging the darkness that was slowly ebbing away.
More side streets, less people. Every so often a flare of orange shot into this peripheral vision, the basic instinct to follow it overwritten by his desire to get off the streets.
3 km out off other side of the city, he could see her without the flames in the muted colours of sunrise. Stepping into the darkness between two buildings, he waited for his shadow.
He grabbed her as she walked past and pulled her into the gloom.
"Why're you following me?"
"Wasn't" She said stubbornly
"So we're headin' in the same direction?" He pulled what he thought was his most intimidating glare.
She said nothing. Her hands going out before she jammed them in her pockets and looked at her feet, kicking her shoes on the tarmac. Waiting when he didn't move.
"Where do you live?" He asked
Again, silence. he could now see her hollow eyes, skinny frame of someone who hadn't eaten for a few days. He'd seen it before. Recognised it.
"Ok, come with me."
He was sure that he was getting soft in his old age.
"Where?"
"Our home"
They walked in silence until they came to an unlit house. It was a two storey, with an untidy front garden and flaking paint.
"Ours? Where's everyone else?"
"Gone"
He breathed deeply partly in exasperation and partly at the memory, saying nothing.
He climbed the steps to the front porch and started digging around in a pot next to the door, the dead flowers crunching under his fingers. Even in the dim early light, he couldn't see. He reached into his pocket, and rummaged around to find his lighter. Locating the familiar cold, he removed it from his pocket and flicked it open. Nothing. He kept trying until his fingers were sore from the friction.
"Shit." He said under his breath. "I need light" He snapped at the girl who was now looking at her nails in bored annoyance.
"You need what?"
"Light. Fire."
"Magic word?" she uttered belligerently
"C'mon kid" he snarled.
"It's Torch" She hissed, her voice getting louder.
"Please" He ground out, if only to get her to be quiet.
Torch's face lit up with a grin at the same time as her fingers. She walked towards the door and tilted her head in a silent question. Her hand lit up and she held it over the plant pot. From what he could see in the shadows was that her hand without burn or scar. He eventually found what he was looking for after digging deep into the pot, drawing out a small key.
He stood and opened the door, watching her hands go out as he did so.
Inside it was pitch black. He patted down the corridor with his palms to find a light switch. He looked back, noting that Torch had stopped on the doorstep, her fingers flaring.
"You coming in not?"
Her fingers dimmed slightly, giving off an eerie glow, as she followed him into the house. The air was stale and dusty. Her flames, revealing shadows.
"Wait here." Mick growled, letting his bag drop with a thump onto the carpet.
He flipped the light switch and the hallway lit up.
Quiet and dingy, his favourite safe house for when they were laying low.
He remembered the place like he'd been there that morning. The other version of himself.
Stepping into the kitchen, which in his mind was bright and lemon yellow. He could picture Len, leaning back on a chair, with his feet on the table, eating cereal, pointing at him with a spoon telling him that he was wrong. It happened so often that the memory had been ingrained.
Then the room went dark again. He walked around all the other rooms.
Piles of books on a coffee table in the living room opposite his favourite beige overstuffed armchair and the sofa they'd stolen from an art gallery for the hell of it. The widescreen tv reflected the window from its position on the back wall.
He could see Len there, lying on his back on the sofa, reading a book, feet propped up on one of the arms. Mick shook his head and the image was gone.
Effie followed him silently up the stairs.
They walked past Lisa's old bedroom, peeling wall paper, full of dust and spiders. Old posters curling at the edges, separated from the wall by dried out sellotape.
He stood in the door of their old bedroom. Again Len appeared, wandering around the room, reading chemistry books on the window seat, waiting for him in that big bed, smirking like he gave a damn.
Mick blinked and his vision disappeared.
His heart clenched in disappointment. What was he doing here? A question he couldn't answer.
He walked out of the room, noticing the girl had followed him, he slammed the door in front of her nose.
"What's in there?"
"None of your business. You can have Lisa's old room. I'll figure out what to do with you in the morning. Just stay out of my way." His tone blunt, finding her constant questions irritating.
He shoved her towards Lisa's room, pushed her in and shut the door, ignoring her indignant objections. He crossed the hall to his own room and opened the door. Muted sunlight flickered through the gaps in the curtains, he pulled them closed, ignoring the feeling of uneasiness and got undressed before sliding between the sheets, painfully aware that he was in this particular bed by himself. It felt wrong.
He'd spent the first year after leaving the ship seeing shadows of his partner. In every mirror, every dark room, shimmering like bad tv reception. Bitching in his ear every time he made a mistake. It slowly faded in a haze of fire and violence, then was replaced by silence.
Now he was back in Central City surrounded by his past. One that he had tried his best to forget.