Mike stared at the scorched asphalt where his target had been a fraction of a second ago. It was impossible. No one dodged lightning.
Before his brain could process the empty space, a fist wreathed in emerald fire slammed into his ribs. His patrol vest blocked the heat, not the force. Mike folded with a wet wheeze, the air driven from his lungs as he skidded across the pavement. He crashed into a shaved ice stall, bringing the flimsy wood and colorful syrups down on top of him.
"Sloppy," a voice sneered from the smoke.
The rogue Fire Auron stepped into the flickering light of the burning lanterns. He didn't look like a criminal—he moved with the fluid grace of a master, his stance perfect, his emerald flames controlled. Not a wild blaze, but a concentrated weapon.
Mike scrambled backward, his boots slipping on the slick mixture of spilled syrup and debris. He looked around for backup, but Officer Jackie was already down, groaning by the twisted wreckage of their patrol car.
"Stay back!" Mike yelled, terror widening his eyes. He summoned his aura, and magenta electricity crackled violently around his arms—wild, bright, and untamed. "This is Novaira's Police! Stand down!"
The man just laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "Police? You're children playing dress-up with powers you don't understand."
He closed the distance instantly. Mike panicked and threw a wild haymaker, a jagged bolt of lightning arcing from his fist. The rogue simply tilted his head. The bolt singed the air next to his ear, harmless.
He caught Mike’s wrist, twisting it with agonizing precision.
"You rely on the badge to scare people," the man whispered, his face inches from Mike's, illuminated by the green glow of his own power. "But fear requires respect. Discipline. Which you obviously lack."
He drove a knee into Mike’s stomach. Mike hit the pavement hard, gasping, the asphalt digging into his cheek.
"And you call yourselves Aurons? Novaira's best?" The man stepped back, looking at the devastation around them—the ruined New Light Festival decorations he had single-handedly turned to ash. "Pathetic. Burning down that clown's dojo was harder than this."
He ignited his fists again, the emerald flames roaring with a terrifying, pressurized heat that distorted the air.
"To think he stole students from me..." He shook his head, looking down at Mike with pure disgust. "Absolutely shameful."
He raised his hand for the finishing blow, oblivious to the small crimson cloud hovering nearby like a bloodstain on the air. "You can join the others in the hospital. Or the morgue. Your choice." His muscles coiled to strike. "DIE!"
Suddenly, a rope made of orange smoke shot from the mouth of an alley, wrapping itself around Mike's waist and yanking him backward with a strangled yelp, just as the flaming fist smashed into the empty pavement.
The fire Auron’s head snapped toward the alley, eyes narrowing. The other officers were gone—pulled away while he was distracted. Only wreckage and burned festival decorations remained.
Footsteps echoed from the darkness—slow, deliberate, heavy. A man emerged, wreathed in a flickering orange aura. He wasn't particularly tall, with messy black hair reaching his shoulders and a beard that added years to an otherwise young face. His Auron division jacket hung open down the middle, revealing a plain shirt underneath. But the most commanding aspect were his eyes—burning orange like molten steel, devoid of fear.
Their gazes locked for a heartbeat, the air thick with tension. Then the fire Auron moved, launching a barrage of fireballs that streaked through the air like angry comets.
The newcomer didn't panic. He dodged and weaved through the onslaught with unnatural precision, as if he saw the trajectory before the fire was even thrown. He closed the distance with terrifying speed, his expression unchanged.
The fire Auron's fists ignited once more as he moved to intercept, his movements precise and deadly. The orange Auron didn't parry or block. He simply dodged—once, then a second time by a hair’s breadth.
A voice echoed in his head, as familiar as an old scar and twice as irritating.
"Kehehe, looks like you're struggling, Angelo. Need a hand with that?"
Angelo ducked under a hook, eyes squinting with irritation. "Stand down, Red, he's mine!"
Distracted, a flaming uppercut caught him square in the jaw, sending him flying backward. He twisted mid-air, cat-like, shooting two smoky ropes from his aura downwards to reel back to the ground. He rubbed his hurting jaw."Alright, fine. Just don't get in my way."
The fire Auron closed in again, sensing blood. "Don't mess with fire!—"
He froze as he felt a distinct tap on his shoulder. Instinct kicked in—he spun, fire erupting violently in a defensive arc.
