AMK.2

---

The fluorescent lights flicker above, a sterile buzz that’s already setting my teeth on edge. I’m lying on a table covered with what looks like butcher paper, and the stink of antiseptic is heavy in the air, mixing with the smell of wet dog and fear. The vet’s face is all hard lines and impatience, his eyes flicking over me like I’m some kind of disappointing homework assignment he’s got to grade.

“I swear, it was like she pulled a new power out of her ass just for me,” I grumble, trying to sound like I’m not just making excuses. “Knives for arms, can you believe that crap?”

The vet doesn’t even look up from the tray of tools he’s arranging. “Sure, Aaron,” he says, his voice dry as the desert. “And I suppose she turned into a dragon and flew away too, right?” He’s not buying my story, and I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t buy it either if I wasn’t there.

He comes over, a rolled-up dish rag in his hand, and shoves it toward my mouth. “Bite down on this. It’s gonna hurt like hell, and I don’t need you screaming.” There’s no sympathy in his tone, just a blunt practicality that says he’s done this too many times.

I bite down on the rag, tasting laundry detergent and something metallic. I’m ready for the pain, the sharp jolt of reality as he sets my knee back in place. My hands grip the edges of the table, knuckles white, the rest of the world narrowing to the point of contact where his hands meet my leg.

“You’re not cut out for this, Aaron,” he tells me, not unkindly, but with a blunt honesty that’s hard to swallow. “Stick to the streets, stick to what you know. You’re lucky to be walking. Whatever hit your knee could’ve broken it an inch down, and you should be extremely thankful that her knife hands didn’t nick your carotid or your jugular.”

He doesn’t give me any warning, just grips my leg and pushes. There’s a moment, a split second of pressure, and then pain explodes in my head, white-hot and blinding. The rag in my mouth is the only thing keeping the scream trapped inside, muffled grunts escaping instead. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead, my heart hammering against my chest like it’s trying to break out. My entire body goes cold and hot at the same time. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.

The vet works quickly, efficiently, his hands steady even as mine shake. The crunch of bone and cartilage is sickeningly loud in the quiet room. “There,” he says, almost gently. “That’s the worst of it over.”

I’m panting, ragged breaths that reek of spit and fear, the rag falling from my mouth wet and stained. I can feel my knee throbbing with a dull, persistent ache that tells me it’s back where it should be, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

“You’re going to have to take it easy,” the vet says, wrapping my knee with a bandage that’s too white against the rest of me, dirtied with blood and bruises. “No heroics. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. You know the drill.”

Heroics. The word tastes like ash in my mouth, a bitter reminder of what I’ve been trying to be. What I’m not. I look away from the vet’s knowing eyes, away from the judgment I see there. I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anyone’s. I’m Aaron fucking McKinley. I’ve been down before, I’ve been beaten, but I’m not out. Not by a long shot. I’ll rest, I’ll heal, and then I’ll be back on the streets where I belong. Where I reign.

“Don’t compare me to those chumps,” I rasp.

“You know what I mean, runt. Hold still,” he says, shoving his hands in my face. He fiddles with my broken nose, and for a moment, I see white again, before he pulls away, and I feel tape. Or something tape-like, whatever. “I’m not a plastic surgeon, so you’ll have to get that fixed better later. Chin up, I hear girls love scars.”

“Shut it,” I almost spit. “I’m paying you too much for snark.”

“You’re paying me too much for medical care and that’s why I’m bothering to stitch up those little cat scratches of yours. Otherwise I’d be giving you some peroxide and telling you to go pound sand. You are not paying me too much for snark,” he lectures me, making my blood boil as he starts cleaning and bandaging the cuts on my face. “You got tetanus shots, kid?”

“What?”

He knocks his knuckles against my forehead. “I said ‘you got tetanus shots, kid?’. You said she grew knives. Believe me, the last thing you want with… all this,” he says, gesturing to my face, the compression wraps covering me, the bandages, “is lockjaw.”

