Tin Gods

Hazard's Log 2

Burning Stress

“Pentagrams, moon cycles, incantations, rites, offerings…fuck this!” A heavy tome, flies across the room, slamming into the poorly built wall of the shoddy apartment, leaving an indent where it had hit. Matt Havok sits on the untidy bed, blood stained papers and ashes laid out all over the covers. The floor is littered in empty bottles, mostly beer, but the occasional bottle of Jack can be spotted amongst the sea of brown and green glass. He lays his back against the wall and exhales deeply, reaching into his pocket and producing a cigarette, slightly bent out of shape from rolling around in the pocket for what could have been days. The thinly wrapped tobacco touches his lips as Hazard snaps his fingers, burning away half of the unfortunate cigarette in an instant as he looks down at it with disgust.

His hand trembles as he looks down at it, his mind flashing back over the recent events. The face of the thug he stopped not a week ago, charred, burnt to a crisp, still alive though but…sometimes dead is better. “He deserved it…” He mutters to himself, after all, anyone who would pull a gun on a mother and her child deserved to have seventy percent of his body coated in burns. The screams were the worst part, not the thug’s but the mother’s as she clutched her child and shielded him from the burst of fire that engulfed the offender, sputtering off his body as he writhed. The smoke travels down Matt’s throat, filling his lungs with that all too familiar taste of smoke and ash as his mind continues to wander, recalling the hellish screams of Tiburon’s cohorts as the flesh melted from their bones, leaving nothing but piles of ash in the wake of the fiery explosion that spanned a hundred foot radius in the outskirts of Unity High. “They were killing people…” coughed Matt, “Setting off bombs, shooting, killing…to find me. Well they got what they came for I guess.” His hand still trembling slightly as the sound of their screams echoed in his mind along with the screams of everyone else consumed by those wretched flames, two more voices to join in the perpetual cacophony that rings day and night within his head.

The wave of thoughts rushed onward as Matt’s hand grew even more unsteady, nearly dropping the cigarette as the memory of that sickening, horrible feeling entered his mind. Suddenly, he was there again, the robot let out it’s annoying, ear-piercing shriek, the disorientation was there along with a surge of anger, boiling as he found his footing, eyes ablaze with the determination to blow the pile of circuits to scrap. The fire burned inside of him and his rage began to consume him, the flames sputtering out of his body as his stomach turned and his vision became clouded in a red veil, “It could’ve been bad, real bad…” People had run out of their homes and onto the streets from the sound of earlier explosions, none close enough to see the raging, flaming mess, struggling to compose himself but, “They could’ve been hurt, they could’ve all been gone. innocent people.” contemplated Matt as the palm of his hand pressed against his forehead and ran down his face, the cigarette out and smoked to the filter. He remembers the rage and the vomiting feeling being almost too much but then it stopped, subsided, a little more quickly than usual. For a second he thought he had suppressed it as he had done many a time before but no, for when he got up he was greeted with the somewhat angelic figure of Nimrod.

Matt violently punches the wall behind him, “Pff as if I needed Moron’s help, bastard.” but then he remembered Nimrod’s words as the hunter conjured the thick tomes, “Dark one, you have a responsibility to yourself and those you seek to protect, to learn to control the powers raging inside you.” Matt slumps down in his bed recalling those words, his grandfather’s words, “You can’t let it control you Matt, if you let it control you you let it destroy everyone and everything you’re trying to protect.” and his father’s drunken words, “If it weren’t for you your mother would’ve still been around, you know? Ya little punk.” He sat there for a moment, thoughts raging in his head as his body suddenly engulfed in flames, an aura of fire involuntarily sprouting up around him, his eyes burning red, “No…” he utters quietly as the flames dissipate almost as quickly as they appeared. Matt plants his feet on the floor as he gets up off the bed and makes his way across the room, stepping over the clutter of glass bottles, ignoring them as they splinter and cut his feet, walking towards the heavy tome resting against the wall.

Matt bends down and firmly grasps it in his hand, bring it up and popping it open as his memory flashes back to the night before, a shrouded figure slitting his hand as his blood takes the shape of a mutilated cherub, his face covered by a Janus (Comedy/Tragedy) mask, Quarantine slashing Wild Ricochet with a blade of blood, blurred vision and babbling, confusion as the group’s minds were rattled by the masked figure. Matt picks up a bottle of Jack from among the remains of glass, gripping his tome angrily as his eyes light aflame, chugging down half a pint’s worth of whiskey before angrily muttering, “Hearth.” At that he throws the bottle across the room, shaping his fingers into the shape of a gun aimed at the hurling bottle, “Bang!” the bottle shatters instantly in a small explosion of fire as Matt smirks and flips to the next page of the tome.



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