There was no one there. Just dissipating crimson smoke and a manic laughter that faded away like a bad dream.
"What?" The fire Auron breathed, confusion clouding his focus.
He remembered too late that Angelo was still behind him. He turned around just in time for Angelo's fist to meet his face with the force of a sledgehammer. The fire Auron hit the ground hard, rolling away just as an orange energy blast cracked the pavement where his head had been.
He scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his lip. "What was that?!" he spat with rage. "Who are you?!"
Angelo didn't answer. Instead, crimson smoke began bleeding from his body, shooting into the air and coalescing on the other side of the criminal. It took human shape, solidifying into another Angelo—only this one was slightly grayer, his aura a deep, blood-red.
His grin was full of bloodlust and anticipation, teeth gleaming in the firelight. "Surprrriise," he dragged the word out ominously.
The fire Auron's eye twitched. "Illusions? You think I'd fall for your tricks?!" He lunged at Angelo, ignoring the duplicate.
But a crimson energy blast hit him square in the back, staggering him. It didn't do a lot of damage, but the impact was undeniable. He paused, a look of horror dawning on his face. "He's... real..."
The duplicates leapt in unison, converging on the fire Auron who now found himself fighting a war on two fronts. His strikes turned indecisive, his focus split. They dodged every attack with synchronized grace, and their hits were landing. Slowly, his defenses started crumbling under the dual assault.
Finally, he found an opening on Angelo. With a swift two-finger motion, he summoned a pillar of emerald fire to erupt from the ground directly behind Angelo—the perfect blind spot.
But with Red watching from the flank, Angelo didn't have blind spots.
Through Red's eyes, Angelo saw the ground glow green behind him. He backflipped at the last impossible moment, soaring over the eruption. The fire Auron’s eyes widened in shock, forcing him to block his own attack coming straight at him with a wall of emerald flame.
When the smoke cleared, Angelo was gone.
"WHERE?!" He spun wildly, left, right. Then he found Red standing casually, pointing upwards with a smirk.
His head snapped up with realization. Angelo was hoisted high on the brick wall above, held by two smoky ropes. Orange energy was building between his palms, glowing brighter and brighter.
Their gazes locked. "ENERGY BOMB!" Angelo shouted.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The projectile flashed in the criminal's eyes before he could even blink.
BOOM!
The explosion lit up the alley walls, shaking bricks loose. When the dust began to settle, the fire Auron wobbled in place, clothes singed, aura flickering.
"Still standing?" Red's voice came from behind him. "Not for LONG!"
He kicked the criminal hard in the spine, sending him sliding face-down straight to Angelo's feet.
The criminal's green aura flickered like a dying light bulb. He slowly rose to all fours, coughing. But he froze when Angelo spoke, his voice cold as the grave.
"Stand down, rogue fire Auron."
The criminal's face twisted with rage. Heat began distorting the air around his balling knuckles.
An energy beam whizzed past his ear, heating the ground behind him with a hiss. The message was clear: the next shot wouldn't miss.
He lifted his head, meeting Angelo's unforgiving gaze.
"You now gaze upon the face of death," Angelo intoned, his voice taking on a ritualistic quality that sent shivers down the spine. "Change your heart and surrender, or strike, and prove yourself beyond redemption."
"Enough with the dramatic speeches already! Just end him!" Red's voice echoed in Angelo's mind, full of dark anticipation.
"You are missing the point entirely, Red," Blue interjected, his tone tired and detached. "As per usual."
The criminal stared up at Angelo, recognition finally dawning. These words... He heard about him.
"You..." He spat blood to the side. "You must be the one they call the Angel of Death."
Angelo's eye twitched at the moniker. "So you know of me. Good. Then you know what comes next. Choose wisely."
The fire Auron let out a bitter laugh. "First I go out of business because some flashy knock-off stole students from me, and now I have to answer to a kid playing judge and executioner..."
Angelo's gaze burned holes into his soul, unyielding.
The fire Auron slowly rose to his knees, his green eyes burning with a sudden, terrifying determination.
"I'd rather DIE on my own terms!"
He didn't scream. He didn't hesitate.
