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When fire meets human flesh, there's a horrid smell that fills the air. It's metallic, borderline plastic-y, and unforgettable. The essence of the smell coats your mouth and throat for some time, reminding you of the tragic event you witnessed. It’s something one would have a visceral reaction to.
When fire meets human flesh, it's usually an accident. Most often it's electrical malfunction, or a drunkard who's being reckless with a cigarette. It is not typically a restricted government building in the countryside the firefighters are called to save.
When fire meets human flesh, Tara breathes in air that fans the flames of her making, enjoying the flavor of the exaction of justice. She was not an electrical malfunction, nor was she a drunkard with a cigarette, though a smoke would probably take the edge off. Maybe later.
No, Tara was enjoying this. The light from the fire combined with the celestial shine of the midnight sky reflected on her starry, freckled face, which held a crude smile. In reality, she’s just as guilty as those she locked inside the headquarters, if not moreso. She should be burning with them for all she’s done, all she’s helped them to achieve. How could she have been so blind.
Fuck it. She sends a hand into her coat, grabbing the pack of cigs. She knows she should quit, Ma keeps telling her to.
“I can’t see lung cancer come and kill y’too, Tar. Not after Pa-” but she can’t.
So she cradles the cigarette in her hand, sheltering the small flame from the wind. The same wind blowing the smell of charred humanity at her soul. It's a beautiful sight, really. All the rage, all the hatred she has for the SHC, painted in brilliant orange under a silver sky, the rest of the sleeping world unaware. Maybe cutting the phones was a bit cruel…
Inhale. The smoke that fills her lungs joins whatever other smog was already there from the blaze below the hill. With each draw of the cigarette, it feels like a blanket is being put over a bed of knives, but then being told to sleep on it. Seemingly comforting, but probably fatal.
Exhale. The trails of grey leave her lips like a prayer to a god who doesn't exist, and won't ever answer her angry pleas.
There's the sound of a door closing behind her, but she doesn't turn. Footstep approach, barely audible and close together. It's a child. Inhale.
“I know you said to… wait in the truck. But…” The kid trails off, eyes fixated on the fiery spectacle at the bottom of the overlook.
Exhale. It hurts, knowing the things that kid has gone through at such a young age. The SHC didn't usually take prisoners. “Yeah… sorry, Halden. Got caught up thinkin’ about something.”
His body language is nervous, tense. It’s expected. “They- they won't find us, right? Because burning buildings isn't good. With the, the law. But it's good for us…?” He ends his sentence somewhere between a statement and a question.
When fire meets human flesh, there typically isn't a supernatural of 20 human years behind the wave of destruction. Tara didn’t expect to become a mother so soon, especially to an almost-3 year-old supernatural. She finds herself tossing the cig before she’s finished, stomping on it before opening her arms to the kid. He wordlessly accepts the invitation, climbing into them. She keeps her breathing even as they walk back to her truck. It was once her Pa’s ‘69 Ford F250. “We’ll get going then.”
His hands are so small, his voice is so quiet. “Where?”
Tara hums, helping the kid into the passenger seat. The two of them click the lap belt into place, Tara making sure the belt doesn't retract too fast and scare the kid. He's only a kid- “I dunno, where’s somewhere you want to go?” There’s a dissociated glaze to his eyes, like he isn't fully in the moment, so Tara gently shuts the door and heads to the front of the truck.
The fire below the hill continued its relentless blaze, with the song of destruction so hellbent on singing that it drowned out any noise of quiet or calm. It devoured oxygen and darkness, replaced stillness with chaos, and laughed despite the agony it painted on the scorched grass and soil. It was a masterpiece on the canvas of the night sky, a symphony of the satanic. Tara looks away for a moment, eyes being drawn to the only place stillness still dared to exist. From where she leaned against the grill of the F250, fingers fishing out another cigarette, she could see the white mop of Halden’s hair draped across his sleeping face, peaceful in the calm of the truck cabin. Good, the kid needs the rest.
She brings the cigarette and lighter to her lips, imagining the flames that glow in the peripheral of her vision being the monster that fuels her addiction. “No fault on the kid but if Halden wasn’t here…” she’d definitely be savoring a smoke that was ignited by her rage. Imagine, lighting a cigarette on a burning building.
Wouldn't that be something?
Tara takes a few puffs, savoring the burn in her lungs, and thinking over the plan again. The first half, at least, was nearly complete. The outpost where they kept Halden locked up was now on its way to ashes, she had the classified folders and documents she needed in her bag in the truck, and now Halden was safely asleep. She wants to wait and watch it burn down, wants to visually see the result of her “going rogue.” Inhale, exhale.
