At first, he screamed. Instinctively, Johnny stumbled backward, crashing into a chair, knocking over a pile of books and papers as his entire body ignited once more — a living inferno in the middle of his room. He could see the flames licking up his arms, curling around his chest and legs, yet… there was no pain.
No smell of burning flesh. No smoke choking his lungs.
Just… heat.
His breathing came fast and uneven as he looked down at his hands, the fire swirled around them like molten ribbons. "This—this can't be real…"
He hesitated, then reached toward his desk. The flame danced harmlessly over the wood, but when he focused, it sparked — a burst of fire shot from his palm and shattered a nearby lamp. He jumped back, startled.
"Okay, that's… new."
Curiosity began to edge out fear. He raised his hand again, tried to focus — this time, a smaller flame appeared, like an obedient pet waiting for a command.
He waved it away, and it vanished instantly.
Johnny blinked, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "I can control it?"
He turned to the mirror. His eyes glowed faintly, like embers under glass. Then he noticed that his reflection looked… different — alive in a way he'd never seen before. The fat, quiet kid he'd always been was gone, replaced by someone who burned, literally, from the inside out.
Testing again, he pointed his finger toward an empty soda can. A flicker of orange burst forth — whoosh! — and the can melted halfway before he could stop it.
"Okay, okay, maybe too much," he muttered, patting out a tiny flame on the carpet with his foot.
Then, as the adrenaline began to steady, a thought crossed his mind — half-joking, half-serious.
"If fire's my thing now… can I… fly?"
He stared at the open window. The city stretched beyond, bathed in orange dusk. His heart pounded. "This is either the dumbest or the coolest thing I've ever done."
Taking a deep breath, he let the fire rise again — his arms blazing, his feet crackling like rocket thrusters. The air shimmered with heat.
He stepped up onto the window ledge.
"One small step for Johnny…" he muttered. "…one giant leap for my insurance rates."
Then he jumped.
For a split second, gravity won — his stomach lurched, the street rushing up to meet him—
—and then whoosh! A burst of flame roared from his hands and feet, suspending him midair.
He hovered, weightless, his eyes wide in disbelief. "I—I'm not falling."
He tilted forward slightly and felt himself move, gliding above the rooftops. The rush of wind hit his face, hot air trailed behind him, and suddenly a shout escaped him of pure joy:
"YOOOOOHOOOOO!"
The sound echoed through the neighborhood as he soared higher, flames trailing in his wake like a comet.
For the first time in his life, Johnny didn't feel small, or invisible, or scared.
He felt free.
For a few glorious moments, it was perfect.
The air roared past his ears, the rooftops blurred beneath him, and the sky stretched wide and endless. Johnny couldn't stop laughing — a wild, disbelieving sound carried away by the wind. He darted between buildings, his fiery trail painting streaks of orange against the twilight.
He felt alive.
Like all the noise in his head — the doubts, the loneliness, the constant background ache of being invisible — had finally been burned away.
"Who needs a car when you've got this!" he shouted to no one, while twisting into a clumsy barrel roll that sent sparks flying in all directions.
But then… the control started to slip.
His laughter faded as his body tilted unexpectedly. "Whoa—wait, wait, wait!"
The flames around his feet flickered unevenly, sputtering like dying torches. He dropped a few feet — then a few more.
"No, no, no—come on! Stay lit!"
He tried focusing, willing the fire to return — and it did, explosively. A burst of heat launched him upward again, spinning him out of control. The world became a blur of light and sound as he twirled above the city like a rogue firework.
"Okay! Too much power!" he shouted, flailing as a rooftop loomed far too close. He barely managed to swerve — his shoulder grazing a metal antenna that sent him spinning sideways. Sparks rained down.
He soared over a busy street, people below pointing up and gasping. To them, it must've looked like a meteor about to crash.
Johnny gritted his teeth, trying to steady himself. "Think, Johnny! Think! Focus—just—focus!"
The flames wavered again. He could feel his energy draining, his body trembling with exhaustion. The heat wasn't painful — but it was heavy, like every muscle was made of molten lead.
"Okay, landing, I need to—uh—"
He glanced around desperately. There he saw a nearby park, empty and dark. Perfect.
"Alright, I can do this."
He aimed for it, lowering altitude—
—and immediately realized he had no idea how to land.
"Oh no."
He hit the grass like a comet. A blinding flash, a burst of steam and dirt, and then silence.
When the smoke cleared, Johnny lay in the middle of a scorched crater, staring up at the stars. His hair was a mess, his clothes were burned, and his entire body was still faintly smoking.
