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“I despise the way politicians—and others—quote the great figures of history after they’re dead, to justify unjust causes that the originators of those quotes would have, in all likelihood, opposed.”
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—Alex Westsmith to Richard Caperno, in idle conversation, date unknown.
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Alex lay on his bunk in the dorm room he shared with Richard—the bottom bunk, that is—watching the video on his smartphone. In it, there was an African American lady in a lab coat, and some white guy with grey hair—the latter wearing a white, long-sleeved, dress shirt and black dress pants—on a stage or set of some sort. Behind them hung a sign reading, Nightly News With David Chapel. They were sitting in red, apparently cushioned, leather-looking chairs, with a coffee table between them. The guy, David Chapel, got up and walked to the edge of the stage, a wireless microphone in his hand.
Clearly loving the attention, David called out to the audience, “Hello, my fellow Americans, as well as any international friends who may be watching. Welcome to Nightly News, where each night, we discuss issues with experts, witnesses, callers, or any combination of the three. I am your host, David Chapel.”
The audience applauded as David paused, clearly soaking up the reaction of the audience—as an alcoholic would chug whiskey and bourbon—before he gave a hand gesture to the audience for silence.
David then continued, “Tonight we have a very special guest—one Doctor Elizabeth Hendricks, who—on top of being the head researcher for Project Dawn—is an expert on both the Advent Virus and on Variants!”
David walked back to his chair, one of the stage lights following him as he did so, while the other stayed fixed on his guest. David picked up a glass of water with his free hand—one of two glasses of water sitting on the coffee table—and took a sip, before setting it back down as he sat down in his chair once again. David seemed in his element, enjoying himself thoroughly, whereas Doctor Hendricks seemed…off. Alex had not managed to figure out why that was yet.
Typically, Alex didn’t watch incendiary liars, who spewed deceit and misinformation—whether it was bigoted fools, those veiling lies as so-called alternative facts for political convenience, or any combination of the two. If Alex wanted news, he’d get it from an unbiased source; with Richard’s help; or, failing that, he’d get it from a mildly biased source with the honesty to fully disclose said biases. But this video had been circulating around the school, and Alex wanted to know what malicious garbage David Chapel was putting in the heads of those around him. He considered it a form of situational awareness. Alex considered it a form of situational awareness, that is. Based on what Alex knew of David Chapel, the host couldn’t tell his rear from a hole in the ground. Alex continued to watch.
“Thank you for coming, doctor.”
“Thank you for having me, sir.”
The greetings were warm. Alex wondered if the doctor in question would go along with the hatred and fear spewed by the bigoted fool that was David Chapel.
With a look of…anticipation? Malice? It was near impossible to tell for Alex, but Alex would not put either past this grade of scum. Anyway, David Chapel asked, “To start with, what does the Advent Virus do to Variants?”
Doctor Hendricks calmly, and politely replied, “Well, before you get to that, you need to understand that the Advent Virus has already infected everybody on Earth.”
David Chapel seemed both stunned and extremely nervous upon hearing that, even to Alex, who was known to have extreme difficulty with social cues, as David retorted, “Wait, it has? I’m not dead, and I don’t have some sort of mutation, so, I—um… I don’t see how that works.”
Doctor Hendricks patently stated, “My apologies, David—may I call you David?” David nodded, prompting Doctor Hendricks to continue, “It’s easy to forget, but the vast majority of the population are simply asymptomatic carriers.”
David replied, “Okay, on behalf of the audience, I would like to ask what, exactly, asymptomatic carriers are?”
Doctor Hendricks answered, very matter of factly, “An asymptomatic carrier is somebody who has an illness, and can spread that illness, but is not otherwise affected by the illness themselves, therefore showing no symptoms of said illness.”
Barely missing a beat, David retorted, “Then, um…why are people dying from it, again?”
Doctor Hendricks responded, “I said most of the population, not all of the population. In some non-Variants, the Advent virus is rejected by the patient’s body on a genetic level, causing the condition known as Regalis Syndrome, in which the virus directly attacks the patient’s DNA. The goal of those working for Project Dawn is to find a cure for Regalis Syndrome through clinical research, and clinical trials, including on human patients.”
David, confused, and very likely unused to questioning, or listening to, someone with this level of education—in Alex’s opinion, at least—then inquired, “But, if it’s a matter of gene editing, couldn’t CRISPR gene editing tools be used to fight it?”