“No, I don’t have my fuckin’ tetanus shot. You think I walk into CVS asking for my tetanus shot? The fuck you mean? I got them as a kid.” I bark back.

“Well, you’re a lucky boy, I’m giving you a tetanus shot,” the vet responds, rummaging around in his fridge.

“Not too fond of needles, doc.”

He stops to turn to me, slowly, scowling. “What?”

“I said I’m not–” I start.

He cuts me off. “What sort of a pussy are you? Shut the fuck up. I’m giving you a tetanus shot.”

“Why do you even fuckin’ have tetanus shots? Aren’t you a fuckin’ vet?” I ask, trying not to move my knee too much.

“You think you’re the only two-bit thug I see? Given your ilk’s propensity towards slumming around in abandoned factories, yeah, I like to keep a supply with me. Here, it’s fridged, it’ll feel refreshing. Hold still.”

He grabs my arm, the needle cold against my skin. I clench my teeth, feeling the sharp prick as it goes in, a cold sensation flooding my arm. I hate needles, always have, but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. He pulls it out, a small drop of blood beading at the injection site.

“There,” he says, tossing the syringe in a bin. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? It’ll suck for a couple of days and then you’ll be right as rain.”

I just grunt in response, watching him as he starts wrapping my knee with a compression bandage. It’s tight, each layer squeezing a bit more, a constant reminder of the fight, of the pain, of the fuck-up.

“You’re going to need a brace for this,” he mutters, rummaging through a cabinet. He pulls out a bulky knee brace, straps and all. “This should do. Keep it on, it’ll help.”

He straps it on, his hands efficient and impersonal. The brace is uncomfortable, constricting, but I can tell it’s necessary. I can feel the support it gives, a false sense of stability.

The vet steps back, looking me over. “You’re a mess, McKinley. A damn mess. I’ve patched you up best I can, but you’re no good to anyone if you keep getting yourself into these situations without finishing the job.”

I want to argue, to tell him he doesn’t know shit, but the words die in my throat. I feel each pinprick her fucking brass knuckle knife fingers left in my neck.

“Here,” he says, handing me a small bottle of pills. “Dog painkillers, for coyotes like you. Don’t take more than one every six hours. And for fuck’s sake, try not to get into any more fights. God gave us guns for a reason.”

I take the bottle, rolling it in my hand. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He snorts. “Sure you will. Listen, Aaron, stick to slinging weed and hustling pool halls. This gangster life, it’s clearly not for you.”

I stand up, testing my knee, without acknowledging his words. It holds, sort of. “Thanks, doc,” I say, and there’s a grudging respect in my voice. I keep my leg straight.

“Don’t mention it. And don’t come back here looking like this again. You’re out of money, and I’m out of patience.”

I nod, limping towards the door. The cold air hits me as I step outside, the city noises a dull roar in the background. I’m broke, beaten, and bruised, but I’m still here. Still breathing. Still Aaron McKinley.

---

The docks are dead at this hour, just the sound of water lapping against the wharf, and the distant hum of the city that never sleeps right. It’s late, or maybe it’s early; the kind of time where decent folks are nowhere to be seen. I’m standing here in the shadow of a rusted crane, the Delaware reeking like a cesspool, waiting for the Phreaks to show. They’re late, and I hate late.

I can feel the tightness of the brace around my knee, a constant reminder of Sam’s handiwork. My nose is a mangled mess under the splint, breathing’s a bitch, and every inhale is a jagged reminder of my fuck-up. But I’ll be damned if I show any of that to the Phreaks. I’m still Aaron McKinley. I’m still the guy you don’t want to cross in this town. We’re far away from Tacony but that’s no problem. Fire burns everything, everywhere.

