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definegodliness · 4 years

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The Amish Brothel

When I was young and wild, well, not that much wilder, but definitely plagued by the hormonal discharges that come with adolescence, it happened. No less than five years into my professional masturbation career (I was a natural), I suddenly found myself fed up with the sport.

Now, you're probably thinking, he did not try hard enough to be a professional jerk-off, but I had tried and brought to fruition the Norwegian Numb Strangler; the Alabama Twister; the Nubian Knob Flopper; the Spanish Sprinkler; yes, the Venezuelan Semi-Flaccid Fold 'n Toss, and even the Japanese Zen Garden Hose, but after five long and hard years none of them could give me the much sought after release of my all-overwhelming horny fornicorny sex on the brain-ness. I believe that is the medical term. But let it go without saying that it was plain and clear to me, I needed to get laid.

Now, how hard could it be for a sixteen year old to get laid; certainly in these days of moral decay? Very hard. You see, I was shy. Very shy. I was so shy that in the presence of the opposite sex I would freeze on the spot. And, as is well known, humans have a basic amphibian visual system: it's attuned to movement. They don't see unmoving things well at all. That's probably the reason why girls never noticed me.

So what I decided then was, that in order to keep my sanity, I needed to lose my virginity. And because I was so shy I realized that the only possible way of reaching this goal was to find a hooker. Which in these days of moral decay seems easy enough. However, it was important to me that she did not live in my home town. You see, I come from a very small town. And in small towns you can't have secrets.

So. Not willing to take any risks, I decided to start my Quest for the Whory Va-jay on the exact opposite side of the globe. But after a couple of days treading water in the Pacific Ocean, just off the New Zealand shore, it started to dawn on me that whores, much like me, were terrestrial beings.

So I swam back home to once again grab my globe, and now, making a concession, find the place that was exactly halfway between me and the exact opposite of the globe. I spun it 'round and blindly stopped it with my finger. It had landed on Pennsylvania, Ohio. I booked a flight immediately.

Long story short, I soon arrived in an Amish town by horse carriage.

Short story long again:

Now this might come as a surprise, but The Amish Brothel was surprisingly easy to find. Not because of any brightly red glowing neon lettering, of course, but because I had arrived in a very small town. Furthermore, the brothel was secret. And in small towns you can't have secrets.

The Amish Brothel was at the back of a bar facing the town’s church, as bars are often situated facing a church, and semi-legal brothels are often situated at the back of bars. In this we might see the duality of man. But that’s food for philosophers. Not for horny sixteen year olds who’ve traveled a quarter across the globe trying to covertly get sum.

Anyway, I went inside with a fistful of sweaty dollars, and let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit quarters. Inside, there was a strange atmosphere. First of all it was dead silent, and the people inside seemed to roam about aimlessly trying not to come in contact with each other. The way they moved through the room reminded me of a wind up waddling penguin toy I once had. Strange. However, I swiftly deducted the only logical explanation would be that they were shunning each other.

As by now you might have guessed, I am a man of logic.

There were three women standing in the center of the room, holding a candle. I reckoned these were the nightly ladies I had come for.

So I made my way through the waddling crowd, and, believe it or not, the first thing I noticed about my potential defloweration candidates were their wrists. Wrists, that I've later been told were called the perfect 'butter churning wrists'. They were big. Very big. They were so big that one of them actually wore a belt as a bracelet. I knew it was a belt, because I had bought the exact same belt in the tax-free shop at the airport.

It had a big ol' buckle with the inscription: Big Ol' Buckle.

I knew very little of America at the time. I was just trying to fit in. And when I thought of America I thought of blue jeans, belt buckles, boots, and cowboy hats. You can blame TV for that if the image isn’t fitting.

Anyway, while I was sizing up my potential defloweration candidates I noticed the Amish prefer different qualities in women than I, modern day degenerate, do. The three women did not expose much skin, but the skin that was exposed was rough and calloused. Never before had I seen backs of hands that were calloused. I didn't know it was possible. Suppose it shows how much you can actually achieve when you work hard.

To continue the description of the hookers, it appeared to me they had broad shoulders, in any case much broader than mine. And their large, painstakingly developed trapezius muscles made them hunch over a little like France's most famous bellringer. Each of the three stood little under five feet tall, with hips little under five feet wide, and on sturdy, stubby legs with large all-terrain feet.

Indeed, these were women at peak Amish performance.

I could see that much, despite our cultural differences. And though I personally did not see the appeal, I could understand it.

