Technocracy: FIRE, Part 1

Ardo bit angrily into his food. It was Indian food day, and Ardo stabbed at bites of chicken korma, spicy and creamy, forking them into his mouth.

Terry arched a glinting, metallic brown eyebrow at him. “It’s not going to get away, you know.”

“I’m mad,” said Ardo under his breath.

“You’ll get it,” said Terry.

“I’ve been trying for weeks!” cried Ardo, eyes flaring neon red as he did.

Steam rose sharply from the food in front of him at this.

“Your trouble, it would seem to me, is mental,” said Saera, picking at her paneer. “You must realize and understand things, as Marin did.”

Marin sat there, all her hair a vibrant navy blue,

Sat there, playing with the water in her paper cup,

Making it slosh idly back and forth with her left hand,

Waggling the fingers on her hand. The water moved

Back and forth in time to her hand’s motions—back and forth.

“Hmm?” Marin’s eyebrows rose as her name was mentioned. The water stopped its sloshing and returned to a still state. “Huh?”

Saera arched her eyebrow. “As I was saying, Marin: you, essentially, took full control of your element by coming to a realization, yes? A mental understanding.”

Marin put her chin in her hand. “Kind of,” she said. “I mean, yeah, it was a realization. An awareness. But it wasn’t just in my mind. I didn’t just think it. I felt it. I knew it was true, in a way that went deeper than just thinking about it.”

“Feel, don’t think,” said Terry.

“Bingo,” said Marin. “Ardo, you’ve got to feel it. You’ve got to know it in a feeling way. You’ve got to know, beyond knowing, that you and Fire are the same thing. That there’s no difference between you. You’re one and the same, and so you can make Fire do what you want in the same way that you can make your arm, or your leg, or your mouth, or your brain do what you want.”

Ardo blinked his ruby red eyes. “Is that really how it is with you, fatass? Do you… you know… do you feel like you and Water are the same?”

“Mm-hmm,” said Marin, smiling and nodding her head. “It’s just kind of a thing. Like, it’s not pounding at me, you know? It’s not always there, always right in the front of my head. But it is there, and when I focus on it it’s really sharp.” She leaned back in her chair, and glanced up at the ceiling of the cafeteria, high above. “I can feel the water in the pipes up there. I can feel it moving. I can feel the water in the pipes below us, too,” and she pointed at the ground. “I can feel the water in my cup, right here. It all is me. It’s part of me, just like my arms and legs are parts of me. It’s all together. There’s no break between us.”

Ardo’s eyes bulged. “That seems crazy. I can’t imagine just feeling that all the time, with all the water, everywhere. Wouldn’t you go insane?”

Marin shrugged. “Not really. I just feel it, and accept it, and I’m happy about it.” She grinned, her sapphire blue eyes sparkling, and it was amazing how they seemed now to be even more blue, now that they were paired with her big head of navy hair.

Ardo reached up to his head and fingered his own hair,

Pulled a strand out, one that had turned vibrant crimson red,

Pulled it to where he could see it, as he bent his eyes,

And he sighed and said, “I guess I need to make this work.”

“Yeah,” said Marin. “Keep at it. Keep understanding it.

You’ll get it, I know you will. You are the next along,

You’re the next one who’s shown that you understand it most.

Just keep thinking, and keep hoping. I know it’ll come.”

The bell rang. They had all mostly finished their food, so Terry took up his tray and rose from his seat. “We can go back to my place this weekend. Ardo can have plenty of space to try to figure things out. Though,” Terry’s copper brown eyes twitched, “I guess we’ll have to be a bit careful. Water is one thing, but fire… you could set the woods on fire.”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Ardo, “I’m not counting on being that powerful.”

“Why not?” asked Saera, silver eyes blinking. “Marin can make it rain. That’s extremely powerful. And if we are all the same… who is to say what you are capable of?”

Ardo blinked. He huffed a breath. “Weird shit,” he muttered, grabbing his tray and heading to the cafeteria racks to drop it off.

That evening, Ardo sat in his room, reading an assignment for English class. It was a series of poems written a century after the end of the Ravaging, to commemorate 100 years since the end of the devastation. Ardo quirked his eyebrows, mingled black and red, as he perused the verses. They were pretty good, overall. Better than what they normally made him read for English class. Yet, even so, there was that sense he’d gotten, a few times before. The sense that it just wasn’t… good. Or, good enough. That there was something else, something missing.

Ardo leaned forward, stooping over the printed-out pages as he sat, cross-legged, on his bed. That sense, that feeling. That it wasn’t good enough. That nothing he had ever read in English class was good enough. That it was good, in its own way, but it never rose to the level of great. Like there was some limit to all the poems and short stories and novels, a limit that none of them could surpass.