Alex was stunned that such a malicious fool as David Chapel had known about CRISPR.
Doctor Hendricks answered very politely, “That was one of the first ways we attempted to find a cure, but—for unknown reasons—CRISPR shuts down entirely upon contact with the virus in the bodies of Regalis Syndrome patients. Then, the virus somehow destroys the CRISPR material used.”
“How does it do that, Doctor,” David Chapel asked her.
“We don’t know how it does that—it destroys the CRISPR material too fast for us to analyze how. As for why, we believe that the virus evolved its ability to shut down CRISPR material—almost instantly upon contact with said material—as a survival mechanism,” Doctor Hendricks answered.
David Chapel asked, “Wouldn’t that require it to already have come into contact with some version of CRISPR?”
“I can’t say that the virus developing its ability to shut down and destroy CRISPR is impossible without the virus having been in proximity to CRISPR at some point prior to Project Dawn attempting to use CRISPR as a cure for Regalis Syndrome,” Doctor Hendricks replied, before adding, “But it does seem such a scenario is unlikely.”
David Chapel then asked, “How exactly was CRISPR used in these cure attempts, Doctor?”
Doctor Hendricks replied, “At first, we attempted to use CRISPR to attack the virus directly. When that failed, we tried to alter the patient’s DNA in such a manner as to stop it from continuing to reject the Advent Virus. In both cases, CRISPR was shut down and destroyed by the virus.”
“And what other attempts have been made to create a cure, Doctor,” David Chapel asked.
“I fear that so many attempts have been made, that we don’t have the time to list them all, David. However, none have had even partial success,” Doctor Hendricks answered.
David Chapel then asked, “How are patients selected for clinical trials, given that they’re in comas and all?”
“Well, we just go to their parents, spouse, or whoever has power of attorney for them and ask for consent to place their loved one in a clinical trial. If they agree, then we put the patient in a clinical test run of potential cures. If consent is refused, then we simply do our best to keep the patient alive, without using them to test new cures,” Doctor Hendricks stated, “And—as these patients’ lives are lost to Regalis Syndrome in a few years—most relatives are eager to find a cure for their loved ones.”
David Chapel replied, “Yes, but there are risks, such as the Shreveport Ten?”
Dr. Hendricks nodded, saying, “Yes, there are risks. The deaths of those patients were tragic, and we have certainly improved our staff vetting procedures as a result.”
“And it’s true that you refused to authorize the use of that dangerous experimental drug on human patients, but that several of your subordinates disobeyed your orders, and administered the drug anyways, including some northern doctors who stated that the potential cost of, quote, ten southern rednecks dying, unquote, would be worth potentially curing northern folks of Regalis Syndrome,” David Chapel inquired.
Doctor Hendricks replied, “I heard the audio recordings and saw the notes of those former doctors—only after the deaths of those patients, mind you—and I can confirm that, as I testified to in their criminal trials, such malicious disregard for the wellbeing of those Shreveport patients was a major factor in what happened. This was indicated in their notes, among other pieces of evidence that they tried and failed to destroy. They’re all serving life in prison without the possibility of parole, in case you were wondering."
David Chapel, either outraged for all the wrong reasons or feigning outrage entirely—if Alex had to guess—replied, “Yes, so I’ve been told—although I think capital punishment would have been more appropriate. Well, unfortunately, we do have time constraints. So, what are the first signs of Regalis Syndrome? What are the symptoms?”
Doctor Hendricks patiently replied, “You know, signs can be observed by others, whereas symptoms are only noticeable to the patient. That said, to answer your question, the first signs and symptoms of Regalis Syndrome are severe migraines, followed by a sudden onset of unconsciousness and coma, before jaundice sets in, although not all patients experience the migraines before falling unconscious.”
David Chapel then inquired, “Doctor Hendricks, could you please explain what jaundice is?”
“Jaundice is an extreme yellow hue to one’s skin, which typically results from liver failure. The liver is among the first organs that Regalis Syndrome attacks, alongside the brain,” Doctor Hendricks replied.
“I see. Now, I’ve been told, repeatedly, that there is no cure, and there are only very limited treatment options. Is that true,” David Chapel inquired.