I see ’em before I hear ’em, silhouettes against the city lights. Pumice is leading the pack, his stone skin a patchwork of grout and anger. He’s trying to keep that cool, but I can see it. The first crack in his facade, courtesy of yours truly, by proxy. Chrysalis flutters behind, wings a dull sheen in the moonlight, and I can’t help but sneer. Always thought she was too high and mighty, the way she dangles off her own feet. Can’t even fly with those, only fall slow. And there’s Deathgirl, a scrawny wraith of a girl, blindfolded and pissed, a chunk of her hair missing like a doll mauled by a dog. Looks like a zombie.

“Look at this,” Pumice grunts as he steps into the light, pointing to his face. “This is on you, Aaron.”

I don’t flinch. “That right? Last I checked, you’re the rock. Nothing hurts the rock.”

He scoffs, “Yeah? Tell that to my face. Sam Small did a number on it, and it’s your sadistic ass that put us in her path.”

If you asked me, I’d say it looks badass. Yeah, he’s so metal that he fixes up his scabs with concrete and mortar. But clearly, this little punk doesn’t see things the same way.

Chrysalis sneers, “It’s your methods, Aaron. They’re ugly. You think with your fists and not your head. That’s why we’re here, cleaning up your mess, instead of popping bottles and celebrating.”

I lock eyes with her, “My fists get results. You’d know if you weren’t so busy polishing your claws.”

Deathgirl’s voice cuts through the banter, high-pitched and grating, “You’re all idiots. If I had my way, Sam would be dead, not prancing around with a few more stories to tell.” She sounds like a fucking cartoon character. I try not to set her on fire again. A time and a place for everything, Aaron.

“Yeah? And how’d that work out for you, princess?” I shoot back. “All I see is a kid throwing a tantrum ’cause she didn’t get to play with fire.”

She snarls, “At least I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. You talk big, Aaron, but you got your ass handed to you by a little girl. Just so we’re clear, though, setting my hair on fire was cool. I don’t care about that. You’re just a stupid fuckin’ idiot in other ways.”

“Daisy,” Pumice chides her.

“What! It was awesome.”

I feel a vein throb in my temple, like they aren’t even listening to me. Am I some sort of joke to them? I get ready to yell, “I had her! If it wasn’t for—”

Pumice interrupts, “If it wasn’t for what? Your need to show off? You had chances to end it. So many fucking chances, man. We had her passed out on a fire escape. Then, you wanted to drag her into a fucking building, okay, sure, don’t alert the cops, even though the streets were empty. Tie her up? Okay, man, whatever. But no, you wanted to play with your food, and now look where we’re at. This is on you.”

Chrysalis nods, “He’s right. We’re not your goons. We’re not here to watch you stroke your ego. We’re in this to survive, and you’re not making it easy.”

I clench my fists, the pain from my wounds spiking with the rage, “Survive? I thrive. There’s a difference. You want to run with the big dogs, you gotta keep up.”

“Keep up?” Pumice laughs, a grinding, rocky sound, “No, Aaron. We’re done ‘keeping up’ with your shit. You want Sam gone, you do it. Get a gun, do it clean, or don’t do it at all. “

Chrysalis flies up, hovering, “Or better yet, skip town. The heat’s on, and you’re just fanning the flames.”

Deathgirl’s cackle fills the air, “Yeah, run away, Aaron. The Great Demon Lord has no need for weaklings.”

Pumice stares at me. “You said hello and offered this sweet alignment of interests. Punch at the Young Defenders, and when you make it big with the Kingdom, you’ll cut us in. But now we’re all fucked up, you’ve got a broken leg, and she got away. The scale of your fuck-up is enormous, man.”

I stare them down, one by one. They think they’ve got me cornered, that they can dictate terms. But they don’t know Aaron McKinley. They don’t know that I’ve always got an ace up my sleeve. “You think this is over?” I spit out the words, “You think you can just walk away from me?”

Pumice steps forward, his form imposing, “We’re not walking away from you, Aaron. You’re the one who’s been left behind.”

Then he turns on his heel, and the rest follow. But I’m not done yet. Not at all.

I lunge forward, the sharp pain in my knee nothing compared to the sting of their words. I feel my bones grinding. My boot skids against the ground. But Chrysalis… she’s not done, not by a long shot.