Initially their faces, locked in that typical deep creased crinkled frown you see developed in people who are convinced we are here on earth to suffer, came across a little hostile to me. And for a second I doubted the good of my whole endeavor. But I had come all this way with a mission. Surely a couple of minutes of eyes closed defloweration was worth my salvation. It was settled.

I took a deep breath and walked up to the middle hooker, the one with the Big Ol' Buckle bracelet, seeing the two of us at least had some common ground to start off with. Yet as I, in my best English, complimented her on her smashing bracelet, and then nervously, half under my breath, muttered: "How much to fuck?", all I got was a vacant stare.

I reckoned I didn't speak loudly enough. Too nervous. So I took another deep breath, and then, admittedly a bit brash and far too loudly, repeated the question: "How much to fuck?!"

What happened then I can only describe as a Hive Minded Synchronized Telekinetic Charge on my person. As all the waddling penguins in the room instantly and simultaneously turned to face me in intense disapproval. I could not move or resist as I felt myself slowly getting pushed to the exit. It was like a barraging conjoined aura. An invisible force field shooing me.

Later I learned that what I experienced that night in the Amish brothel was nothing other than The Full Power of Shun.

(Source: The Art Of Chores, by Pennsylvanian writer Shun Shoo. A good book, you should read it. Once you take the knowledge in that book metaphorically, its wisdom is still very much applicable today.)

After feeling The Full Power of Shun, I realized that Amish brothels don't work the same way as ordinary brothels do. The kick they get out of it lies in the test of will they subject themselves too. To come eye to eye with the greatest sinful seduction, and persevere, yet in that perseverance feel no pride. To stay unmoved in most rousing circumstances. The Amish find it important to stay unmoved, and soon I'd find out why. Not all too soon though.

First, I made my way out of town, disillusioned, feeling frustrated and lonely, and only guided by the light of the stars and the full moon, but that was also when it happened:

I heard a sharp 'pssst!' coming from within the shades in between two houses. Then, as I turned my head inquiringly, I saw the flashing pale of a bare ankle's skin. I don't know if it was due to me in my depraved deprivedness witnessing a woman's bare skin, or rather because of my body's instinctive preparation in anticipation of sex, but hot blood surged to my loins, so much that I could only follow the boner. I had found her. The town harlot.

Now, if you're from the city you probably don't know this, but it's a well known secret that every small town has one (1) town harlot. These mystical beings do not appear to the locals, who in fact haven't the slightest idea of any aphrodisiacal apparition living among them, but on full moon nights, when the timing is just right, they present their physical manifestation to other small town folk, visiting. So goes the legend.

She took me inside via the back door, then floated upstairs to her bedroom. And I, dragged forward by the tent in my pants, followed after in ascension. Bumpily gliding over the stairs with just the tips of my two shoes. When I entered her room she was already lying on the bed, half-sunken in the soft mattress. Fully clothed and thereby covered, except for her ankles.

Oh, great seductress.

Without moving much, or even looking at me, she curved her index finger to beckon me on the bed. And without any hesitation, I jumped on. Like a wild animal. Like a being of pure instinct, heart thumping in my throat. I might have even growled when I started attacking the layers of fabric that still hid the soppy pink treasure trove of lovin' that would change the boy I was in the man I would be. It went as follows:

Apron, dress, skirt, underskirt, underskirt, underskirt, underskirt, skirt, dress, cape, fuck there's the mattress, cape, dress, skirt, underskirt, underskirt.

Long-johns!

Hers were tied up with a thick beige string, laced in a bow tie, which I fumblingly undid with trembling hands. Then, spreading the two now loosened pieces of fabric open. Finally. The plain white slip.

Carefully, I pulled it aside with two fingers and witnessed the fiery red version of what I had grown to do The Japanese Zen Garden Hose. It all seemed so long ago. 'Let bygones be bygones', I thought to myself, as I lunged forward into my very first woman, and thereby into the bright star spangled future.

Or so I thought.

Cause at the very second of my second thrust, she gasped and exclaimed:

"No, no, no, stop! What are you doing? Haven't you ever had sex before?"

I, frozen in position, stuttered that I hadn't.

"We need to lie perfectly still, else God will see us. You got that? Lie perfectly still."

And I, greener than the grass of the English Royal Garden on the first bright spring day in May after many many showers, complied. Lying perfectly still upon and within the harlot of whom I did not even have a name.