The last of his emerald aura swirled, flames concentrating into his right fist until it shone like a welding torch. With a grunt of final effort, he drove that fist straight into his own chest.
CRACK.
The sound of breaking bone echoed louder than any gunshot. Smoke poured from the wound instantly as the intense heat cauterized the hole he’d just made in his own heart.
"NOOOO!" Mike lunged forward from the alley mouth, but it was over before he could move.
The Fire Auron slumped forward, his hand still buried in his chest. He didn't fall flat—he collapsed into a rigid, kneeling bow. A twisted warrior's salute to the death he had chosen.
Angelo didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just watched the light fade from the man's eyes.
"Well shit," Red’s voice echoed in the silence of his mind. "That’s a first."
Mike was shaking, his face pale as he looked from the smoking corpse to Angelo. "Uh... Angelo... Thanks. Wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."
Angelo’s aura flickered out. His eyes returned to a dull, tired brown. "Don't mention it."
The slam of a car door cut through the air like a gavel.
"GOD DAMN IT, ASHWORTH!"
Angelo closed his eyes in resignation. "Of course..." He cursed under his breath.
Chief Ramirez stormed onto the scene, his heavy coat flapping behind him. He looked at the shattered festival decorations. He looked at the smoking, kneeling corpse. He looked at Angelo, who stood there like a statue amidst the carnage.
Ramirez didn't yell again. He just pointed a trembling finger toward the cruiser.
"My office. Now."
The door to the Chief’s office slammed shut, cutting off the hum of the station.
Ramirez didn't sit. He paced, his shadow stretching long and thin across the wall.
"You didn't kill him? Fine. But you didn't save him either." He spun around, planting his hands on the desk. "You walked in there, terrified a suspect into suicide, and called it a win."
Angelo stood at ease, his expression unreadable. "He wasn't terrified. He made his choice."
"And now I'm making mine." Ramirez’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous rumble. "You're toxic right now, Angelo. Half the public is terrified of you. The criminals are terrified of you. Hell, half my officers are terrified of you."
"What a bunch of pansies," Red jabbed internally, making Angelo's eye twitch with irritation.
He tossed a key onto the desk. It landed with a loud clack.
"You're going to the basement."
Angelo frowned. "The basement?"
"Archives. The old physical records from two decades ago. They need to be digitized for the new server." Ramirez sat down heavily, looking suddenly exhausted. "It’s a mess down there. Dust, mold, and thousands of dead ends. But since you clearly don't have the patience to deal with the living, you can go work with the dead."
He pointed a finger at Angelo. "Start with the oldest stack. And do not leave that room until I see the sun. Dismissed."
The Archives smelled like dust and forgotten secrets.
It was a tomb of a room, lined floor-to-ceiling with metal shelves that blocked out the world above. The only light came from a single, flickering fluorescent bulb that buzzed like a dying fly.
"So let me get this straight," Red's frustration was building.
He was fully materialized, sitting cross-legged on top of a tall filing cabinet near the ceiling. He kicked his heels against the metal with a rhythmic, hollow clang. clang. clang.
"We save everyone, get the bad guy, and we get punished for it?" He looked down at Angelo. "Sounds like a villain's origin story to me."
"I was under the impression you were already a villain." Blue jabbed with clinical detachment.
"I was referring to Angie, Blueberry, do keep up." Red spoke to seemingly empty air.
"I repeatedly asked you to stop using that term with me."
Angelo ignored them, feeding another yellowed document into the ancient scanner. Whir. Beep. Boop. Save. Repeat.
"It's a slap on the wrist, Red. A small price to pay for the sake of justice."
"It’s torture, that’s what it is! We should be out there, fighting! The streets are crawling with scum begging for a good beating, and here we are playing librarian!"
Red leaned back, balancing precariously on the edge of the cabinet. Since he was physical, gravity was still a problem, but he treated it with the same disrespect he treated everything else.
"Come on. Let’s ditch this graveyard. Ramirez went home an hour ago. Who’s gonna know?"
"Blue would know," Angelo muttered, grabbing another file. "And he'd nag us for a week for it."
“Indeed,” Blue’s voice chimed in, perfectly crisp in Angelo’s mind. “Discipline is the foundation of character. Besides, the Chief's instructions were specific. Digitize the cold cases.”