“Tragically, there is no cure. As for treatment, we can prolong the life of comatose patients far longer than we could two years ago. This is due to research—and subsequent advancements in medical technology—specific to caring for comatose Regalis Syndrome patients, as well as general advancements in caring for patients who are stuck in comas. However, these advancements cannot stop them from falling into comas—or eventually dying of multi-system organ failure from Regalis Syndrome—but these advancements instead delay their deaths by years. The goal of such advancements is to buy researchers time to find a cure,” Doctor Hendricks explained.
“We keep seeing new cases of Regalis Syndrome popping up. Why is that,” David Chapel asked.
“It’s really because, in some cases, the patient’s DNA does not begin rejecting the Advent virus until after puberty,” Doctor Hendricks stated.
“Do we know why that is, or…?” David Chapel let his voice trail off, but Doctor Hendricks answered anyways, responding, “Unfortunately, no. There are still many unanswered questions regarding the Advent Virus.”
David Chapel seemed to be just doing a regular interview, but Alex had seen his past quote-on-quote interviews. Alex knew better.
“Well, that is unfortunate. But, you, me, everyone in the audience—the Advent Virus is inside all of us, right,” David Chapel said, asking what he already knew, probably trying to set the doctor up for something.
As to exactly what, Alex had suspicions, but had no clue if she was in on it or not.
“Yes, sir, that would be correct,” Doctor Hendricks replied, seeming either not to be confused, or not to be making a big deal out of being confused.
Seemingly more energetic all of a sudden, David Chapel asked, “Could you please explain what the Advent Virus does to Variants, Doctor?”
Doctor Hendricks answered, “Of course, sir. Variants are people whose DNA not only coexists with the Advent Virus, but receives favorable alterations from the virus, such as enhanced physical strength, or enhanced stamina. We’re not sure exactly how it works, though, as the vast majority of our research is focused on saving comatose Regalis Syndrome patients, and not on Variants."
David Chapel inquired, “So, are there different types of Variants?”
Doctor Hendricks responded very politely, saying, “Yes, sir. There are two types of Variants. The first type simply has enhanced versions of abilities and skills which they already possessed, while the second type gains new skills and abilities.”
With what seemed to be mild curiosity, David Chapel asked, “And these abilities, these mutations, when do they first manifest?”
“A Variant’s abilities, or mutations, could manifest at any point between birth and midlife in a Variant, although they usually manifest around puberty at the earliest, and by one’s twenties at the latest, if they’re going to manifest. That said, it is believed that extreme physical, emotional, or psychological, trauma might cause these mutations to manifest earlier, cause them to manifest to a more extreme degree, or, potentially cause them to manifest in people who otherwise might not manifest Variant abilities at all, by somehow activating dormant changes to their DNA made by the Advent Virus. We believe that this aspect of Variant abilities is some sort of biological coping mechanism for surviving trauma, which the human body has coopted from the virus,” Doctor Hendricks explained, before adding, “Although it should be mentioned, trauma does not seem to be necessary for one to become a Variant, although said trauma does seem to make becoming a Variant more likely.”
“Okay. Given all this data, and all the accounts of the Variant related crime, would you say that Variants have some sort of biological predisposition for violence, mental instability, or criminal activity,” David Chapel asked.
Clearly indignant and offended, Doctor Hendricks retorted, “Of course not! Every genetic group has a criminal element—male, female, black, brown, Asian, and white! That reflects poorly on the individuals responsible, but not the whole of that genetic group! Which isn’t even mentioning that Variant crime is disproportionately covered in the media!”
David opened his mouth to spew more bigotry, but Alex was sickened by this garbage, the sort of deceit that made even nonviolent Variants hide their abilities, and their being Variants to begin with. Closing out the video-sharing app, Alex pocketed his phone.
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Richard’s demeanor was excited, as he turned to Alex, who was covered in various sports pads and a motorcycle helmet, demanding, “So, let’s get to it! What’s your new idea?”
Alex replied, “Simply put, I’m hoping that, by generating pillars of solidified fire beneath my feet, at an angle slightly higher than the ground’s level, I can basically catapult myself forward, performing high-speed maneuvers, and thusly be able to commute quicker, especially if I’m going across rooftops. Okay, stand back!”
Richard took several steps back as Alex looked around the walls of junk in the scrapyard—which was, of course, owned by Richard’s uncle, Rick.
