PACHELBEL’S PILOT - IV.a.

The resulting trip to the Electropolis Police Station was at best, uneventful.

Eric Rogers had not been looking forward to getting mugged not even a month on the job, nonetheless, though it seemed his fortune (if such a thing existed) was somehow on the verge of a serious 'snag'—

During the fracas, Eric had been picked-up: dazed and confused, instantly checked for proper identification, and apparently someone just mistook him for a stray or lowlife—

Not a person of reputation.

‘Just head back home already.’

That was the lingering thought running laps around his head while sharply exhaling for breath.

Rockweed was gonna have a field day with this, that's for damn sure.

Was a close second. But unless his bodyguard-errant became his roommate, there wasn't exactly a point in breaking into a sprint- much less getting to ruminating on the thought any further than necessary.

His phone beeped with an oddly comforting glow from the H.I.A. app- one company mandated alert close to the dead of night, a minute after the action had petered out, one blurb in particular, or rather, a 'call' came across:

"All H.I.A. Employees: Calling out to designated Agent_138: We're seeing unusually high crime rates associated with your location. Good luck out there!

>:)"

‘Not what I want to be reading, that's for sure.’

"Well, guess that makes me the PATSY."

Grumbling and gripping his sides, he let it all out in a labored breath- the air shuddering.

His eyes fell upon the white picket fence:

And a lone trail leading into a dimly lit alleyway.

The lights were on at the end of the path, revealing two figures draped in near shadow. A man and woman, combated in argumentative stances, except the man remained seated, yet defeated on the ground.

It was unclear if it was Eric's drunken visions, or it his ears which were beginning to piece together that strange narrative, of a peculiar dialect taking place-

-Smoldering heat emerged from Inferno Blaze's entire essence. The glow lit up the gloomy alley, casting silhouettes of the two, so on point and poignant.

Mirage Mistress scoffed before having the cold air whisk her away. Her voice carried a heavy-chill, despite the rising temperature.

Inferno Blaze's white-flecked flaming red hair curled and bobbed like a fountain spring flowing freely, flames flickering and swirling with the swiftness of her agile fighting movements- not to mention a physique that matched if not exceeded those in the comic books.

Its crimson, almost burgundy-like accents danced from sight and into the ether.

Not one for subtlety, Inferno briefly resembling the homeless sprawled out- only the effect wasn't nearly as gruesome as whatever form the other took when things seemed to have abruptly changed-

Or... did they?

Eric blinked.

His eyes still were stuck in place, and nothing seemed right—or had it gone WRONG—all over again, in an instant?

It felt almost cinematic as if being observed through the lens of a camera that could both capture the physical and psychological properties in real-time: the essence.

He blinked again.

Seems surreal.

No.

He blinked once more, hands running down his sides, as if trying to confirm his presence.

Again.

The two remained in defensive positions- glaring, wary.

"...Inferno-?"

Inferno stumbled, his composure collapsing under the weight of fatigue. A wisp of smoke escaped his mouth, revealing razor-sharp canines stained with blood.

"You okay-"

Flames snaked along his skin and hissed like an angry python, casting an array of lights and shades, twisting and flickering: and rising in intensity.

Dumbfounded, Eric couldn't help but let out another deep exhale. Inferno's eyes narrowed, fixed, not even blinking or flaring a drop of cold sweat.

Before Eric could return the gesture, the blaze of his ire stopped- much akin to a roaring bonfire sizzling, slowly dying away into a smoldering glow.

This was something a little different, a little more…

That fact didn't occur to him until he thought about it.

Those piercing emerald hues caught the eyes of the younger male: his stare like chips of amber. There it lingered, lingering long enough to fully scan and consider the extent of damage done. From there, she released her tension, sighing a stream of cold-air before letting out a deep, elongated ‘Whaa-?’ through facial expression alone.

His voice was not filled with worry- just the typical, familiar sarcasm that seemingly held the personality of the individual his face was wrapped in.

"You were talking with..." Eric shrunk his posture down a hunch. "...Mirage Mistress just then. What gives?"