He groaned. "Okay… note to self. Learn. To. Land."
For a few seconds, he just lay there, listening to the sound of distant sirens and his racing heartbeat. Despite everything, a crooked grin tugged at his lips.
He'd flown.
He'd actually flown.
Then, somewhere in the distance, he heard the faint hum of something mechanical — a camera drone whirred in the night sky. It hovered briefly before darting away.
Johnny frowned, sitting up. "What the hell was that?"
Suddenly he realized something as he felt grass on his ass.
"Shit, I burned my clothes again."
(Meanwhile on the Pentagon…)
The hum of servers and quiet chatter filled the Global Defense Agency's command center. Dozens of analysts monitored live feeds, but one screen in particular had everyone's attention — a drone recording of a human figure blazing through the Chicago night sky like a meteor.
Cecil Stedman stood front and center, his eyes squinting as he watched the footage in silence. The reflection of the flames danced across his face.
"Run that back," he said flatly.
The operator complied, reversing the footage to the exact frame where the flying figure — a boy surrounded by living fire — streaked across the skyline before crashing into a park.
Cecil folded his arms. "Who the hell is this kid? He one of ours?"
Donald Ferguson, with a tablet in hand, glanced up from his data feed. "No, sir. No known supers match the profile. Not a registered Guardian trainee either."
"Then what the hell am I looking at?" Cecil growled.
Donald swiped, bringing up a dossier. "Subject was identified as Jonathan Storm. Sixteen years old. A student at Reginald Vel Johnson High and also an orphan. He lives alone in a small government-subsidized apartment on the north side of the city. There is no criminal record and no family contacts on his file."
Cecil raised an eyebrow. "Storm…?"
He frowned slightly, tapping his chin as if the name echoed in some half-forgotten corner of his mind. "That name rings a bell… Storm… why does that sound familiar?"
Donald tilted his head. "Should I pull up any relatives, sir?"
Cecil shook it off. "No. Not yet. Keep going."
Donald nodded, continuing. "According to the school report, he was involved in a field trip incident earlier today at Oscorp Laboratories. Two supervising scientists were on-site — Dr. Otto Octavius and Dr. Curt Connors. There was a containment failure involving a cellular-mutation reactor. Storm pushed a child out of harm's way and was directly struck by the discharge."
Cecil's head turned sharply. "You're telling me a high schooler took a full blast from an experimental energy reactor and lived?"
"Yes, sir. Not only lived — his body absorbed it. We're still analyzing the readings, but his physiology's generating a stable heat field above 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. And that's without burning himself."
Cecil blinked, a dry scoff leaving his throat. "You mean he is the reactor now."
Donald hesitated. "That's the working theory. Oscorp didn't file a public report — they classified it as a minor lab accident. No mention of exposure or mutation."
"Of course they did," Cecil muttered, pacing slowly. "Octavius and Connors never know when to quit playing God."
He turned toward the central console, with his voice hardening. "Alright. I want a containment directive drafted. Immediate. Send a team to Oscorp — I want every piece of tech, every log, every molecule of data tied to that reactor. If it has their fingerprints on it, I want it under lock and key before morning."
Donald typed rapidly. "Understood. And the boy?"
Cecil stopped, staring again at the paused frame — the drone footage showing Johnny Storm, covered in soot, as he sat in the smoking crater, looking bewildered.
"Keep eyes on him," Cecil said quietly. "I want a full surveillance. If he's stable, let's see how he handles it. If he's not—" he paused, his tone darkening, "—we handle it before it gets out of control."
Donald nodded grimly. "Yes, sir."
As Cecil turned to leave the room, the operator replayed the footage again — Johnny laughing mid-flight, the flames around him glowing like a second sun.
The older man glanced back one last time. For a brief moment, his expression softened, almost nostalgic.
"Storm…" he muttered under his breath. "Why does that damn name sound so familiar…?"
He pushed the thought away and walked out.
(Returning to Johnny…)
Johnny groaned, pulling himself up from the crater, brushing off bits of grass and ash. His clothes — or what was left of them — hung off him in scorched shreds. Most of his jeans were gone, his shirt was reduced to a few burnt threads clinging for dear life.
He looked down and sighed, mortified.
"Great… first I crash, then I burn my wardrobe. Real superhero material here."
He looked around. Sirens still wailed faintly in the distance, and the occasional window light flickered on as people peeked outside, trying to see what the hell just fell from the sky.
Johnny quickly grabbed the least-destroyed piece of his hoodie and wrapped it around his waist like a towel. "Perfect," he muttered bitterly. "Now I'm a flying streaker."