He glanced to the easel, propped up in the corner of his room. It was blank, now, but only because he had filled up the previous page, and had pulled it back over the top, leaving a brand new sheet of clean white for him to draw and paint on. Good enough. Great. That was what Ardo wanted for his art. Not merely to create art, not only to create art, but to create art that lasted, art that would stand the test of time. Art that would still be there, still be moving people, in ten years, a hundred years, a thousand years.

With the thought of this there came a burning in his chest,

Something burning, something hot, within his ribs awoke.

Ardo felt it and he marked it, as it woke, arose.

Ardo felt it, and he slumped back against the pillows of his bed. “Fire,” he said softly. Of course, he was now on the verge of being famous, and remembered, for an entirely different reason, a reason he could never have dreamed of, never have guessed, never have envisioned even in his wildest fantasies. Fire. Fire! Fire was his to control. He chuckled darkly as he thought of how it was pretty appropriate for someone who got angry as much as he did to have the power to make things hot, to burn things down. It seemed apt, almost a little too apt, too on the nose.

Once again within his chest the burning feeling rose,

And he sat up on his bed, and nervously began

Snapping fingers, first on his left hand, then on his right.

He often snapped fingers in a vague, distracted way.

He looked, and he glanced down at his right hand as he snapped—

And as he did, he saw a bright orange spark flare up

Saw the flicker, saw the strike of sparks there in his hand,

Saw the orange light flash in the air, for just a bit.

And Ardo gazed down in wonder at his fingertips,

And he snapped, and as he did, he thought a little more,

Thought about the spark, and wished, and willed that it would be

There a little longer. Then he snapped again, and look!

That spark was not just a spark now, for it birthed a flame:

Birthed a tongue of fire that was burning on his thumb.

Ardo gaped. There was a fire burning on his thumb,

A small tongue of fire, the size of a candle flame.

It was there, and in the dimness of his room, it shone,

Shone so hot and bright and beautiful, in its own way,

Burning, flick’ring, Ardo gazed at it, and as he did,

One more chunk of his hair changed from black to crimson red,

Running from the roots down to the tips of the chunk’s length,

So that Ardo very nearly had more red than black,

Almost seemed to have more crimson than black in his hair.

Ardo sat there, quiet, silent, gazing at the flame,

Filled with wonder, filled with awe. The fire burned a bit

More, burned just a little brighter, higher as he watched,

Until—with a flare and with a rush of sudden air

The flame raced along his palm and up his fingers four

And now there was massive fire burning from his hand,

Bright flames, hot flames, so hot he could feel them on his face!

Ardo screamed in terror and he recoiled on his bed.

And the fire burned, and he closed his five fingers then,

And the fire went out, was extinguished on his hand.

Ardo gaped with massive eyes at his closed fist. He opened it, tentatively. Smoke and steam rose from his palm, wafting into the cool, dark air of his room. Fortunately, there did not seem to be enough of it to set off the smoke alarm. Fortunately. Ardo could not stop staring at his palm. Fire. Fire!

“Ardo?”

“Hmm?” Ardo swiveled on his bed. “Oh, hey, Minerva.”

The little girl wandered tentatively into his room, through the door which had been cracked, a little. Ardo winced. He should have made sure it was closed. “Ardo, is everything okay? I heard you.”

“Um, uh, yeah,” said Ardo, smiling at her. “Look, Minny, it’s no big deal. I just…” he gestured to the printed pages on the bed in front of him. “Something I was reading scared me, that’s all.”

Minerva cocked her head to the side. “Aren’t you reading poems?”

“Poems can be scary,” said Ardo. “Some poems are really scary, depending on what they say.”

“Well… okay,” said Minerva. She smiled. “If you say so.” And then, to Ardo’s surprise, she giggled. “Your hair is red. It’s so funny.”

“Ha, I guess it is,” said Ardo. He smiled. “It’s not too weird, is it?”

“I think it’s super cool,” said Minerva. “I’ve never seen somebody who looks like us with red hair. I hope your whole head turns red! That would be cool!”

“I guess it would,” said Ardo, with a grin. “So, well, maybe that’ll happen.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Minerva.

Ardo smiled. “I’m fine, Minerva. Really. Don’t you worry. I’ll always be fine.”

“Okay…”

Ardo swiveled around and jumped himself off the bed. He went to Minerva, and bent down, and wrapped her in a hug. “I’m really fine, Minny. I’m safe. I promise.”