She floats down, landing with the grace of a drunk wasp, her compound eyes reflecting the dim light, glowing red and fierce. I’d almost think it was sexy if I was into freaky ugly bug girls. Maybe some nerd on the internet will pay a hundred dollars to tap that when she gets washed up and ugly and has to whore herself out for money. “You chase after us like a dog after a car, Aaron. What would you even do if you caught us?”

I open my mouth to throw back a retort, but she cuts me off with a laugh that’s more a hiss. “You’re just a thug, Aaron. Un instrumento sin filo. A blunt instrument. You have this power, this miracle, and what do you do with it? The same thing you’ve always done. Inflict pain. Spread fear.”

I clench my teeth, trying to keep the anger at bay. “Fear is respect in the streets.”

She shakes her head, almost pitying. “No, Aaron. It’s not. Fear is control, maybe, but it’s the lowest form of it. Respect? That’s earned. And you… you just take. You don’t grow; you stagnate. You wallow in your own sadism, thinking it makes you strong. But it’s made you weak. Vulnerable.”

I step toward her, but she doesn’t flinch. “You think you know me? I had a gang, and Bloodhound – Sam fucking Small ruined that. My boys respected me. Because they were afraid of me.”

She nods, “I see right through you. Your powers could’ve been so much more. But you? You chose the path of least resistance. The easiest way to use your gifts. You never considered what more you could be. You’re just… a man with a match, not even a flame. You’ve got no creativity. Ohhh, if you don’t listen to me I’ll set you on fire! Grow up.”

“I’m feared,” I insist, feeling even more certain of it. “Every civvie in this city is afraid of me. They should be afraid of me. I’ll burn them alive. I’m feared.”

Chrysalis laughs again, “By who? The street rats? The lowlifes? Particularly young cats? People are more afraid of Deathgirl than they are of you, and she’s 12,”

“12 and three quarters!” Deathgirl protests.

“12 and three quarters. Maybe she’s a little delusional, but she’s not nearly as much of a delusional idiot as you are. Nobody’s afraid of you.”

The others chuckle, a chorus of mockery, and I feel the heat of a blush that has nothing to do with my powers. I feel my hair heating up in my scalp.

“You came to us because you thought you could mold us into your image. But we’re not clay, Aaron. We’re survivors. We do what we have to, to live another day, to find a piece of happiness in this fucked-up world. You? You don’t want happiness. You just want to inflict misery because it’s all you know. You want to be like us because you think it’s cool, not because you have to. Look at you,” she says, gesturing with a clawed finger. “White boy Aaron. From Tacony. Don’t make me laugh. You think you have it rough? Go live with your parents. I bet you went to private school.”

“Shut the fuck up, trash,” I growl. I scowl. I snarl, trying to bare my fangs. Grimacing like a monkey does before it rips your face off.

Her voice is like acid, burning at my soul, eating it away. “You’re not unique, Aaron. You’re not special. You’re just another boring thug on the street, and there are a million like you. But there’s only one of each of us. We’re leaving you behind because you’ve got nothing left to offer. Not fear, not respect. Nothing. You’re not built for this life.”

I’m seething now, muscles taut, a primal urge to lash out. But I don’t. Because deep down, I know she’s hit the mark. I’m just a thug. No kingpin. No supervillain. Just a man with a matchbook in his eyes. I feel deflated. Like a fucking clown balloon.

Chrysalis turns away, wings unfolding, preparing to take off. “Grow up, Aaron. Or don’t. It’s no longer our concern.”

The words sting, venom from Chrysalis’s lips sinking deep into my skin, festering. I can’t stand it, the truth or the mockery, and something snaps inside me. The vice in my head tightens, squeezing every other thought out until there’s only room for the burn.