Lucky for me, she was very soft. And, also lucky for me, I had frozen up in a very comfortable position. In fact, I was so comfortable that it took only a couple of seconds for me to fall into a deep sleep.

That night I dreamt of God.

I was sitting on a stool in the bar that in its back hid the Amish brothel, when I heard a deep echoing voice resonating through my brain.

"Do you want a handjob?"

Surprised, I looked over to the side, inspecting the silvery haired man sitting next to me. There was no one else at the bar, so I just said:

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want a handjob?” He smiled comfortingly. “I noticed you are lonely. I get lonely too sometimes. Handjobs help then. If it’s any consolation, it isn’t all that different from a Norwegian Numb Strangler."

He was right, of course. I was lonely. And, in all honesty, a Slipside-reversed Numb Strangler didn’t seem so bad. Even if it wasn’t a proper Norwegian one. But in the end I did politely decline, and silence fell for a short while, until I cleared my throat to ask the big question:

"Are you God?"

"It's you that say I am."

"Then you are. How peculiar, I was just thinking about you today. Is it true you can't see people... ya know..."

Here, I made a gesture by repetitively penetrating a circle made by the thumb and index finger of my left hand with the outstretched index finger of my right hand. In some cultures this gesture is considered vulgar.

"Fucking", God interrupted.

"Yes... fucking... when those people lie perfectly still?", I completed my question.

"Ah, my child, yes. That is true. You see I have a basic amphibian visual system: it's attuned to movement. I don't see unmoving things well at all."

"Ah, like humans."

"Made in my image."

I don't know about you, but everything started making incredible sense to me at that point. Even more so, I started to like the guy. He seemed like a pretty honest and straightforward chap. That's why I empathized, remembering the little sentence he dropped priorly. Which I had so rudely ignored.

"You said you get lonely too sometimes."

"That is true. These days it happens oh, so rarely that people see me. In fact, you are the first one in hundreds of years. To be honest, it really makes me doubt myself. I worry..."

"Hey now, come on, God. You seem like a good guy. There must be a logical explanation for all of this. Something we're just not seeing."

At that time the irony of my statement still eluded me.

I took a big gulp of the whisky that had been standing in front of me, and looked to the side observing the still, silvery figure next to me. He looked absolutely dejected. But then it hit me:

"Do you move around all that much?"

"I am omnipresent."

"Well there's your problem. If your everything is everywhere at any given time, how can you create the movement needed for our basic amphibian visual system to see you.” I gulped down the rest of the whisky. “Can't you be less present? Like, semi-omnipresent. Half... omni... present?"

"Alas, no. That I cannot be. For if I'd be anything other than omnipresent, I'd be subject to the laws of relativity. Then, there is always a bigger fish. Probably by my own making, but, you know, it's like Greek Mythology states: 'The son always overthrows his father'.

He paused. Then started jabbering:

“T- that's always been the rule. I mean, I found a loophole, but..."

God stared in his glass pensively. Then, as awoken from a daydream, suddenly sat upright, speaking clear again:

"No, any other existence cannot be. I cannot allow myself to get in such a predicament."

"Aren't you all-powerful as well; how can anything that is created by you, and therefore is you, be more powerful than you?"

"I am a man of many paradoxes."

"Same."

I tapped on the rim of my empty whisky glass for a while, thinking about omnipresence. Trying to find an easy fix. But all I could think about is how omnipresence and non-existence are two different words used to describe the exact same phenomenon, limited by the vocabulary containing our understanding of the world and the ever-expanding universe around us.

I thought about our amphibian visual system, and wondered what else we can’t really see that is there. Or could be. Or...

“Hey, wait a minute, why can I see you?

I looked at God inquiringly. God, with his kind smile. He nodded at me.

"It's time for you to wake up."

With that I opened my eyes. It was morning, and never had I awoken so well rested. I pulled my shriveled, flaccid penis out of the now cork dry crevice of once meat marinating mind-boggling pleasure, and heard the harlot whisper: "Best sex I ever had." I took her word for it, after all, she was a harlot, and harlots are like experienced pros when it comes to the game of fleshy be-bop-a-lula.

As a matter of fact, I am proud to say that I have become quite an MVP in this game as well. No one lies stiller than I, and these days I can stay awake for a solid two minutes. I leave girls in such ecstasy they do not dare to lay with me twice, afraid to be maddened by the mind, body, and soul shattering sensation of unrivaled pleasure.

I promise I am wielding this power responsibly.