Minerva wrapped her small arms around him as best she could. “Okay. Love you, Ardo.”

“Love you, too. Go back to bed.”

“Okay…” said Minerva. She kissed his cheek. “G’night, Ardo.” And she walked back through the door, out into the darkness of the hallway.

After she was gone, Ardo walked to his bedroom door,

And he shut it. Then he stared back down at his right hand.

Once again he snapped his fingers, and again there was

That spark—that flare of orange-red light, in empty space.

Ardo stood there, staring at the space where it had been.

“Wild,” he said, softly, in the dim light of his room.

The next day was Saturday, and once again, the four of them descended on Terry’s house, and the huge woods just adjacent to it.

“Mmm, the pond and the stream are nice,” said Marin, smiling, putting her hands behind her back, closing her eyes. “They remember me!”

“They’re not alive,” said Terry.

Marin shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know! I just know they remember me and know who I am. I can feel them.”

“Because you are all the same, yes?” asked Saera. “All Water.”

“Yes!” said Marin, grinning at her best friend.

“All the same,” said Saera.

This she whispered softly, and after she did so, she

Breathed, and from her breath there came a sudden swell of air,

Winds that burst, and swirled all four teenagers’ heads of hair,

Blew and billowed Marin’s long hair, Ardo’s hair as well,

Billowed Saera’s heavy coat, unbuttoned, opened up,

Winds that blew, and moved, and howled, amid the air around.

The wind died down, returning them to the cold, but silent, February air. “Whoa,” said Ardo.

“Saera,” said Marin, “was that… you?”

“I think it was,” said Saera, silver eyes wide and bulging in her pale face. “I think, perhaps, I did that.”

“You’re getting closer,” said Marin. “You’ll go next, after Ardo. Ardo’s close but you’re not far behind.”

“We do need to check that Ardo is close,” said Terry.

“Actually…”

The three of them turned. Ardo had fallen behind the other three, a bit, and so he was now at the back, and bore the gazes of all three of them. “Uh,” said Ardo, “I think I’m getting real close, actually.”

“Really?” asked Saera.

“Yeah,” said Ardo. “Yeah, look at this,

Check this out,” he said, and took the gloves off of his hands,

And he snapped his fingers, raising up his hands so that

The other three could observe them as they stood there, and

Terry, Saera, Marin’s eyes all widened, all at once,

As they all could clearly see the spark that flashed, appeared,

Flashed as Ardo snapped the fingers of both of his hands.

“Ooo,” cooed Marin, sapphire blue eyes wide.

“Hmm,” said Saera. “Interesting.”

“That’s new,” said Terry. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“Yeah,” said Ardo. “I discovered it just last night. I actually set my hand on fire, too.”

“Oh!” said Saera, face contorting. “Oh, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m totally fine,” said Ardo. “Yeah, actually, it’s kind of fucking wild, when you think about it. I made a fire on my hands, but my hands weren’t burned. It’s wild as hell.”

“You’re doing it,” said Marin. “It was little things for me, too, at first.”

“Really?”

Marin blinked her blue eyes. “Yes.” She blinked, a few times,

Blinking, slowly, gently, in the middle of the yard,

“Little things at first, and then it all came up at once,”

Now she blinked, and now her eyes were gleaming neon blue,

And again the neon blue tears ran down both her cheeks,

And Terry heard thrashing, roaring, off a ways, and saw,

Saw, as he turned, that the stream was foaming in its banks,

And he felt a drop—and he looked up, to see the sky

Turning a dull, cloudy gray, and then a raindrop fell.

“Marin, rein it in a little,” he said to her next.

“Oh, oh, sorry,” Marin said, and blinked her glowing eyes,

And the glow stopped, and her glowing tears vanished away.

“Sorry,” Marin said again, smiling at him.

Ardo gaped up at the sky. “You can just fucking… make it rain? Whenever you want?”

“I guess! I guess I can, now,” said Marin, smiling sheepishly.

“Shit,” muttered Ardo under his breath.

“You could do something similar with Fire, I bet,” said Marin. “You’re close. Keep pushing. Keep exploring. You’ll get it.”

Ardo grunted. He snapped his fingers, though the heavy padding of his gloves prevented much friction. Even so, he felt the warmth.

And he sighed, and thought, and muttered, deep inside his chest.

As he did his eyes were flick’ring, blinking neon red,

And Saera and Terry and Marin could feel the air

Grow warmer around them, hotter, as they stood and watched.

“Oh,” breathed Saera. “It’s warm. Like springtime.”

“Doh, whoa,” said Ardo. “I guess I did that? I didn’t mean—”

“Keep going,” said Terry. “See if you can do it again.”