Crouching, Alex focused, before generating a pillar of fire beneath his own feet—at a thirty-degree angle from the ground—while simultaneously solidifying it, an action which hurled Alex forward, through the air, with Alex generating and solidifying another pillar underfoot as soon as his feet touched the ground, then repeating the maneuver several times as he climbed up a mound of scrap by hurling himself from pillar to pillar. Towards the top of the mound of scrap was the rusted, hollowed-out shell of a car, with all four doors stuck open, which Alex maneuvered around—until he felt something beneath his feet, not the pillar of orange crystal, but beneath the pillar, give way, and one of the open car doors hurtled towards the tinted visor that covered his face. There was a loud cracking sound, and—before Alex’s mind could register what had happened—he was rolling down a pile of scrap metal, and the helmet visor was cracked. Then the visor was seemingly pulled away, shattered, and gone, and scrap began cutting his face as he rolled downhill. Eventually, Alex rolled to a stop at the bottom of the pile of rusted metal, his face to the night sky, and Richard was kneeling next to him.
Reaching up with his hands, Alex undid his helmet’s chin strap and pulled the helmet off of himself.
Richard, his voice trembling with worry, asked, “Alex, are you injured? Alex, can you hear me?”
Alex, in a winded voice, replied, “No, I don’t think I’m injured. Well, beyond a few minor cuts, anyway. I broke the helmet’s visor, though. And I cracked the crotch guard, I think.”
Sounding what Alex believed to be confused, or something akin to it, Richard asked, “Crotch guard? What’s that?”
“The thing from lacrosse,” Alex replied, “Or, at least, I think it’s from lacrosse. Ya, stick it in your boxers to prevent testicular and penile injury.”
Realization dawned on Richard as he said, “Oh…that’s what the cock cup is actually called!”
Alex laughed at Richard’s words, before eventually saying, “Yeah, Richard. That’s what it’s called. What I want to know is, why did you call it cock cup? Noone’s drinking outta that!"
Richard humorously retorted, “Well, it was either that or think of it as His Majesty’s Royal Cock Guard!”
Alex laughed harder than before at that comeback.
I rarely ever laugh, Alex thought, I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this. It feels…good. Really good. Even though I know I should be taking this seriously, I cannot help but laugh.
Alex forced himself up, all the muscles and joints in his body groaning in protest, and began to walk off.
Richard’s concerned voice called out after Alex, “Alex, where are you going?”
“To get the spare crotch guard and helmet,” Alex replied.
“Alex, you could be concussed. And besides, this is the twenty-first consecutive night you’ve been up late, or all night, training on a pretty intense regimen. Please take a break.”
Irritated, Alex replied, “There will be no breaks in the field, and I will not allow myself to fail.”
Richard bluntly stated, “Alex, you’re being unrealistic.”
Both confused and irritated, Alex demanded, “How so?”
Despite Alex’s obvious irritation, Richard’s voice held nothing but concern as he replied, “Sometimes, you won’t be able to stop yourself from failing. Failure is a part of life.”
Alex narrowed his eyes—although he still had his back to Richard, neither knowing nor caring if Richard could see his eyes—and stated, “Failure in this—that’s not an option. I remember what it’s like to be vulnerable and helpless. When the vulnerable need saving, I will be there—and I will not fail them.”
Richard seemed upset as he responded, “I also know what it’s like to be vulnerable and helpless. How do you think I was when two Marines knocked on Mom’s front door and told us that we weren’t getting my Dad back? That all we were getting was a corpse in a casket and a folded flag? You’re being unrealistic.”
Alex shook his head, replying, “When they need me, I will not fail them. I will not let myself fail them.”
With those words, Alex sprinted away, ignoring the blood which was beginning to trickle down his forehead, and into his eyes.
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Alex stood in the dorm room he shared with Richard, having only just changed into one of the Pyre uniforms, as he slid the helmet on over the mask, and did the chin strap. Richard was on his computer, typing away.
“So,” Alex asked, his voice mechanically altered, “that smartwatch app you’re making to let me eavesdrop on phone and radio chatter—how’s that coming?”
“It’s going well,” Richard replied, “Another couple of days, and it might be ready for a field test.”
“Good,” Alex replied, “That will be useful. And your Mass Surveillance Algorithm?”
“I’m already ninety-five percent done. Just need to iron out the user interface and sifting measures,” Richard told him.
“Sifting measures,” Alex asked, his voice filtered through the Vocal Disguise Unit.
“Yeah. In other words, I need to find something better than my current algorithms to sift through the data, then flag and prioritize anything we can act on,” Richard explained.
