[b]FULLER PARK
6:31 PM[/B]

[CENTER][i][b]FLARE[/b][/i][/center]

A sharp whistle cut through the low rumble of the flames and momentarily froze Flare like a deer in headlights. Flare’s mask peered around the hump of the mailbox and caught the silhouette of man wielding a baseball bat several yards beyond Demolition Derby. A quick rundown of known vigilantes that used bats ran through their mind: Arc, Slugger, Bat Boy, Slammy Sosa, Pitch Perfect, Grand Slam, Speedball, the Ump—the list went on, but Flare gave up. This vigilante had only name in Flare’s mind: Distraction. Yet while they were thankful that Distraction had shown up to keep Derby busy, there was a part of their mind where they couldn’t help but think of how [i]fucking[/i] stupid this vigilante was—and this was coming from the neophyte armed with a switchblade and a couple of self-defense toys from less-than-stellar Christmases whose plan of attack was to play it by ear. 

Still, at least Flare didn’t make fun of some racist psychopath’s mother like they were a preteen boy playing a first person shooter online. They doubted it’d take much to set off Derby’s fuse, and now that Distraction had gone ahead and thrown out a “yo mama” joke the timer on the next explosion had been turned to imminent. There was no more time for this sneaking around shit. Eyes rolling behind their mask, Flare used the chatter to conceal the quiet splashes of their running shoes on the slick street as the sprinted towards Derby. Derby was yelling something back at Distraction, but Flare tuned it out. Listening any further to Derby’s casual hatred and Flare feared they’d actually end up burying their switchblade into his neck just so he’d shut the hell up.

Eighty paces. Flare’s could see the faint reflection of their dark eyes widening off of the tinted lenses of their mask as Derby reached into his bag. Sixty-five paces. Unsurprisingly, it was a bomb—an idea that would have been insane a few months ago. Distraction had a new name now: Victim. They felt their calf muscles tighten as they broke out into a dead sprint. Fifty paces. No longer did Flare worry about being silent. They had to get their before the street was covered with chunks of bat, blood, and bone. Forty paces. [i]Shit, shit.[/i] Derby cocked his arm back; Flare could see the red LED numbers already counting down. Thirty paces. [i]Shit, shit, shit.[/i] The bomb left Derby’s hand. [i]Shit.[/i] Hopefully the other vigilante was good at sprinting. Fifteen paces. Flare ripped the taser off of their vest and leveled it at Derby as they pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. 

It was around the second the barbs pierced through Derby’s coat and fifty thousand volts of electricity ran through the man’s body that Flare realized what a [i]fucking[/i] terrible idea attacking him had been. The man emitted a sort of animalistic squeal as his whole body locked up. It was until he flopped to the ground the device he had been so carefully clutching freed itself from his grasp as Flare ejected the cartridge from their taser. It seemed like time slowed down for the vigilante as they watch the switch-like device clatter to the ground. They turned on their heels so they could run as far from the man as possible, and to Flare it felt like they were running through molasses. They hadn’t made it more than a few yards when they felt a wave of heat and saw the darkened street light up like a Christmas tree from the flash that was coming from behind them. The street shook as there was a deafening explosion; Flare’s body was lifted from the ground and tossed like a ragdoll down the street, their small frame crumpling against a trash can. Demolition Derby was completely wiped from the face of the planet, replaced by a smoldering crater and a few scraps of blackened gore. 

[center][i][b]The Idiot[/b][/i][/center]

The first thought was that I was dead, and that heaven looked even less appealing than it had sounded when my folks had dragged me to church. As my eyes focused and the fires and broken down buildings came into view from the crushed trash can that I laid upon I realized I was mistaken. I wasn’t in heaven. I was in hell, and hell looked a lot like Fuller Park—and then all of the feeling came back to my body. If I was dead, I’d hurt a lot less. Everything ached, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken or missing. My chest hurt something fierce, though, and I felt like I was drowning. I could see blackness creeping in at the edge of my eyes, and by pure willpower and a lot of luck I managed to hold onto my consciousness. 

What had I been doing? I could see the street in front of me, lit red by the flames circling where Demolition Derby once stood. Some of the buildings around the epicenter of his spontaneous combustion had shattered glass, although I couldn’t remember if that had been the case before Derby had blown himself up. It was silent. Like, strangely silent—and then I heard the ringing in my ears like as if I had been standing too close to the speakers when a punk band had started to play. I had been trying to save that other vigilante, right? Did it work? Did it even matter? Right now, the only thing I could think about was how fucking stupid I had been. Well, that, and how hard it was to breath.

I lifted the bottom of my mask up just enough to let some fresh rain drip on my chin as I sucked in some cool air. My head dropped back down onto the trash can, my black hair probably dripping into something nasty. If I were an optimist I could have looked on the brightside of this situation: at least I wouldn’t have to waste one of my flares. Unfortunately, I could only focus on the fact that I had just unintentionally murdered someone...or would it be manslaughter? Maybe assisted suicide? I suppose I could figure out the proper definition of whatever number of crimes I had just technically been an accomplice to by waiting around for the police that were likely on their way, but that idea just didn’t sit well with me. The idea of moving didn’t sit well with me, either. In fact, doing anything sounded just like a horrible idea. Groaning softly, I let myself go as my body went limp in the garbage as whatever so called luck or willpower I had ran dry.