“But I… I don’t know how,” said Ardo.

“How did you do it the first time?” asked Marin. “What did it feel like?”

“I wasn’t trying,” said Ardo. “I mean… I just felt the warmth, and it was there, and I kind of…” he reached out with a gloved hand, grasping the empty, cold air. “I kind of let it come, I guess?”

“Mm-hmm,” said Marin, nodding, blue eyebrows rising. “That’s what it’s like, a little. You make it, but you also just let it happen. It’s like… natural.” Marin quirked one navy blue eyebrow. “So… it’s hard to describe. But if you feel it, and it’s coming… let it. And then when it’s there, just act like you’re moving or thinking. Remember, it’s a part of you. It is you!”

Ardo sighed, and breathed, and waited, and as a result,

Once again the air around them grew more and more warm.

Ardo breathed, and breathed out heat—he breathed out trailing steam,

And he felt that warmth, and as he did he tried to move,

Move with spirit, not with body, closer, to embrace,

Come upon the thing, and as he did, he felt himself

Grow so hot, but it was not unpleasant, that strange warmth,

Though it should have made him sweat, he thought it very nice.

Meanwhile, Saera sweated, and took off her heavy coat,

Letting it fall to the ground as Ardo started to

Steam off of his body, off his brown neck and his arms,

And his shoulders, sending up great trails of wispy steam.

He breathed, and a tongue of flame came flashing from his mouth.

Ardo saw it, Ardo gazed in wonder as it flared.

And Ardo then snapped the two fingers on his right hand,

Only for it to erupt and burst into great flame!

“Ah!” cried Terry, rearing back in panic at the sight,

Panicked more as Ardo’s whole right arm on fire caught,

His coat and his glove racing with flames bright orange and red,

Burning up the leather and the heavy quilted sleeve,

Crisping them black and making them wither in the flame.

“Whoa, I got it!” Marin said, and flicked her whole left arm,

Causing moisture to come surging; the air humid grew,

And it suddenly erupted into wat’ry foam

That splashed onto Ardo’s right arm, where it doused the flames,

Leaving his ruined sleeve and his wrecked glove smoking, wet.

“Are you all right?” asked Saera, hurrying to Ardo, grasping him tenderly yet aggressively around his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” said Ardo. “I mean, I’m not hurt.” He grimaced. “But, fuck! This is shit. My aunts are gonna kill me. And how am I going to explain this?”

“Tell them we were playing with fireworks,” said Terry.

“That will make them kill me more,” said Ardo. “I’ll be grounded!”

“Say we were making a fire,” said Terry. “You were putting another log in the flames and your sleeve caught on fire.”

“That is a good idea,” said Saera. “It is cold, and we are in the wilderness. Making a fire is logical and an easy explanation.” She turned to her best friend. “Cool trick, by the way, Marin.”

“I’m just glad I could do it,” said Marin. “It’s funny, I didn’t really plan that out, I just sort of did it on the fly.”

“So not only can you make it rain, you can pull moisture out of the air,” said Terry. “I’m wondering what else you can do.”

“Well, there’s water pretty much everywhere,” said Marin. “I mean, I learned that in middle school. The water cycle, remember?”

“Fire’s everywhere too,” said Ardo, softer, almost to himself, though the other three heard it.

“You’re going to have to learn not to burn yourself, though,” said Terry.

“It’s not myself,” said Ardo. “It’s not me. Not my own, you know, body. The other night, my hand was on fire, but it wasn’t burning. I wasn’t in any pain at all. It’s my clothes, that’s the problem. Those are what burned.”

“Well unless you want to lose a change of clothes every time you use your powers, you will have to deal with that,” said Saera. “You will have to learn how to wield your fire without letting other things burn—not yourself, and not your clothes, either.”

“I wonder,” said Ardo. “I wonder if I can do that.”

“If Marin can turn her body, and her clothes, into water, and turn them back, then I’m sure you can do it,” said Terry. “It’s kind of logical.”

“How the fuck is that logical?” said Ardo. “We’re dealing with two different elements!”

“But the way we control them, and interact with them, seems to be the same, for all four of us,” said Terry. “What works for Marin also works for you. It probably works for me and for Saera, too. It stands to reason that if Marin can have her clothes interact with her element, and recover them totally intact, then so can you.”

Ardo’s brows lowered. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Burning without consuming…” he muttered.

“Well,” said Saera, “your hair has at least become more red.”

“Hmm?” said Ardo, and he glanced about, from side to side.

