Chapter 3
Firebug: Out of the Ashes
Firebug, NWO Headquarters, Present Day, 18:00 local time
Firebug was in his room, thinking.
"Reflect on your pasts, what you have overcome to get to this point." Primus had told them.
Unconsciously, he reached for a cigar. He willed one finger to burst into flames and lit the cigar, like he had done so many times before. He took a long drag, reliving the past. Absently, he took off his shirt.
Even with his muscled body, ebony skin, and painful looking scars that covered his body, the word DEVIL, written in slanted uneven lettering, was visible on his back in the fading light.
Bentonville, Virginia, 1842
Jomo was four when his master began to play with fire. That's what the master called it anyway. Jomo didn't know many words, but he knew he hated it when he had to play with fire.
Jomo didn't know how it started, it just happened one day. The master took him aside with a bunch of overseers watching. The master always had a cigar with him. He took the cigar and waved it in front of Jomo's face.
"You see this cigar?" he would ask lazily. Playing with fire always started with him asking that question. Jomo didn't know what to do at first, so he just nodded blankly.
"Well, it can talk." The master continued. Little Jomo's eyes got a little wider, but he didn't say or do anything.
"And you know what it says?" the master said, an evil smile forming on his face. Jomo didn't know, so he shook his head.
The master put his ear to the cigar, like he was listening to it. He listened to it for a long time. Finally, he put the cigar back into his mouth and breathed in.
"Lord, it's got a lot to say." The master leaned in, so that the smoke would go into Jomo's face when he talked. Jomo began to cough. The master waited for a little, but he grew impatient, so he kicked the 4 year old in the stomach. Jomo doubled over, spitting blood. One of the overseers grabbed Jomo's face and swung it towards the master.
"Here's what it says. It says, I have the power. I am in control here. You are completely at my mercy. It says you are scum of the Earth and that you will live out the rest of your very short life knowing that I am superior to you in every way."
Then he pressed the lit end of the cigar on Jomo's shoulder. Jomo screamed in pain and terror, and unconsciousness claimed him.
Bentonville, Virginia, September 1, 1850
The master was furious.
Somehow, Jomo wasn't affected by fire anymore. It still hurt; that was obvious from the expression on his face. But there was no lasting damage. Burn marks that had been there for years disappeared. No matter what kind of brand or how hot the flame, nobody could seem to create burns on his body.
Instead, the master now turned to whipping and beating, both of which worked fine. But it wasn't enough. Forcing his slaves to play with fire had worked for many years. He wasn't about to be undermined by this child. So he paid a small fortune to a blacksmith to create a giant brand in the shape of the word DEVIL in big, red-hot letters.
One day, the master called all the slaves and all the overseers to the center of his farm. The overseers had an expression of mild confusion, the slaves of hunger, pity, and despair.
"It has come to my attention," he began, "That this insolent slave," he pointed at Jomo, now 12 years old, "cannot be burned for some reason."
"I have concluded," he went on "that this boy is the worst of all you Negroes. In order to avoid punishment for his many transgressions, he has made a pact with the devil. And I cannot do anything to him about it!"
To prove his point, he pressed the DEVIL brand into Jomo's back with so much force that Jomo was stomach down on the dirt. After a tense silence, the master took the brand away. The world DEVIL could be seen on Jomo's back, but it began to fade away in plain sight.
Now, the master had hoped that the brand was big enough or the flame was hot enough to make the word stick, but he had a backup plan.
"I cannot punish him," he said, a sadistic grin forming on his face, "but I can punish his mother. For only a devil can spawn another devil! Bring her here!"
Jomo's mother was quickly shoved into the center of the crowd, a thin, emaciated woman who was clearly terrified about what was about to happen. The master thrust the brand on her chest. Her ragged clothes burst into flames, and she shrieked in agony. The master branded her again, half a foot lower. Jomo screamed and tried to run to his mother, but an overseer kicked him in the temple. He sprawled and was still. Other slaves cried in outrage and ran to help, but they too were forced back and beaten by the overseers. Jomo's mother could not be seen in a smoky mass of torches, brands and molten pokers.