Of course, at the time I had no clue what a stud I had become that day. All that mattered was that I lost my virginity (does it count when you don't cum? It does count, doesn't it? Anyway), I was a man now. And as a man I strutted back into my small town village. Straight back, head upright. All would behold my manly stride. And all did, until Hank the bicycle repair guy cupped his hands in front of his mouth like a makeshift megaphone and shouted:

"Hey Bozo, how was the Amish brothel?!"

I hate living in a small village. You can't have any secrets.

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21-12-2019, M.A. Tempels ©

#short story #write #absurdism #prose #long read #story #fiction #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writer #alt lit #literature #spilled ink #spilled writing #spilled thoughts #spilled words #words

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tcshearts · 6 years

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Session 1 (the Hunt), Chapter 1 - Phoenix

Content Warning: Death, PTSD

“Fuck this.” I mutter under my breath, bouncing my pencil against my knee. “I’m done studying for today.”

I slam my book shut and grumble. History is bad enough when it’s just boring, but when it’s boring and inaccurate it’s insufferable. Everyone gets it wrong, but they all think they have it right. I guess history truly is written by the victors. I know I sound bitter, but you would be too if you had to read a textbook about how your entire family was murdered by a psychopath.

I go to my dresser and pull open the bottom drawer, pushing aside some sweats and shorts to reveal a false bottom. I push on it slightly and lift it up just enough so I can grab what’s inside. I pull out a modified gas mask, painted and thinned out slightly, a deep black cloak and a cheap cell phone. The phone is a burner that I should probably get around to replacing soon, while the mask and cloak are just so I can conceal my identity without having to transcend sooner than I absolutely must.

I shove the mask and cloak into my backpack and put my password into the phone, opening the texting app and clicking on the group chat at the very top of the app. I quickly type a message and pace around my tiny dorm room waiting anxiously for a notification. Finally, a reply comes.

Me: Need to blow off steam. Anyone up for sparring?

Chimera: I would love to, but I have homework. Sorry, Phe…

Me: No worries.

I sigh and angrily toss my phone onto my bed. I need to get out of this dorm in the worst way, and I don’t want to have to go looking for a petty criminal just to clear my head. I feel my rage swelling within me, begging me, ordering me even, to transcend. To transform from the simple, quiet Rachel into the powerful and confident Phoenix. To burn the book and the person who wrote it to the ground. I try to push these thoughts to the back of my mind, I take one breath, then another, then a third, feeling the anger subside just slightly. I glance out the window at my school’s courtyard. I swear, sometimes Archduke Valentin’s Boarding School seems more like a prison, but it’s allegedly the best school money can buy.

I look out at the courtyard, standing still and empty, a few lights from lampposts in the courtyard provide the faint light in the winter evening. There’s no snow, if there were things might actually look cheery. Everything feels cold and still, everything feels dead. The city has no life or substance, the city feels abandoned on nights like this. People certainly aren’t my favorite thing, but a dead, empty city isn’t better.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, shrugging. I’m about as plain and unassuming as possible, nobody would ever guess that I’m a superhero when I’m not at school, and if they did, I’m pretty sure Phoenix would be the last person they assumed I was. I look at my face, I have relatively average features, a small slightly upturned nose with chapped lips and dull brown eyes beneath small glasses. My cheeks are fairly pale and my whole face tends to lack color, I’m light skinned so that isn’t a huge surprise, but I lack the rosy cheeks or colorful eyes that some people have. I look at my hair, long, straight, and dirty blonde, it sits at the middle of my back. I don’t usually like to put my hair up and today is no exception. I’ve been lucky enough to have fairly low-maintenance hair, which is one of the few blessings I try to be thankful for. I look down at my clothes, a plain black tee shirt, and blue jeans. I’m just thankful that it’s still the weekend and I don’t have to put on that awful uniform until tomorrow.

I’m pulled out of my self-analysis by another notification from my burner phone.

Dragon: sure

Dragon: in 20

Dragon: where

Me: Roof of the old bank?

Dragon: cool

I roll my eyes slightly at Dragon’s texts. I struggle to understand how someone as intelligent as her, whose power is literally fueled by her own intelligence, texts in the jumbled, punctuation-free way she does. She’s mentioned a few times that it saves her a few seconds and she’s usually distracted with her work when she’s texting, but it just seems unusual to me. I brush it off and breath a sigh of relief, grabbing my bag, leaving the room and eventually, the school.