I fix my gaze on her, the pressure mounting behind my eyes. I want to see her burn, to watch those smug wings shrivel up in flames. She thinks she can just fly away from this? No. Nobody makes a fool of Aaron McKinley and just flutters off like a fucking pixie. I’ll make sure she knows that. She won’t be so high and mighty without any of those fucking wings.

But Pumice is faster, always the fucking hero of his own little story. His fist connects with my face before the fire even sparks, and the world tilts. I’m skidding across the wet dock, pain splintering through my already broken nose. I can taste blood, copper and salt, and it mixes with the bitter tang of defeat. I can’t tell if it’s broken again, but it hurts like a motherfucker.

I struggle to my feet, glaring at them through the pain. “You should be afraid of me!” I spit out the words like bullets, but they’re just blunted by the pity in their eyes. “Get scared, fuckers! I’ll come for you next!”

Chrysalis is hovering again, standing on tip toes, and her tone makes me want to strangle her and then cut open her corpse. She sounds sad. Why does she sound sad? Why isn’t she afraid? “Aaron, you’re so stupid. You think we followed Patches because she was strong? No. She cared, Aaron. When we got hurt, she was there with bandages. When there was money, we all saw it, not just her. Daisy—” She nods at Deathgirl, “, when Daisy flipped out, Patches sang her lullabies and read her those Japanese comics.”

Pumice is nodding, his stony face more human than I’ve ever seen. “She was teaching me Algebra, man. Algebra. Because she wanted better for us. I thought you understood that when we made this deal.”

Chrysalis’s gaze is steady, her voice a scalpel dissecting my pride. “We were tools, sure, but Patches knew you take care of your tools. You? You just make demands. You throw tantrums. You’re not a leader, Aaron. You’re just a wild dog lashing out because your parents didn’t love you. I heard your little gloating speech to Sam. Oh no, boo hoo, daddy beat me with a belt. Well my daddy kicked me out of the house and shot me. Get over yourself.”

I can feel their eyes on me, every one of them. Deathgirl, even with her blindfold, I know she’s looking at me. And what she sees… what they all see… it’s not fear. It’s not respect. It’s just… pity. Pity. Pity. I fucking hate their pity. I don’t want their pity. I don’t want an ounce of it, not a fucking molecule of it. I want their fear. Why don’t they give it to me? “We’re not some social club for wayward bullies, Aaron. The three of us stick together because we have to. You don’t get that,” Pumice lectures. I want to scorch that smug, pitying stare off his face.

“You’re like a pug, Aaron,” Chrysalis says softly. “All bark, no bite. You think you’re a big dog, but you’re just… sad. A sad little dog that nobody even wants to put down. Because you’re not worth the bullet, and they bred you with an ugly nose, so nobody’s willing to fix you. Not in this lifetime. Hope you reincarnate into something better when you bite it in an alleyway, alone and unloved – and unfeared.”

The truth slams into me, a final blow that’s worse than any punch. They’re right. I’ve been living in a delusion, thinking I’m the big bad wolf, but I’m just a stray mutt, snapping at the heels of giants. I can’t help but stumble down, dropping to my good knee, soaking it against the wet asphalt.

And as they turn their backs on me, leaving me alone on the docks with nothing but the cold and the stench of the river, I realize… I’m not even a stray worth following. I’m just a nobody, a nothing.

The first flakes of snow begin to fall, each one a cold kiss against my skin, a silent witness to my humiliation. They cling to my hair, to my coat, whispering of defeat and desolation. I should move, find shelter, get my bandages changed before they’re soaked through. But my body refuses to obey, as if it too has given up on me, on Aaron McKinley, the would-be king of the streets.

The Phreaks’ footsteps fade into the night, leaving me alone with the snow and the echoing hollowness of their words. This isn’t just a defeat; it’s an annihilation. A complete and utter tearing down of everything I thought I was, everything I wanted to be.

I’ve been low before, hit rock bottom more times than I care to count. When my parents shut the door in my face, telling me I wasn’t their problem anymore. When Mr. Polygraph held that knife to my finger, his eyes cold as the steel. When Sam Small, that little spitfire, left me bleeding and broken. But this… this is something else.

