Fire and Flames

The palms of his hands itched for revenge and burned for retribution; his heart screamed in outrage – an inferno fueled by hatred and grief.

Chilled right down to his soul, Ryan Brooks shivered uncontrollably; fighting an endless battle to uphold his composure while an ocean of people milled about, chattering, craning their necks like vultures before a feast – their cold, beady eyes darting around in search of a tantalizing scrap of gossip. The Medical examiner laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, a clear indication that it was time to leave. Clenching his fists, Ryan shrugged the old man's touch and got to his feet, raking a sneer over the crowd of onlookers. Animals, he thought as rage burned deep inside his chest, the whole damn lot of them.

Ryan pushed through the crowd, ignoring their curses and questions and their sympathetic glances.

He didn't need sympathy. What he needed was blood - his blood. And that need alone drove him forward.

"You'll pay, James Murdock," he growled through clenched teeth as he bent to retrieve the old weathered bag at his feet, "You. Will. Pay."

Ryan trudged down the darkening street with his hands in his pockets and his jacket zipped up to his ears in an attempt to ward off the biting wind. Painful memories found their way to the surface, broke free of their prison and trickled down his cheeks and his heart ached for the loss of his only companion. Out of pure habit, only a block or so away from his own dwelling, Ryan stopped at the entrance of a dark alleyway. "Perdone, caballero," Ryan whispered his customary greeting to the shadows; a ghost image of Emmanuelle smiled at him from his usual spot as he patted the ground next to him, "Ryan, mi muchacho!"

Ryan sighed, stepping into the abandoned alley; wiped at his eyes and sat down on the cold, hard ground, leaning his head back against the wall, looking up at the black clouds looming, pressing in on the world below.

"What do I do now, Manny?" Ryan asked as a dark depression consumed him and his vision blurred. As he sat, staring into the darkening sky as the sun set behind those wicked clouds, listening to the wind as it danced through the empty streets, Ryan found himself drawn to the weathered bag in his lap. Emmanuelle had never revealed what he kept in his bag, though, on occasion, he'd pull out a book and read something to him. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out the old leather-bound book and fingered the worn edges; Ryan closed his eyes and held the book up to his nose and inhaled deeply, and a smile spread across his face.

"You're crazy, boy! People find out what you can do and they'd give you a 'happy-jacket' and stick you in a padded room."

Ryan chuckled at the memory. Emmanuelle had scolded him when he'd inadvertently set fire to the dumpster of a nearby fast-food joint. At that point he'd feared that his only friend would up-and-leave after finding out that he was a freak, but the old man only laughed and hugged him. He was seven...

It was only two years later that Ryan finally understood what he'd meant by that; not even his own parents could see past the Pyromancer to the child underneath – a child who craved their attention and understanding, but more than anything he wanted to be loved– and they had turned their backs on him.

Still smiling, he flipped the cover; scrawled, on the first blank page, in neat, tiny letters was the old man's adage:

When you live in the Moon's shadow, you envy those who walk in the Sun.

Ryan soon found himself in tears once again; clutching the book to his chest he whimpered like a little child; rocking back and forth, teardrops falling in torrents, splattering on the dirty asphalt, soon to be washed away by the coming rain. Ryan ignored the sounds of footsteps and wrapped his arms around his knees and wept.