Jomo came to 2 days later, just in time for the master to come to him with a clay pot filled to the brim with ashes. "Don't sneeze, boy!" he taunted, cackling as he left.
3 weeks later, the Maryland-Pennsylvania Border
Jomo couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He remembered what he'd eaten, a raw fish, but it seemed like such a long time ago. He had no idea where he was, except for the fact that he was going north. He could tell by the stars.
He ran the day after receiving the urn. He had never been outside the cotton farm his whole life, so when the hellhounds started to appear, he just assumed they were the local wildlife. In turn, Jomo did not know he was a demigod, so the hounds went by without a fuss. In any case, Jomo probably wouldn't have cared if he was eaten. He probably would have welcomed it. Grief had torn all sense of self-preservation from him. At least the fangs of a rabid monster didn't discriminate. They just needed a meal. Jomo guessed it would be a kind of mercy.
Mercy that the gun-toting mercenaries patrolling the area would certainly not offer. He plodded on, beyond caring who saw him meander through the trees.
Two men saw him meander through the trees. They were looking specifically for him. But they were no bounty hunters.
"Are you sure that's him?" One man asked skeptically.
"That's what Logos thinks. What's wrong with him?"
"Well, to think one of the gods would…with one of them…"
Primus frowned. "Metatron, we have no place for bigotry. Not us. We are above that. I wholeheartedly believe he is a demigod with extraordinary and rare abilities."
"If you say so." Metatron relented, although he was still doubtful.
"Here, I'll prove it. Those two over there just saw him."
Jomo didn't know what hit him. He was suddenly tackled from behind.
"Well, well, what have we here?" One man asked, delighted with the prospect of receiving a bounty.
"Long way from home, aren't you, boy?"A second man asked, in an identical tone to the first's.
"And look at that!" a third exclaimed. He was pointing at Jomo's back. The DEVIL mark looked like it was written in faded lettering, but it was visible nonetheless. Apparently, even Jomo's powers had its limits.
"The Devil Child. Lord, boy, your master is going to be happy to see you!" the first man exclaimed, kicking him. The urn spilled, ashes flying over the forest floor.
All was still for a moment.
Jomo burst into a pillar of flame. His eyes glowed red with hate and malice. The man who had kicked him had no time to react. His body was engulfed in flame. He flickered out of view for a moment, and when his companions could see him again, he was a blackened and charred corpse.
Primus looked over at Metatron. "Do you believe me now?"
Both men took out rifles and aimed. "He really is a devil child!" He cried in terror. Both fired.
The bullets stopped in midair, then fell to the ground.
"That's far enough." One man drawled from behind the bounty hunters. Both whirled around, drawing their swords. They saw two men, one in an ancient suit of armor, one in a more modern suit, with a sword at his hip. They instinctively singled out their targets and charged.
Primus calmly regarded the man sprinting at him. The bounty hunter swung, but before the sword could reach, his arm twisted at an impossible angle, cracking loudly. At the same time., his sword folded in on itself, so that the point was buried in his side. Primus put one gauntleted hand at the bounty hunters throat, strangling him. His other mailed fist grasped the edge of the sword and pushed it up, between the ribs, through the lungs and into the heart. The man gasped and died.
The second bounty hunter recoiled as he watched his friend get impaled. He singled out the now unconscious Jomo as the root of the trouble. "That filthy nig-" he started, but never finished. Metatron blasted him with lightning, then grazed him with his sword. The sword barely broke the skin, but it was enough. The lightning rebounded over and over across the mercenary's body. After a while, he shuddered one final time.
Metatron looked over. "Primus, he's out cold."
Primus walked over and slung Jomo over one shoulder. Silently, they stole away into the might.
2 votes. 1 from a friend, face-to-face. 1 from a fan who went above and beyond. I'm not complaining, it's better than nothing. Shout out to TwilightFan296! His/her comment is very lonely, though. Give it some friends please.
I'm worried that this might be lower quality. I'm rushing because I have school stuff, and don't like leaving my work half-done. I figured I'd get this done quick, then move on to my assignments. Someone's got his priorities in order.