This is the kind of low that scrapes out your insides, leaving you empty and hollow. A kind of low that makes you question if you were ever really standing at all.

The snowflakes grow thicker, blanketing the docks in a shroud of white. I can feel the wetness seeping through the bandages, the cold setting into my bones. But it’s nothing compared to the chill in my heart, the frost that’s crept into my soul.

They were right, all of them. I’m not the terror of the streets. I’m not the villain of this story. I’m just a man who thought he could be more, and ended up less. A nobody. A pathetic little pug, snorting for breath.

I think back to those moments of power, of control, and realize how fleeting they were, how shallow. I never had their respect, not really. I never even had their fear. I thought I was the king with the tools, but they were using me. I was the monkey wrench.

As the snow piles up around me, I finally find the strength to stand, my movements sluggish, heavy. I need to find shelter, to get out of the cold. But it’s more than that. I need to find a new path, a way out of this pit I’ve dug for myself.

But first, I need to vent this emptiness. I need to fill myself up with something more.

---

The darkness envelops me, a shroud that’s become my constant companion. I’m sitting in the bowels of some forgotten basement, the air musty and thick with the scent of decay and neglect. The only light comes from the small, flickering flames dancing on my fingertips, casting eerie shadows across the room. It’s a room I don’t recognize, a place I stumbled into during one of my many aimless wanderings, a sanctuary for the lost and the broken.

I’m huddled on an old, rotting mattress, the springs creaking under my weight. The blanket wrapped around my shoulders is as tattered as my pride, frayed edges and holes telling a story of better days long gone. The cold seeps in through the cracks in the walls, through the boarded-up windows that keep the outside world at bay. But it’s the internal cold that’s harder to bear, the chill of realization that I’ve hit a new low.

Empty bottles of pain pills from the vet litter the floor, a testament to my desperate attempts to numb not just the physical pain, but the gnawing, hollow ache inside. The pills bring a temporary respite, a fog that dulls the sharp edges of reality. But they also bring these… episodes. Moments where I feel detached, floating outside my body, a spectator to my own downfall.

I watch the flames, trying to find some solace in their warmth, in their simple, primal beauty. But even they seem to mock me now, reminding me of what I am — a man who can do nothing but burn things down.

The basement is a graveyard of discarded memories, of things left behind. There’s an old, water-stained sofa pushed against one wall, its fabric torn and faded. A broken lamp lies on its side, its shade crumpled like a discarded dream. The walls are peeling, the paint chipping away to reveal the bare, cold concrete beneath. It’s a place forgotten by time, a fitting abode for someone like me.

I’ve been sleeping on this mattress for days, or maybe it’s been weeks. Time has lost its meaning in the darkness, in the endless cycle of wake and sleep, pain and numbness. The only constant is the fire, the only thing that reminds me I’m still alive, still capable of feeling, of hurting.

I close my eyes, trying to shut out the world, to shut out the memories of that night at the docks. The words they said, the pity in their eyes, it haunts me, follows me even into sleep. I see their faces, hear their voices, a chorus of condemnation that I can’t escape.

But it’s Sam Small’s face that looms the largest, her eyes full of fire and defiance. She’s become my obsession, the symbol of my failure, of everything I’m not. How does she do it? How does she pack so much power into that small frame? How can she keep pulling out new tricks? It’s a riddle I can’t solve, a question that gnaws at me, driving me deeper into the darkness.

I open my eyes, staring into the flames again. I’ve been thinking about it all wrong. It’s not about the power, it’s not about the fear. It’s about understanding, about growth. Sam Small figured out tricks, ways to use her powers that I never even considered.

And if she can do it, why can’t I?

I focus on the flame, watching it flicker and dance. There’s more to fire than just destruction. There’s warmth, there’s life. Maybe there’s more to my powers too, more than just the blunt instrument I’ve been using them as.