“Sounds like it would be running the risk of letting people fall through the cracks,” Alex remarked, concerned, before asking, “Is there any way we could sort through it without an algorithm?”
“Not unless we can use a cutting-edge AI. And—while I am working on it when I can—that’s probably gonna be at least another couple of years, given the current pace of my work on it, even if I get it right the first time, which is unlikely. I’m sure there are some AI that could fit the bill, but the CIA, NSA, and US Military have much better firewalls than the FBI. Combined with the fact that they’d recognize some of the cyber-warfare tactics and spyware I would use, I don’t think ripping off their designs would be a good idea,” Richard stated.
“So you can’t hack them?” Alex’s voice—even altered by the Vocal Disguise Unit in his helmet—sounded very surprised by that.
“Oh, I could hack their intel reports and data files all day long. But they’re being extra secure with their Artificial Intelligence programs. That and NORAD are among the few things where even if I could hack it, I probably couldn’t get away with it,” Richard elaborated, “And as for NORAD, while I could hack it and possibly issue a false order for a nuclear launch, I would have no way that I know of to get the authorization code for the nukes. Meaning that it would definitely be shut down before anything launched. And as greedy and incompetent as the taxpayer-funded jackasses in congress are, I doubt that they’d take a report from NORAD’s military command about someone falsifying unauthorized orders to launch nukes lightly. After all, they can’t get the tax money that pays their salaries if nobody on earth is alive to be taxed.”
“Which there wouldn’t be if nuclear winter resulted from the debris kicked into orbit by the force of the explosions, radiation rendered earth hostile to human life, or a hostile nuclear power—like Russia or the Chinese Communists—mistook the launch as an attack on them and retaliated in kind, regardless of whether the launched warheads come down on them or their allies. Mutually Assured Destruction. I get it,” Alex said.
“Hey, Alex, mind if I ask you something about that fight,” Richard inquired.
“Go for it,” Alex told him.
“Why did you hold back? In that cafeteria fistfight, earlier today, I mean,” Richard asked.
“Because, if I used my Variant abilities, it would have outed me as a vigilante,” Alex stated.
Richard nodded in reply, seeming to understand that.
“I’m going,” Alex—now Pyre—said, before opening the sliding glass door, and walking out, onto the balcony. Pyre then used solidified fire to catapult himself onto the city’s rooftops.
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Pyre found himself traversing the rooftops of Central New Hellensburge, pissed off about the garbage that people like David Chapel were spewing about Variants, and ready to work that anger out of himself. Stopping on the rooftop of a shop called Grey’s Mini-Mart—one location in a chain of stores—Pyre began wondering what sort of junk food they had. He was kinda hungry. Pyre debated trying to buy some junk food, despite being in his Pyre uniform—which could get him arrested—only to shake his head.
Damn it, Pyre! Stay focused! You have people to protect! Get on it, Pyre silently admonished himself.
Pyre shook his head and turned away. He was about to catapult himself away from the store’s rooftop when he heard voices yelling from inside the mini-mart.
“Stay still and shut up!”
“Please, don’t shoot! I—.”
There was the sound of a gunshot. Pyre didn’t need someone to paint him a picture—Pyre knew that he had to act now. Running to the edge of the roof, Pyre catapulted himself to the pavement of the parking lot, then used another pillar to hurl himself at the window, and. As the glass rushed forward to meet him, Pyre saw a man with a gun at the counter, screaming something about being willing to kill someone for money, but Pyre couldn’t hear all of it, as the glass pane of the massive, display window muffled the sound. Pyre took aim at the man, and a flick of his wrist sent an arrow-like sliver of solidified fire through the window, and into the scumbag’s body.
A second later, broken glass crunched between Pyre’s feet and the tile floor, as the vigilante observed five robbers—two by the door, and three at the counter. One of the latter three was already dead on the floor, the aforementioned sliver of solidified fire embedded in, and protruding through, his forehead, the orange crystal soaked in crimson as it stuck out the back of the robber’s head. It was the same sliver that had shattered the now glassless window.
Pyre had both the initiative and the element of surprise—and Pyre made full use of them both, sending a stream of solidified fire slivers slamming into the remaining two robbers at the counter, fatally impaling the two corpses there. They hung from the wall, limp and lifeless, like scraps of cloth nailed to the drywall. Turning towards the door, Pyre saw them—two raised pistols, shoved into his face—or the visor of his helmet, anyways—at point-blank range. There were two robbers behind the guns, both wearing ski masks.