Knowing the SHC, they will most certainly spin this as a tale to paint supernaturals as even more dangerous monsters, given the new generation of operatives joining their ranks. Crazy that she was recently one of those.
She should be burning.
There are horrors she’s seen existing in the darkest corners of her mind, things she herself has done to others like- to others that the SHC would label as unnatural. As an infestation to exterminate. Something only fire could burn away. For years, her entire life, she believed these things about supernaturals, yet somehow found it in herself to commit crimes against her own kind. It must have been some sort of a disconnect, being from beyond the planet compared to the ones that are from the earth, though that does not excuse her actions. Nothing could ever make it up to them, but she has to try.
She still should be burning.
Time must have passed while she was stuck in her thoughts, because the fire was beginning to slow, her cigarette was barely a nub between her fingers, and the clouds were beginning to rain. Mildly annoyed to be shaken out of her mind, Tara tosses the cig and returns to the truck. The nearest paved road is about a half mile away, and if the storm picks up, it could get more dangerous than sticking around at the scene of a crime.
As quiet as she can, she slips into the cabin, praying the truck deigns to start. It takes a couple tries, but eventually the engine rumbles awake, timidly, as if not to startle the sleeping toddler in its arms. Then it starts singing a lullaby, the radio switching on to R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion.” (#)
Gravel shifts under the tires as she turns around and rejoins the dirt road, lowering the volume. The urge to roll down the windows is strong, but it’ll be too loud, so she internalizes the feeling and dismisses it for another day. The headlights remain off for a bit, relying on the moonlight and retreating fire to light her way to the nearest paved way to freedom.
The second half of the plan was a bit more undefined, and definitely had less fire involved. She had arrangements with a friend, someone horribly wronged by the SHC and turned fully to the side of supporting supernaturals. Their name is Ghost, or at least their alias is. They’d opened their house to people on the run, primarily supernaturals, but anyone needing a safe place to stay was welcome if they followed the rules. She hoped that was still the case, turning onto a different dirt road, since it’s been… a while since everything happened. Her eyes glance over the small fairy figurine on the dash, gaze tracing the “星の光” painted on its back.
Yeah, it’s been a long few years.
A soft rustle sounds from Halden on the bench next to her, where he stirs in his sleep. She keeps her eyes on the road.
There’s a small part of her, a part she no longer wants to admit exists, that can’t shake the feeling that she’s making a mistake. Sticking to her life at the SHC would have been normal, and keeping to the usual would maintain a solid life.
A life of lies and hate, more like.
Being from a conservative, rural, midwestern town usually bred children of hate. She wasn’t any different. The “public school” was more private than a North Dakota rest stop toilet stall, so of course they taught whatever they wanted. The only thing worse than what she went through would be homeschool, or Catholic school. The horrors.
It was a surprise when her folks let her go to community college, then onto the state university, and finally into a study abroad program. Told her "the SHC won't take just anyone," so she needed to get out there. "Not like they could've let me out sooner," she mutters, making another turn.
Japan was, affectionately, a shitshow. Not only had that trip exposed her to the world, it had introduced a dissonance to her reasoning that had never been explored.
That trip was her utter undoing.
In more ways than one.
Tires finally hit pavement as Tara guides the truck through a rolling stop. The road now was a local highway, giving them a possibility of encountering life.
It isn't long before life is encountered, though different than expected. “Y’smell,” the kid whispers, finally breaking the stillness, words slurred as the fogginess of sleep still maintains its infestation of his body.
Tara can't help but chuckle, low and deep, before lowering the radio. "Have a good nap, kid?"
"Mmmm." He hums drowsily, tucking himself against the side of the truck cabin. "I figured it out."
"Figured what out?" Huh?
"Where I wanna go."
Oh right. Sometimes it's easy to forget she's dealing with a supernatural toddler who could probably out logic the average American high schooler. "Where's that?" She winds her window open a crack, hoping to lessen the lingering stench-
"Origami. Cherry trees."
Tara's breathing stutters.
"And the fairies."
"It could've been our story." The plea cracks as her voice shakes. "Don't do this, Tar, you can't go back to tha-"
"…I like that place too, kid." Mind- memory reading? Her nerves can't help but stay on alert. Surely his file would've mentioned this?
Moments pass before Halden's soft snores sound once again, accompanying the buzzing of tires on asphalt. Tara's knuckles go white from a death grip as she resists the draw of a smoke. Not with the kid, she made herself promise. Kill herself all she wants but she won't encourage a double suicide.
Maybe when they stop for gas next.
It's gonna be a long foreseeable future.