The Last Flameling of Solnis

Wanted

My heart races strong at the sight of gleaming metal brandished in the light of the moon. Just the sound of it, shifting from the anonymous opp's waist to his hands, tells me it's unmistakably a gun. The assailant aims at us from the comfort of my bed and the concealment of shadows. I watch as his pale finger slips from the guard and cups the trigger.

     "I guess everybody knows how to sneak into this place Shi. I know we live in a lil suburb and all, but damn. Your mom needs Ring or somethin," Dustin jokes as he slowly turns around and subtly puts his body between me and the gun. He flips on warm bathroom lights as he mollifies the intruder. "Hey man look. You don't have to pull the trigger. Shiloh and I are only seventeen. We're smart students with bright futures. We have promising sports careers. Our families donate to charity regularly. We invest money and time into impoverished communities across the country. We are good people. If it's money you want, we have it."

     "Yes. Dustin Goodwin, star quarterback and point guard of the Black Hill Academy Vipers, son of Black Hills Mayor Daniel Goodwin and paralegal Yolanda Goodwin. Guess that's where you get your bullshit improv speeches from," he shades with a deep husk in his voice. "You also don't have a police force in Black Hills so you have to use de-escalation tactics, appeal to pathos and whatnot, even though you have the right, by law, to kill me where I stand for intruding in your home. But something tells me neither of you have the balls to do so, given your cushy lives. And so." He pulls back on the trigger without a second thought and there's no time to think. There's no time to choose the right flame. I only choose instinct as adrenaline courses through me.

     I grab Dustin and ignite his chest and his head in a yellow flame of armor. Frightened, Dustin throws his hands up and the force of the bullet's impact sends us sliding back on the smooth tile floors as his body collides into mines. I catch him, but it's as though the friction of my Jordans and his Yeezys no longer work as we slide into the middle of the  bathroom.

     There's a warbling of wind that fills my ears as we stop. It's as if I'm speeding down a road with the windows rolled down, but my locs—they blow forward as if the wind is coming from behind me. And Dustin's shrunken afro curls stretch and whip wildly as I hold him up hoping for the best.

     Dustin stands himself upright, his hands still firmly in front of his face. The wind around us grows and tiny fragments fill the the glass doors of my shower. I can hear a new creaking in the walls of my bathroom. The protective flames surrounding Dustin fade away as I struggle to breathe. I crash to the ground clenching my chest and as I look up at Dustin I see the bullet floating right in front of his hands, just inches away from piercing his eyes.

     The bullet drops to the floor in a clatter next to Dustin's bone white 500's, it's outer casing bent around its base like a flower. And each petal is decayed and rusted.

     "Dustin, what was that?" I ask as I pick myself up from the cold floor, finally able to breathe again. My heart races as I stare him down. He doesn't respond. His mouth sits agape. His body trembles. His brown eyes are stunned, fixated on hands that just stopped a speeding bullet. Both of ours eyes are until the shadowed intruder breaks into the silent awe.

     "So the memory I retro'd was true," the assailant remarks as he slides off my bed. "This small town just got more interesting."

     "What do you want from us?" I demand as I put myself between him and a dazed Dustin, his intimidating height forcing me to look up into his shadowed face. I'm sure to take in his black, baggy utility pants juxtaposed against a white, cropped, turtleneck sweater and his black trench coat. He steps black Fendi boots into the light of the moon and reveals himself. His skin is a shining cadmium with a coppery flush bleeding over his freckles. He looks white, but his hair coils and kinks just like mine in the roots and brunette locs drape over his forehead.