I walk a few blocks until I hit a park that’s fairly dense with trees. I double check to make sure I’m not being followed and that nobody happens to be idly watching me and am relieved to be totally alone. I duck behind a tree and quickly pull my glasses off, put them in their case and tuck them in my bag. I don’t have to take them off to wear my mask, but it’s certainly more comfortable. I only really need the glasses to read anyway, my vision is a little worse without them, but I can manage walking a few blocks. I pull the mask on and secure the strap around my head, making sure I can see somewhat clearly out of the paint-stained lenses. Once I’m at least somewhat satisfied with my mediocre and obscured vision. I pull the cloak out of my backpack and pull it over my shoulders, struggling a little to get it over the hose of the mask. I pull the hood up, double and triple checking that all my hair is covered by the black hood. I sling the backpack back over my shoulders and continue my walk towards the old bank. It would be much easier to just transcend and fly there, but not only would it waste energy for sparring, it would also probably cause a scene that I really don’t need right now.

I climb around the back of the old bank, a relic of about four years ago, just like the rest of the old town. This was where the remain great superheroes made a last stand against Archduke Valentin and his forces. Every single hero involved in that fight was killed and this ruined bank stands as a monument to their failure. The bank was an unusual place to fight, but it’s where the heroes got pushed to and cornered. Patriot, the last to fall, managed to kill three villains by himself before he was finally killed. They were all burned in corpse piles by Valentin’s regime, their names have been all but scrubbed from the history books.

I find the old rickety fire escape as best I can with my impaired vision and pull it down to me. I climb up to the top of the bank in a few seconds. I’m surprised this fire escape hasn’t totally broken based on how rickety it is, but for some reason, it’s hanging in there. There’s probably a metaphor for what I’m doing in there somewhere, but fuck that.

I stand on the top of the bank and wait for Dragon, she usually tends to be a few minutes late. If she doesn’t have her head in a book, she’s stumbled onto some old website that hasn’t be taken down or she’s working on some new machine or pill. The girl’s a genius, even without her powers upping her intelligence, but she does have a tendency to get lost in her projects.

As I’m waiting, I notice white flakes landing on the lenses of my mask, I jump back and raise my fists, ready to transcend. It takes me a few seconds until I register that it’s just snow and I finally let my guard down. I let out a staggered breath and hold out my hand as I let the snow fall onto it. It’s light, the first snow of winter, but all it does is add to the eerie haunted mood that resonates through this city. My thoughts are broken by a voice from behind me.

“You sure know how to pick places to hang out Phoenix.” I hear Dragon say, I jump back and tense up for a moment, but Dragon’s voice is distinct and easy to ground myself on.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me you know. That’s a really good way to get burned.” I reply, only half meaning it.

“Oh please, like you could even start to melt through my scales.”

“So you do jokes now?”

“Why not? This place is thoroughly fucking creepy, so I might as well try to lighten the mood.”

“Welcome to Old Town, it’s not exactly pretty.”

“Fuck. I can’t believe they just left all this standing.”

“They want a reminder of what happens to rebels. I know a thing or two about that.” I touch my side gingerly, Dragon nods grimly at me.

“It still hurts?”

“Occasionally, not often and not nearly as bad as the first year.”

“That’s not good, could be nerve damage.”

“Of course it could, that’s all I fucking need.”

“I’m sorry, do you want to talk about something else?”

“We’re here to fight, let’s fucking fight.”

I turn my whole body to Dragon, getting a good look at her. She’s dressed in a white mask, a mix of rubber and metal that covers her face completely. She wears a light blue, nearly white cloak, similar in style to my black cloak.

“You sure you want to do this now? Wanna take a second to cool off first?”

“Nope. This is the only way I know how to do it.”

