Burn Marks
1151 Words
The days that followed felt like a cage.
Astrea kept her promise—at least on the surface. She remained on the farm, helped with chores, smiled when spoken to, and pretended her wings weren’t twitching with frustration every time a news broadcast flashed across the television.
The world had moved on from Nectar. Electro was now locked behind reinforced PRISM containment, and the media’s attention had shifted to politics, weather, and viral videos. But Astrea couldn’t forget. Not the way the wind had carried her, the way her blood had surged with purpose—or the look in Nova’s eyes when he told her she had promise.
Her parents thought things were back to normal.
But Astrea knew her journey had only just begun.
---
That afternoon, she wandered into the fields, the sun baking the soil beneath her boots. She kicked at pebbles absentmindedly, eyes scanning the clouds as if they might carry her away.
Then it hit her.
A deep, low rumble—too heavy for thunder. A second later, a shockwave. She stopped mid-step, her enhanced hearing picking up the unmistakable sound of an explosion in the distance.
Her heart surged.
Without a second thought, she raced toward the barn, tore open a hidden trunk, and grabbed her homemade suit. As she slipped it on and strapped her wings into place, her parents shouted after her.
“Astrea, wait!”
But she was already gone, slicing through the sky in a blur of feathers and adrenaline.
---
Smoke curled into the clouds above a burning apartment complex, a jagged scar against the city skyline. As Astrea flew in, the roar of the flames and the screams of trapped civilians twisted into a chaotic symphony.
She didn’t hesitate.
One by one, she plucked people from balconies and ledges—children, elders, entire families—her arms aching, her wings blistering in the heat. On her third trip, a flare of fire caught her feathers, and she yelped as the pain seared through her back.
Still, she didn’t stop.
Inside, the building was a nightmare: collapsing ceilings, suffocating smoke, and fire creeping through every crevice. But Astrea moved like lightning—lifting debris, breaking through barriers, guiding terrified civilians to safety.
Then a voice shattered the noise.
“My son!” a woman screamed, clinging to a firefighter. “My boy’s still in there!”
Astrea turned sharply. Her body trembled with fatigue, but her eyes burned with resolve. Without a word, she flew straight into the blaze.
She found the child—small, trembling, hiding beneath a desk in a room quickly being consumed. She knelt beside him, whispering calmly.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
She cradled him to her chest and made for the exit. But before she could lift off, a sudden explosion rocked the room. Fire burst through the wall like a beast unleashed, knocking her off her feet. Her wings ignited again, and this time the pain was worse.
Still clutching the boy, Astrea forced herself to move.
She burst from the side of the building, glass shattering around her like rain. She landed hard on the pavement, rolling to protect the child in her arms.
But something was wrong.
The boy didn’t move.
Astrea looked down. Her stomach dropped.
His body was limp. Charred. Lifeless.
The mother screamed when Astrea placed the boy in her arms.
Astrea stood frozen, soot covering her face, her expression hollow. She wanted to say something—I’m sorry, I tried, he was so close—but the words never came.
She turned and flew, her wings broken, her spirit heavier than ever.
She didn’t get far. Just past the city’s edge, she crash-landed in the forest. Her body gave out near a creek, where she collapsed beneath the shade of a pine tree.
There, with no one around to see her cry, she buried her face in her hands—and wept.
---
Miles away, inside PRISM’s command chamber, the Protectors were gearing up for a new mission. Alarms blared. Red lights flashed.
Marvel appeared on the central monitor. “We have a developing crisis,” she said. “Intelligence confirms a terrorist cell in Rushmore has acquired classified tech—potential WMDs. You’re being deployed immediately.”
Aqua nodded once, slipping on her gauntlets. “Coordinates?”
“Already on your systems. Stealth approach. Infiltration. Neutralize and confirm.”
Within the hour, the team launched from HQ in their blacked-out jet. The skies blurred past them as they sped toward the threat.
Infiltration was clean—until it wasn’t.
Inside the compound, Aqua moved like liquid through the halls, disabling guards with precision. Nova provided cover, his palms glowing with barely-contained power. Zenith led the charge, battering down steel-reinforced doors.
But then someone tripped the silent alarm.
A chorus of shouts rang out, followed by a storm of bullets and energy blasts.
“We’ve been made!” Nova shouted, launching a pulse of energy that sent enemies flying.
“Hold formation!” Aqua ordered, water rising from her gloves like twin blades.
The team fought with brutal efficiency—but just as Aqua activated her comms to report back, a voice crackled through the system.
“Well done, Protectors,” it purred. “You’ve walked right into my trap.”
Static burst through their channels. Aqua’s earpiece dropped to the floor. Across the compound, the lights flickered red. It wasn’t just a fight anymore—it was a setup.
---
Back in the city, the news replayed footage of the apartment fire.
The reporter’s voice was heavy with sorrow:
“The mysterious individual who aided in the Electro incident reappeared today during a devastating apartment fire. Dozens of lives were saved—but one child, Theodore Ellis, perished in the blaze.”
The screen showed a scorched teddy bear, lying in the ruins.
“While many hail this young meta as a hero, others question the recklessness of untrained vigilantes. Officials have not released the identity of the individual.”
Astrea stumbled through the front gate hours later, covered in ash and dirt. Her wings were tattered, scorched and uneven.
Mark opened the door, his face hard with worry—until he saw her.
His anger softened. “Come in.”
Emma raced down the stairs, eyes wide. “My God, your wings…”
They moved quickly, grabbing first aid supplies, dressing wounds with practiced hands. Astrea sat silently, flinching as antiseptic touched her burns.
She hadn’t said a word since she landed.
Emma knelt in front of her. “Sweetheart,” she said gently, “what happened out there?”
Astrea didn’t answer.
Mark exchanged a look with his wife. There was no hiding it anymore: their daughter was slipping into a world far bigger and far more dangerous than they had ever imagined.
And neither of them knew how to stop it.
- Writer