"Cold cases, shmold cases!" Red scoffed. He scrambled down the shelves like a monkey, using the handles as footholds until he landed on the floor with a heavy thud.
He wandered toward the back of the room where the shelves were thick with cobwebs, running his finger along the dusty boxes. "Why do we keep this crap anyway? It’s just paper rotting in the dark."
He stopped at a shelf labeled A - C.
"A," Red muttered, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Let's see if there's an 'A for Angelo' in here. Maybe you got arrested as a baby for being too ugly."
"We look exactly the same." Angelo said flatly, but Red ignored him.
He pulled a random box from the shelf and dumped it onto a worktable. Dust puffed up like smoke.
"Hey, look at this one," Red laughed, waving a file. "Arthur P. Anderson. Arrested for... 'Assaulting a Mime with a Baguette'. Okay, that one's actually funny. This guy's my hero."
He tossed it aside and grabbed another. "Alabaster, what kind of name is that? Arson. Boring." He tossed it.
He dug deeper, treating the official police records like a bargain bin at a toy store. "Come on, give me something juicy. Aliens? Assassins? A..."
His hand stopped on a thick, manila folder.
"Ashworth," he read aloud.
The name hung in the silence.
Angelo stopped scanning. The whir of the machine died down.
"What did you say?"
"Ashworth," Red repeated, his voice losing its mocking edge. "Report from Ashford, eighteen years ago." He frowned, tapping the folder. "Wait. Isn't that... us?"
Angelo stood up slowly. "Give me that."
"Relax, I'm just looking." Red flipped the cover open. "Let's see... House explosion. Two casualties. Infant survivor..."
Red stopped reading. His eyes narrowed, scanning the bottom of the page.
"Red?" Angelo walked over, his footsteps echoing against the cold floor. "What does it say?"
Red didn't answer with a joke this time. He looked up, and for the first time all night, he looked serious. "You need to see this."
Angelo took the file. The paper was brittle, smelling of mildew. He scanned the familiar details—the lab, the accident, the tragedy he had known his whole life.
But then his eyes drifted to the note stamped at the bottom in stark, red ink.
NOTE: Debris pattern indicates internal detonation. Blast radius consistent with military-grade accelerant. STATUS: HOMICIDE SUSPECTED.
The world tilted on its axis.
"Homicide," Angelo breathed.
The word hung in the dusty air. His entire life, he had been told it was an accident. A lab failure. A mistake.
"They didn't die in an accident," Red whispered. The playfulness was gone, incinerated by a sudden, trembling rage. "They were murdered!"
"We must approach this rationally," Blue’s voice cut in, though it lacked its usual sterile confidence. "This report is merely a suspicion from eighteen years ago. It is not definitive proof of a conspiracy. We must bring this to Chief Ramirez immediately and request a formal—"
"Ramirez...?" Angelo’s grip on the file tightened until the brittle paper cracked.
"Yes. He is the authority. He can reopen the—"
"Ramirez sent us down here!" Red snarled, his clenched fists vibrating with fury. "He’s the one who buried this! They all did!"
Angelo stared at the paper until the words blurred. A lie. His whole life was built on a lie. The system hadn't failed to save them. The system had buried them. And Blue wanted to ask permission to dig them up?
"Angelo?" Red’s eyes were burning crimson. "What's the play?"
Before Angelo could answer, the radio on his belt—which he was supposed to have turned off—crackled to life.
"All units, be advised. We have a 10-33 in progress. Water Auron reported looting the Jewelry District. Suspect is armed and hostile."
The Jewelry District. That wasn't far.
Angelo looked at the file. Then he looked at the door.
"Angelo, wait," Blue urged, sensing the shift. "You are under direct orders. If you leave this room now, you are ending your career. We need to think this throu—"
"We're leaving," Angelo said. His voice wasn't angry. It was dead.
Red didn't crack a joke. He didn't laugh. He just bared his teeth in a silent, predatory agreement.
Angelo stepped back and kicked the heavy archives door open, the metal groaning as the lock shattered.
A Water Auron was terrorizing the Jewelry District, thinking they were the apex predator.
The Angel of Death was about to remind them of their place on the food chain.
Consequences be damned.