I channel the rage I feel, all the anger and hatred I have for Heatstroke for burning me so badly, for killing my family, for ruining my entire life. All the anger and hatred I have for the heroes who failed, and the villains who saw fit to end their lives for standing up for what they believed in. All the anger I have at this world that I can’t fight back against as Rachel. I feel the anger burn up in my chest and boil over, sending a burning sensation all through my body. I see flames appear from seemingly nowhere and wash over my arms, replacing the soft fabric of my cloak and tee shirt with hard black leather armor with a red accent and covering my bare hands with matching gloves a black emblem covered in red flame appears on the back of my gloves. The same changes occur for my chest, an emblem appearing on my leather chest piece. I feel the leather armor pushing up to protect my neck, covering it completely. I watch as my jeans are transformed into black leather pants with the same red accents and the same emblem on my belt. My boots transform into soft shoes, almost similar to that of a jester. They’re soft and flexible, incredibly easy to move and run in, I feel as if all of the skin beneath my armor is turning to pure flame, just wildfire contained in a human shape. I feel fire reforming my muscles, giving them a supernatural strength and agility, and giving them a muscle memory it would take years or decades to master. I feel my mask becoming a solid black face mask with a grey bar of metal along my eyes. The lenses of my mask disappear, and my eyes along with them, leaving empty black sockets visible through the metal of the mask. I’m blinded for half a second before two balls of fire replace my eyes, I can see through them with flawless vision, far better than my usual vision, even with glasses. I feel the straps of the mask solidify themselves and become nearly unbreakable. The final part of the transformation is my hair, the cloak burns off of my head in one fluid motion as my long, straight, dirty blond hair turns into bright red, curly hair made of pure fire. My curls fall effortlessly, slightly shorter and just to my shoulders. They don’t burn me, but they’d burn anyone who got remotely close to my hair. I stand still and take a few big breaths, feeling the power of The Cinder course through me.

I glance over at Dragon, watching as she starts to transcend. White scales, a mix of ice and chitin, begin to cover her arms, once they reach her hands they grow quickly and become sharp claws. The chitin continues to cover her chest and travel down her legs, turning her feet into similar claws to those on her hands. A large tail bursts forth from the base of her spine as two large wings start to grow from her back, growing to a full, impressive wingspan in a matter of seconds. The scales keep growing up her neck and within a few moments her mask is gone, replaced by a full draconic muzzle and snout, an impressive row of teeth clearly visible, even at a distance. Her eyes shift back and place themselves on the side of her face. Her cloak finally fades as the scales completely cover her and her hair disappears. As a human, she is a few inches shorter than my 5’7 frame, but now she’s well over eight feet tall. She nods at me and smirks, as well as she can as an icy reptile anyway.

“Alright, let’s do it then.” She bellows, her voice is slightly deeper and carries a guttural resonance.

“Gladly.” I say, assuming a fighting stance.

I charge forward at Dragon, taking a few steps before calling on my increased strength and agility to jump high into the air, using a jet of flame to propel myself higher. Dragon’s ready for me and flies up to intercept me, I let her get close enough to just barely touch me with her claws before I send a circle of flame out from my mid-section, blowing her back and giving me some space as I land back on the roof. Dragon recovers quickly and swoops down for me and I’m barely able to dodge out of the way. I generate my own wings of flame just under my arms and use them to soar after her. She goes higher, going into the clouds. I know that the higher I follow, the more of a disadvantage I’m at, but I need to keep the offensive pressure on her. I let out a few torrents of flame, firing blindly into the clouds.

I feel strong claws grab me from behind, forcing me down towards the ground with them. Dragon pushes me down to the roof and holds me there, pinning me.

“Too aggressive,” Dragon says. “In the air, I have the advantage. Force me down. Don’t let me dictate the terms of the fight. You’re the aggressor, you need to have the upper hand, otherwise, you’re just being reckless.”

I struggle against her, but without being able to move my hands it’s hard to get any fire going. I always have a way out of situations like this though. I take a deep breath and call on my ability to enter The Cinder State. I feel my body fade away, slipping from Dragon’s grasp. My body becomes little more than a hot wind as I disappear completely. I can’t feel anything, but I’m generally aware of where I am as I position myself behind Dragon. I would normally take a second or two to charge more flame against an opponent, but Dragon knows what my power can do, and I have to catch her before she’s ready.

I drop out of my cinder state and land on Dragon’s back, letting a blast of fire loose onto the top of her head. I pull back and unleash another torrent of flame, feeling the anger build inside me. I am so fucking tired of being held down, I am so fucking tired of being ruled by the people who killed my family, I am so fucking tired of knowing I’m going to die for nothing, I am so fuckin-

“Phoenix!” I hear Dragon call out and pull me from my anger fueled state. “I said I give up, three times.”

I look down at Dragon, she has scorch marks covering her head and back. She’s cowering behind a shield of ice and shaking out of pain, fear or anger, maybe a combination of the three. I get off Dragon’s back and take three deep breaths, feeling my anger burn off and dissipate.

“You lost control.” Dragon says.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” I say, looking away.

“You could have really hurt me.”

“I know. It won’t happen again.”