“Hey, relax,” Pyre told them, his voice mechanically altered by the Vocal Disguise Unit in his helmet, while he raised his hands over his head, as though surrendering.
“Relax? You fucking shish-kabob-ed our guys—more than half our crew—and tell us to relax? Are you insane,” One of the two still living robbers spat, “‘cause the rest of your short ass life’s going be a hell on Ea—.”
The robber was cut off mid-word by two massive spikes of solidified fire abruptly shooting up from the ground beneath where Pyre’s two enemies stood—or, more accurately, about an inch in front of Pyre’s feet—shredding the two criminals to pieces. The remaining piles of shredded meat that had been those two scumbags fell to the ground in chunks, with a series of wet thuds.
Turning back to face the cash register, upon hearing a shriek, Pyre saw an old man standing up, as a young woman’s trembling voice asked, “H-h-have you g-gone crazy? He’s a V-V-Variant! He’ll k-kill us!”
The Old Man moved slowly and stiffly, as though he were having some sort of back or joint troubles. His hands—held over his head, presumably to show that he was not going to attack Pyre—bore the scars of a man who likely used to work as a carpenter, handyman, or some other profession involving sharp objects. The scars on his hands were very small but very numerous. He was missing a digit on his left pinkie—but there was no bleeding, or scab, on or from that wound. His skin had already sealed it—a long time ago, judging by the look of him, and the look of that injury to his finger, plus the other faded scars on his hands.
The Old Man wore an employee uniform of some sort, which presumably belonged to the Grey’s Mini-Mart chain of stores. This uniform consisted of black pants, black shoes, and a polo shirt that had a color pattern of a black lower half, and a yellow upper half, separated by a thin, red line, and the company logo embroidered on the yellow section, above the right breast. The Old Man wore a name tag, but Pyre didn’t bother reading it, as he wasn’t looking to call in favors from these people at a later date.
Maybe he’s just scared, Pyre thought upon seeing the emotions swirling in the old man’s eyes—emotions which Pyre could not identify, Maybe he doesn’t realize that I’m here to help. Whoever’s hiding behind the counter certainly doesn’t.
The Old Man looked down, behind the counter, and to his right, before the Old Man lowered his hands, saying, “Pretty sure if he wanted us dead, he’d have killed us by now. So chill out.”
Rubbing his grey beard with one hand, the Old Man looked at Pyre, and asked, “Kids still say that nowadays, right? Chill out I mean.”
“Uh…yes, sir. But why do you think I’m a kid,” Pyre retorted.
The Old Man shrugged and said, “Because you’re doing all this, without complaining about any joint ache. Or back pain. Insofar as I can gather, Variants still get arthritis! Oh, and thanks for saving our bacon there, young man. You got a code name, or a nickname, or something I can call you, or…?”
The Old Man let his voice trail off, prompting Pyre to answer, “Pyre. Please call me Pyre, sir.”
The young lady, trembling in her uniform, stood up and looked Pyre over. She was skinny and seemed to be Asian American, with flowing, jet-black hair, and brown eyes—specifically, an Asian American of Chinese or Taiwanese descent—or perhaps Japanese descent—if Pyre had to guess, although he could have been mistaken about the specific Asian group from which she was descended. Not that Pyre much cared what race she was—on the contrary, Pyre could not care less about the ethnicities of those he saved, so long as they were innocent.
Her brown eyes were open wide and wildly darting around, before staring at Pyre with—well Pyre couldn’t tell, but he assumed it was fear, based on her words, and on their interaction up until that point—as she asked, “L-l-like th-that thing used to b-burn dead bodies?”
“To cremate them. But yes, that,” Pyre corrected her, suddenly hoping he didn’t sound too much like a rude, know-it-all bastard.
“Th-th-thanks for s-s-saving us,” she said, as Pyre now realized that she looked downright terrified, “And s-sorry for that r-remark about Variants.”
“You’re welcome. And apology accepted,” Pyre replied, before hearing the police sirens approaching. Declaring to the pair of mini-mart employees, “That’s my cue to leave,” Pyre ran out the store’s front entrance, and catapulted himself onto a rooftop across the street with a pillar of solidified fire.88Please respect copyright.PENANAOmyPc4lHSc