Saera slowly wandered forward, in her silent way,

And she tugged at hair upon the back of Ardo’s head.

“This was black before,” she said, “but it has turned red now.”

“Whoa,” said Ardo, “I can’t see that, even in the mirr’r.”

“I dare say that you have more red hair than black hair now,”

Saera told him. And she smiled when he looked her way.

“I like it. It’s nice! The red hair goes well with your look.”

And to see her smile at him put Ardo at ease.

“Yeah,” he said, and laughed at her. “It doesn’t look so bad.

And it should look better when I’m fully red, okay?”

“Well,” said Marin, her navy blue hair draping around

Her in thick curtains, “I think I’d like to see the creek!

I remember it and it remembers me, for sure.

Come on, Ardo! We can keep on going with your Fire.

Keep on going. After all, the woods have more to burn!”

And she ran, her navy blue hair flowing in her wake,

So strange, so unusual, amid the natural world.

But Ardo said, “Yeah,” and also said, “Yeah, let’s just see.”

And he followed after her, his mix of black and red

Flowing in the cold February air as he ran,

While after them came Saera and Terry, far behind.

Ardo stood at the wall of the sewage treatment plant. It was cold, colder than it had been the previous few days. And he was alone. He stood there, watching, breath fogging from his mouth. Watching the wall, where he had spent all that time drawing, only for it to be washed away.

Anger flared within his heart, and his eyes gleamed bright red,

Bright, hot neon red, and he breathed fire from his mouth.

All the air around him grew so warm, and hot, and sharp.

But it lasted only for a moment. Then the cold

Crept back into the bright February air again.

“Hmph,” he huffed. He had long since healed of the minor aches and pains that Zach, Tyler, and the other boys had inflicted upon him. Months and months ago. But the pains that were not physical had lingered longer, bothering him, aggravating him, getting under his skin. A thing he could not simply heal away with time.

Ardo stared at the wall. He wondered if his chalk drawings would even still have been here, by now. Even if Zach and the others had not cruelly washed them away, would the maintenance staff have come by and power-washed the walls? Probably so, at some point over the past few weeks and months. However much he hated Tyler and the others for what they had done, the logical part of his mind told him that his drawings would not have been permanent, even if his cruel treatment had not been undergone.

“But,” said Ardo, thinking,

Thinking, thinking suddenly, his mind alive with thought,

And he said, “Maybe,” aloud into the chilly air.

He took off his glove from his right hand, and then he snapped,

Snapped his fingers, feeling the sharp crackle, and the spark,

And, easier than ever before, the fire came.

As he made his whole hand burn, a black chunk of his hair

Turned to crimson red, changing from its roots to its tips.

The fire began to creep up his hand, towards his wrist.

“Hold on,” Ardo said, and tried, and thought with all his might,

“Hold on,” he said, and he thought, and then the fire changed:

Reversing its course, moving away from his right wrist,

Flowing in a boiling flaming ripple down his hand,

As he concentrated it into the fingertips

Of his index finger, and his middle one as well.

Flowing fire, and as it flowed it grew sharp, more fierce,

To the point that Ardo himself could hear the flames rush,

Hear them almost whining as they reached his fingers two,

And the fire that had been a lazy bath of flames

Covering his whole hand, now became a blazing jet,

Almost like a blowtorch, blasting off the fingers both.

“Perfect,” Ardo said, and with that he walked to the wall.

His cutting torch flames were blazing as he stretched them forth,

And with searing heat they blasted scorches in the wall,

Scorches Ardo used to draw—to draw, to sculpt, to sketch,

Cutting scorch marks on the building’s face, on its white wall,

In the sewage treatment plant’s white wall, so stark and cold.

But amid the February chill, his own flame’s heat

Made him breathe, and sweat a little, round his red sideburns.

Ardo barely thought on what he drew—he merely did.

He had had no plan; this art was generated fast,

And without much forethought, running purely on instinct.

Cutting lines and swirling loops were burned into the wall,

Ardo drawing upon instinct, following his muse.

He went until he felt in his heart that he should stop.

And then he drew back a dozen paces to observe.

Black and brown scorch marks had left their lines in the white wall,

Making an immense design that smoked, and steamed, and was

Stark and sharp: a clear thing, visible upon the wall,

Even visible from near a thousand yards away.

Ardo grinned, and closed his fist, to quench his fingers’ flames.

The torch-flame went out, and black smoke rose up from his fist.

Ardo grinned. “Let’s see them wash THAT off,” he proudly said.

And somewhere, off in the distance, he could hear the bell.

His free period was ending, and so Ardo turned

And put his glove back on as he walked off towards the school.