“You need to keep your anger under control. What if you end up hurting someone or even killing them? Someone who doesn’t fucking deserve it.”

“That won’t happen. My power is fueled by anger, sometimes it can be hard to control, but I’m stronger than it. I control my anger, it doesn’t control me.”

“Usually I believe you, but you seem different today. Angrier, more aggressive.”

“It’s been a rough fucking week. I’m sorry.”

I take a seat on the rooftop and look over the ruins of Old Town. I sigh and let out a deep breath before de-transcending, sending my powers away and turning back into mundane, human Rachel. I check to ensure that my hood and mask are still secure and then look back at Dragon.

“I should have been better. I need to control my anger. I knew I was mad tonight and I shouldn’t have asked you here. I should know I couldn’t control myself. I’m sorry.” I say.

Dragon de-transcends herself and walks towards me, taking a seat next to me on the roof. She is silent for a moment before looking at me.

“I’m your friend you know. At least I try to be as much as I can. I don’t know who you are behind the mask, and I can respect that you don’t want me to, but I’d like to think we’re still friends. I can help you, I can be there for you. Just open up to me, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

I sigh and take a second to think, can I tell her what’s really bothering me? She knows I’m a Flamewake and that my entire family was killed, but if I tell her we’re about to study that in history, I’m going to show my hand and tell her exactly what year I’m in. Can I afford to have Dragon know that?

“It’s just, this sucks, you know? The world I grew up in so different from the one I live in now. When I was a kid everything seemed full of hope and life. Now everything just seems still and dead. I know, we lost and the Archduke gets his way, but it just sucks. Someone born just now, they have no idea what our world used to look like, but we had to watch our world fall apart and we couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.” I say, looking out across the old and dead horizon.

“I know. I’m sorry Phoenix. I didn’t have powers when the Archduke took over. My parents and I were separated a few years ago, they got on a train and… I never saw them again. The next thing I know, I’m being told that I have to attend a boarding school in Oru. I felt powerless and helpless, I wanted to fight, but it would still be almost a year until I was touched by Ienath and became Dragon. I can’t imagine what it was like having powers when the Archduke took over.”

“After the fight with Heatstroke, I was laid out pretty bad. I was taken in by a family friend to recover and by the time I felt well enough to fight again, we had already lost. I gave up the hero thing for a while, but I couldn’t just do nothing. I’m not going down without a fight.”

“Neither am I.”

There’s an awkward pause for just a moment as the snow falls onto our masks and hoods. I take a deep breath and drum my fingers on the edge of the roof.

“And… I’ve been forced to relive what happened to my family, again and again, almost every year at school.” I say, letting the words hang there for a minute.

“I’m… I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it? What really happened, not the version our history books tell us.” She asks.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“As long as you want to tell it.”

“Okay, then settle in. I’ll tell you the whole thing.”

—

I cross my legs and close my eyes, trying to center myself. True rage never dissipates, especially not from a Flamewake, but if I’m going to stay in control while recounting this, I need to hold my anger back. I take three deep breaths and focus on the rage in my heart, calming it, spreading it through my limbs and into the ground. I take another deep breath and open my eyes, looking over at Dragon.

“I assume you know about Heatstroke. How he went to fight the Archduke with Nova, my mom. Nobody is totally sure what happened there, but all we know is that my mom died and Heatstroke came out of there changed and evil.” I start, quelling the building anger inside of me.

“Of course. It’s framed a little different now, but I remember the news reports.” She says.

“Well, Heatstroke went on the warpath, hurting and killing other heroes, stealing weapons, even executing civilians. My grandfather, Wildfire, could no longer ignore what he was doing and with the help of my cousin Bonfire and my uncle Fuego, who both had abilities that could track him, our whole family cornered him in a warehouse hideout. All forty-two living members of my family went to bring him to justice. I was the youngest, at twelve.”

“They let you come?”

“Yes. He killed my mom, they weren’t stopping me. My older brother, Blaze, he tried to talk me out of it, but I needed to be there. Anyway, we showed up at this warehouse and maybe twenty people came charging out of the building with guns and tire irons. They didn’t even get close before my family put them down. Nobody even got scratched. Bonfire, who could see heat signatures, was able to identify where he was in the building and we all headed there. Blaze tried to talk me into going home, but I didn’t listen.”

“Wait, I’m sorry, but, your cousin could see heat signatures? Just her? Don’t you all have the same powers?”