I’ve been feeling out of my body, disconnected. But maybe that’s the key. Maybe I need to step outside myself, to see things from a different perspective.

Every fight with Sam Small has been a group fight, and clearly she must thrive in that sort of chaos. People keep getting in my way. No, if I want to be better than her, I’m going to have to learn how to do it on my own. I need to transform. To become something else entirely. I can’t rely on others to do my dirty work. I’m going to have to get dirty on my own.

In the gloom of this forsaken basement, I’ve begun to notice something strange about my fire. It’s changing, evolving into something I don’t fully understand. Usually, my flames are a bright, angry yellow, spitting and crackling with heat. They’ve always smelled like rotten eggs, a stench I’ve gotten used to over the years. But now, in these moments of hollow emptiness, the flames shift, morphing into a low, eerie blue. They’re almost cold, a ghostly fire that seems out of place in my hands.

I’m mesmerized by this new flame, watching it flicker in the darkness. It’s almost invisible, a whisper of light that’s barely there. And the smell… it’s different, stronger, more pungent. It fills the basement, a toxic miasma that makes my head spin and my lungs burn. I know it’s not good for me, breathing in these fumes, but I can’t stop. This is my training, my path to understanding what I truly am.

Every time the blue fire burns too long, too fiercely, I have to haul myself up and open the hatch, letting the poisonous air escape into the night. The effort leaves me gasping, my chest tight and painful, but there’s a part of me that revels in the suffering. It feels like progress, like I’m pushing past my limits, discovering something new about myself. Every time, I can breathe the fumes in for longer. Every time, I can let it sit on my skin a little longer.

I’ve always been immune to my own flames, a blessing that’s let me wield my power without fear. But this blue fire, it’s different. It’s colder, not like the searing heat I’m used to. It doesn’t burn as hot. It ignites, but slowly, creeping and crawling over surfaces like sludge, like water. Like slime mold. It reeks.

I sit back down on the rotting mattress, my mind racing with possibilities. What if there’s more to my power than I ever imagined? What if I’ve only been scratching the surface?

In my ignorance, in my narrow view of the world, I never considered that my fire could be more than a weapon, more than a tool for instilling fear. But now, in the depths of my solitude, I’m beginning to see the truth. Fire is change, it’s transformation. Fire isn’t meant to remain stagnant. I need to drill deep into who I am. To master every aspect of this weapon. This miracle.

I let the blue flame dance between my fingers, watching it intently. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing, toying with this new aspect of my power. But danger has always been a part of who I am. It’s the thrill of the unknown, the allure of the forbidden. I’m going to be the most dangerous man in town. The most dangerous man in the world.

I’m not going to be their fucking pug any longer. Not their pug, not their laughingstock, not their pity party.

---

I push open the door to the vet’s clinic, the familiar jingle of the bell announcing my presence. The vet looks up from his paperwork, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Whoa! You look like shit. And you smell like a fucking dump,” he exclaims, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

I can’t help but chuckle, a sound so foreign to me it feels like it belongs to someone else. “Yeah, been working on something new. A project,” I say, my voice lighter than it’s been in weeks.

The vet eyes me warily, as if I’m a bomb about to go off. “You’re in a good mood. That’s new. And unsettling,” he remarks, putting down his pen.

I stride over to his desk, pulling out a wad of crumpled bills from my pocket. I slap them down on the counter, a decent stack, all things considered. “One last checkup, Doc. Make sure everything’s healing up right.”

He looks at the money, then back at me. “You sure you want to spend all this on a checkup? You look like you could use a decent meal. And a shower.”

I shrug, the motion sending a twinge of pain through my still-healing chest. “I’ve got plans, Doc. Big plans. Just need to make sure I’m in one piece for them.”

He sighs, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Alright, let’s take a look at you. But Aaron, whatever you’re planning, think it through. I’ve patched you up more times than I care to count. Even my patience has limits.”

