John knelt beside the body of Fyre, and breathed in heavily. His face dripped sweat from every pore on his skin and his lip felt bulged and his eye cut open. Everywhere around him was ash.
“Why? Why do you do this?” John, again, took in a deep breath after saying that. He felt like something was loose , maybe a rib. He felt a poke inside his stomach. His memory flashed; Fyre wrapping a steel pole around his stomach as John was lying against a defunct stove. The pain flashed through him again.
“Because….it’s pure. The purest thing you can find,” Fyre moved his arm as he looked up from the concrete pile he laid in. John had lost his nerve after Fyre had blown up the newly built school on the edge of town. Live coverage was being broadcast all over town; John, setting out a chicken on his balcony for Pigeon, saw the burning orange on his screen flicker. Fyre must have been giddy watching the flames lick the newstrucks.
“Pure? Pure anarchy. It’s uncontrollable. Look at your leg!” John looked down at the scarred and charred appendage lying limp at Fyre’s side. The fire had been heading straight for John, like a direct missile. John propped his foot quickly against a metal plate in the boiler room and a bit of the fire aimed at his head shot off and caught a bit of paper, and blew a burst into unsuspecting Fyre. He smiled as his skin sizzled.
“I’ll ask again, more directly this time,” John managed all his strength and stood up, and laid his foot against Fyre’s damaged leg. He let out a cry of pain, a sharp wail of noisy glass.
“Why did you burn down the school? What possible good could come of it?”
“I…..don’t ask….. I just burn,” Fyre let out 1 more guttural yell and his eyes closed. His breathing became deep and rhythmic. He wouldn’t wake up for a bit. John wanted to make sure it stayed that way.
4 hours later….
Fyre rested uncomfortably in a cell in Nothing’s surprisingly effective jail facility, the overcost covered by their own town Mayor, Dr. Lucien. He picks up his phone and leaves the control room overseen by his night-time officer, Sgt. Derk. No one messes with Sgt. Derk.
“I told you not to call me on this number,” Lucien whispered. He listened to a old voice, but a voice that emitted power.
“The Desert’s Shadow? What on earth are you babbling about? I have real duties to attend to,” Lucien said.
After a few moments, he clicked the phone off and looked around.
“Shit!” He waved over one of his drivers and passed him a number. The number of a man he had not needed to contact in some 15 years.
“The Desert’s Shadow…..here, after all this time. Under my nose. It’s time I dealt with this…..situation.”