“No. Our benefactor is the same, The Cinder. They’re the spirit of fire and rage. But our powers are slightly different. Every member of my family is touched by The Cinder, either by birth or marriage. We all have the power to create and control fire, however, we all have a special unique power. My power is the ability to go into my ‘Cinder State’, where I can’t touch or be touched by anything and I can move unimpeded. Heatstroke has the ability to teleport through fire. Bonfire was born blind, when she transcended she could see via heat signatures. The Cinder saw fit to give her sight.”

“I see. Sorry, I just knew that both you and Heatstroke can both basically teleport, so I made an assumption.”

“I understand. Anyway, we followed Bonfire and she lead us right to him. He was waiting for us, on a fucking throne made out of pumice stone. My grandfather fought him for a while and the rest of us started acting on our plan. Those of us who were better at creating powerful fire, like me, started making it as fast as we could. Those of us who were better at controlling fire, like my brother, started calling all the fire to a central point, forming a massive fireball. My grandfather called the fire forth and covered Heatstroke in it. We had the idea that if we hit him hard enough, fast enough, he couldn’t teleport away. We were wrong. He was able to teleport as soon as the flame made contact. For a second, we thought we had won, but then the fireball started to turn black. Then my brother grabbed me and used his special power, an unbreakable shield of fire, to protect us just before it exploded. Almost half of my family was instantly turned to ash by the blast.”

I hesitate for a second, feeling the anger build in me again. Begging me to transcend and hunt him down, to get revenge for what he did. I let out a deep breath and try to regain my composure.

“The rest of them burned to death. Nobody even survived the blast except for my brother and I. He tried talking to us, Heatstroke, he told said he was ‘glad it was just us now.’ Zi-uh-Blaze tried to fight him. Heatstroke burned him half to death with a wave of his hand and turned his head to ash right in front of me. I tried to fight back, I told him to go fuck himself and used my power to get behind him and try to take him out, but he was ready and channeled my flame through himself and harmlessly into the ground. He hit me once, and I was down. He just had to slap me and I was down. He told me that ‘they’ wanted me alive, wanted one Flamewake to serve as a reminder. Then he… He grabbed my sides and held me in place while he called ash and flame to his hands and… well. He left me with a permanent reminder. He left me with these fucking burn scars running down the length of both my sides. Then he made me watch as he burned the corpses of my family to nothing but ash. Said he was doing me a favor. ‘If the medics and police could identify even one body, they’d figure out your civilian identity.’ to quote him exactly. Then he was gone, I was alone. The last Flamewake, laying on the ground and sobbing in pain. It took less than ten minutes for him to kill my entire family. I’m going to get my revenge.”

“I know.” Dragon says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to help you. He’s going to pay.”

“He better.”

“Phoenix, do you ever worry you’re too close to this? That… that you are letting your desire for revenge get in the way of the mission?”

“Fuck no. I wasn’t gonna stay home then, and I sure as hell am not going to now. Besides, you and Chimera wouldn’t stand a chance without me.”

“We can get help, we’ll talk to Kitsune. if you could give her any secrets on your father she coul-”

“He is not my father!” I scream in her masked face. I stand up, letting out a deep breath and storming towards the fire escape.

“I’m sorry… Phoenix, I…” she says, looking at me sheepishly.

“He’s not my father. My father died with my mother the day they fought the Archduke. When he joined the Archduke’s regime, he stopped being my father. Is that clear?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s… it’s okay. I just want to get this over with as soon as possible. I know I may be a little reckless, but I’m also one of the strongest ‘heroes’ still willing to fight. When we face Heatstroke, you’ll need me.”

“I know. The day we face him is coming. I’m this close to locating his base of operations. As soon as we do, this is over.”

“It’s never over.” I mutter.

We don’t say much for the rest of the night, we just watch the snow fall for a bit before silently going our separate ways. We don’t need to speak, the inevitably of our fate is something we both accepted a long time ago. That’s why we just focus on the next mission until we fail one. After that, well, after that there are no more missions.

We aren’t going to succeed, we both know it, but we aren’t going to go down quietly.

A/N: This chapter was originally posted on my website: https://darkhearts.art.blog/2018/09/11/session-1-chapter-1-phoenix/ If there is interest here, I’ll be transfering more of the story to my tumblr. Thanks so much for reading, if you liked it, leave a note or ask a question and let me know. That means a lot.

#Dark Hearts #Web Serial #Series #Dystopian #Sci-fi #Superhero #Writing #Author #Chapter One #Phoenix #Dragon #to be continued

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