I nod, following him to the examination room. His words echo in my mind, a warning, a piece of advice. Think it through. For the first time in my life, I’m actually considering that. My time alone, the changes in my power, they’ve given me a new perspective. Maybe it’s time to be more than just a thug with a fire trick.

As the vet examines my knee, prodding and poking with a practiced hand, I can feel the gears turning in my head. I’m not the same man I was two weeks ago. I’ve been broken down, yes, but in the ruins of my old self, something new is beginning to take shape. He nods. “You’re healing. Knee’s still a bit weak, but it’ll hold. Nose is… well, it’s as good as it’s going to get.”

The vet’s concern deepens as he transitions from my knee and nose to a more thorough examination. He grabs his stethoscope, placing the cold metal against my chest. “Breathe in. Breathe out,” he instructs, his brow furrowing as he listens.

After a few moments, he steps back, a grave look on his face. “Jesus, Aaron. Your lungs… they sound like hell. Have you been chain-smoking in a coal mine or something?”

I shrug nonchalantly, the action sending a slight twinge through my body. “Something like that. Been working on my craft.”

He shakes his head, clearly not satisfied with my vague response. “This is serious, Aaron. Your lungs sound like they’ve aged two decades in the span of two weeks. What the hell have you been inhaling?”

I lean back, a smirk playing on my lips despite the dire warning. “Just the sweet scent of progress, Doc. Nothing to worry about.”

He doesn’t share my casual attitude. “This is not a joke. You keep this up, and you’re looking at some serious respiratory problems. Hell, you might already be there. Consider this warning a professional courtesy, because I don’t wanna see your ass in my office no more.”

I wave off his concern with a flick of my wrist, still smirking. “Am I going to drop dead tomorrow, Doc? No? Then we’re good. I can always rob some kid’s asthma inhaler if it gets too bad.”

The vet stares at me, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. “You’re unbelievable, Aaron. You’ve got nine lives or something, but even those run out eventually.”

I stand up, feeling the weight of his words but choosing to ignore them. “Thanks for the heads-up, Doc. I’ll keep it in mind.”

As I turn to leave, the vet calls out, a note of finality in his voice. “Take care of yourself, Aaron. I mean it. You’re playing with fire, and not just the kind you can control.”

I stand up, flexing my knee, testing it. It holds, just like he said. “Thanks, Doc. For everything.”

He gives me a long look, something like concern in his eyes. “Just… be careful, Aaron. Whatever you’re getting into, make sure you can get out.”

I nod, understanding the unspoken message. Be smart. Be strategic. No more reckless gambles, no more needless violence.

“I said before that you’re not cut out for this, and I fuckin’ mean it. Take a good hard look at yourself, Aaron. You’re making more enemies than you have room for. This city isn’t for you anymore. Not here. Not now. Another professional courtesy – you should make yourself scarce before your luck runs out,” he says, and I almost feel the warmth in his voice. I knew he cared. I almost want to hug him. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Whatever you say, doc. I’m thinking Atlantic City. Or maybe I’ll go to Montgomery or Bucks and take over their coke rings. I hear the band kids there are fuckin’ crazy,” I reply, cracking my knuckles, holding the door open.

“You do that, kid. Just stay out of this neighborhood for a good while yet if you know what’s good for you,” he warns.

As I step out of the clinic, into the cold, harsh light of the outside world, I feel a sense of determination settle over me. I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot.

It’s not running away. It’s a tactical retreat.

Just wait ’til they get a load of me.

---

←Previous

Next→

Enter your email and click the below “Subscribe” button to subscribe to updates.

Chum will update every Wednesday, with sporadic extra updates as I feel fit. To stay up to date with Chum, consider joining the Official Discord™️. If clicking that link is difficult, you can manually access it with the following invite: https://discord.gg/QHy8YM99vC

Comments, feedback, theorizing, speculation, questions, etc. are all greatly appreciated. Additionally, if you enjoy Chum and would like to offer your financial support, you can find my Patreon at https://patreon.com/bearsharktopus, or donate a one-time donation at https://paypal.me/bstdev.