Keeping to the shadows, he darted between parked cars and fences, as he headed back toward his apartment complex. Each step made him more paranoid — what if someone saw him like this? A half-naked, soot-covered kid glowing faintly like a dying ember? Yeah, that'd go viral in about two seconds.
He was almost home. Just one more block and he could finally collapse in his bed and maybe pretend this entire night hadn't happened.
That's when two figures stepped out of a dark alley, blocking his path.
"Yo, look what we got here," said one of them — tall, lean, wearing a dirty windbreaker and a smirk that screamed trouble.
The other cracked his knuckles, his breath reeking of cheap liquor. "Late night walk, huh? Must be carryin' somethin'."
Johnny froze at this.
"Uh… yeah, about that…" he said, tightening his pathetic cloth-wrap. "You're not gonna believe me, but I've got literally nothing."
The taller one snorted. "Ain't nobody walks 'round here with nothin'. Wallet, phone, keys — cough it up."
Johnny's brow twitched. "Are you guys… blind or just stupid?"
He meant to think it — not say it.
The words slipped out before he realized, echoing down the quiet street.
Both thugs stiffened.
The one with darker skin and a rougher tone stepped forward, glaring. "What the hell you just say, fatass?"
Johnny blinked. "Wait, I didn't—"
The second thug, pale and buzzcut, laughed harshly. "Man's got jokes. You think just 'cause you lost your pants you can talk trash?"
Johnny groaned under his breath. "Unbelievable…"
His mind raced. He could feel it again — that faint warmth building under his skin, like his body wanted to ignite all over. Not now. Not in front of them.
He took a small step back, holding his hands up. "Look, guys, I've had a really weird day, okay? You don't wanna do this."
The darker thug grinned, pulling a small knife. "Oh, we do. You about to donate everything you got, fatass."
"Wrong night," Johnny muttered.
And then — for a second — his eyes flickered orange.
Johnny took another step back, trying to focus. He could feel it inside him — that heat — like a flickering pilot light deep in his chest.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath, glancing between the two thugs. "Just… turn on. Like before."
He clenched his fists, trying to remember what it had felt like when the flames came alive earlier. The adrenaline, the fear, the rush. He inhaled, forcing himself to focus—
Nothing.
There still wasn't a fire or even a spark. Just him, standing half-naked in a backstreet, waving his hands around like a lunatic.
The taller thug raised an eyebrow. "Yo, what's this dude doing?"
The other laughed, pointing the knife. "I think he lost his mind, bro. Probably some tweaker."
Johnny glanced down at his own hands, as frustration bubbled up. Why now? Why couldn't he control it when he actually needed it?
He muttered again, "You worked before… why aren't you—"
The thug with the knife lunged.
It all happened in a blur. Johnny saw the flash of metal, felt the fear punch through his chest — and then, instinct took over.
FWOOOSH!
His right hand ignited in a burst of orange flame. The air cracked with heat.
A small fireball leapt from his palm, exploding against the thug's shoulder and knocking him backwards into a trash can. The man screamed, rolling frantically as his sleeve caught fire.
"Holy—!" the other shouted, stumbling back. "What the hell is that?!"
Johnny's eyes went wide. He stared at his own hand, the flames dancing across his skin without burning it.
He'd done it. Again.
Then the smell of burning trash snapped him out of it. "Oh crap, oh crap—"
The thug still on fire scrambled to his feet, ripping off his jacket and bolting down the alley, yelling curses. The other one followed without hesitation, shouting, "Yo, he's a freak, man! Let's get outta here!"
Johnny stood there, panting, the fire on his hand slowly flickering out like the tail of a rocket. The two thugs were long gone — one tripped over a trash can on the way out, screaming something about "the devil," while the other bolted without even looking back.
Johnny blinked, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts before a grin started to creep across his face. "Ha! That's right! Run, you idiots!" he shouted after them, pumping a fist in the air. "Don't mess with the Human To—uh… maybe not yet."
He looked down at himself — still completely naked except for some singed scraps barely hanging on — and immediately lost all sense of triumph. His face turned redder than his flames.
"Oh crap, I still gotta get home like this."
He quickly wrapped what little fabric remained of his shirt around his waist and took off down the street, ducking into the shadows whenever a car passed. Despite the embarrassment, a giddy laugh escaped him.
He'd done it. He'd scared off two armed thugs.
Like a real superhero.
Now, if he could just make it home without being arrested for indecent exposure, the night would be perfect.
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