Inferno said nothing, dusting a snowy spot for his colleague to sit. When his hand fell, he was leaning against the wall, wiping away blotches off his cheek, which left only a trail of ashes floating in his wake.

Eric took a seat right beside him; a bottle swirling and swerving from his tight grip to his lips.

The red liquor had painted a fresh, robust ruby.

"THIS WAS MADE WITH THE BLOOD OF MY ENEMIES."

Eric's eyes widened.

Surely, he jests…

"Blood, sweat AND tears," The crystal clear bottle's contents began to bubble from the core, followed by an assortment of aromas... To the degree where the older male seemed to have visibly shuddered- before chugging the drink down in almost a second. "Though- not bad for what we had."

He wasn't a man of few words and fewer smiles, but his demeanor as unyielding as the brick wall behind him. Duty defined him, but it was a duty warped nonetheless. Every choice he made was a calculation weighed against his own unspoken ledger of sins. Though he might never admit it, he walked a razor-thin line between righteousness and rage, driven not by hope but by the relentless need to impose order on a world he saw as irredeemably chaotic.

Looking. Turning.

He pushed in lightly.

Then, pulling out.

He hummed and hah.

"Would you fight for it?"

Something had changed, Eric sensed. As the flames' intensity continued to drop, his focus turned to his teammate and all the time spent together.

What's more, though Eric found Inferno too 'soothing' for anyone to 'afford'-

"For WHOMST? Huh?" He rubbed at the sides of his shoulders, shaking the remark off. "ECLIPSE?"

Inferno couldn't resist letting out an audible exhale before burying his face in his free palm.

"I saw the way you were looking at her, you sly dog-"

"-Not if, BUT when. Some day."

That was the moment when Eric decided Inferno Blaze to be serious.

"I remembered fondly my first foray into superheroism. It began when I stopped to prevent a would-be thug from assaulting a little girl. Well- she's an adult now, not so 'little' but not far from the description itself... And the way a 'one' can be seen as an 'only'- kinda."

FIRE.

"She actually might've had another connection to the 'C.P.S' as well... though beyond that, it's anyone's guess."

FLAME.

"You know what she told me? Right after all is said and done?"

Eric took a brief pause, expression dropping.

"'What you did, WAS SO BRAVE!'" Inferno chuckled, playing the chimp dangling elongated arms.

BURN.

A pale shadow of an expression was all Inferno could muster: the light of recognition blazing intensely before slowly retreating into oblivion.

"...What a sick joke.”

He emptied the remainder of the bottle's contents, now having turned murky scarlet. When he pulled his head, his collar had imprinted a stain while others had found its way in all directions.

As the flames' intensity continued to drop, his focus turned to his teammate and all the time spent together.

A million stars blinked into existence, unreachable and magnificent.

Those eyes, as solid as flint. They glimmered like liquid gold before he shifted his body forward.

"They think I’m a hero. I’m not. I’m just the last guy standing when the dust settles. Heroes don’t get their hands dirty. Me? I’m elbow-deep in the grime of this city."

He smirked, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

"But that’s what it takes. Because when the world falls apart, someone has to put the pieces back together—no matter how much it cuts."

✩

The surge of incineration roared louder back then.

War-torn afflictions; tattered, marked, and HUNTED.

Young, bold men facing their destinies head-on…

Their mission had gone horribly wrong. They paid the price for their failure. Forced into the shadows. Hidden. Forgotten. Left to do nothing while others fought and died in their place. Until, that is, their savior.

A torrential fury flooding a concrete jungle of stains; clots that marred the integrity of everyone involved:

The sane; the insane- it didn’t matter then.

Orchards of non-combatants screamed bloody carnage on a daily basis, and yet the harbingers of chaos never saw fit to pay heed.

Whoever, whatever was brought them here-

-Spirits lost: devoid of memory.

Their mouths were pulled into a frown. Yet their eyes, if one could manage to peer through the myriad of scorching ripples, contained the passion of one's great effort to retributive justice, only to inflict sorrow to its own self.