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“How do we stop terror groups from radicalizing our military veterans? To be blunt, I’m no expert—but it doesn’t take an expert to see that our government is not doing nearly enough.”
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—a relative of a former military service member who became a mass shooter after being radicalized by online hate groups, speaking on condition of anonymity to the Investigation 411 podcast, run by the Saber Parish Sentinel.
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Rico lay down on the bottom bunk of the bunk bed—one of many bunk beds in the rows of bunk beds within the barracks room—his eyes screwed tightly shut, as thoughts swirled around in his head, all about that kid, Jessica.
It ain’t right, what happened to her, what we’ve done to her…what we’re still doing to her. I can’t believe what I took part in, what the Crimson Blades have used me to do. Lethal force as a last resort, MY ASS! And I just went along with it, Rico thought.
The grey-walled, tile-floored, barracks room was devoid of people—except for Rico—as Rico rolled onto one side of the bed, trying and failing to sleep as his thoughts kept swirling around in his head.
I was at my lowest point when they recruited me—I’d lost my career, my wife, my kids, my clean criminal record, my professional contacts, EVERYTHING! Emotionally, and psychologically, the Crimson Blades knew exactly when I’d be least able to resist manipulation, indoctrination, and radicalization! They knew when they could strike to get the most use out of me, right when I’d be most malleable! I need to fix this…to the extent that it can be fixed…but how Rico wondered as his mind raced.
Then it occurred to him. Opening his eyes, Rico got up, threw off the green wool blanket, and went for his sidearm, which he had placed inside one of the two grey, metal, footlockers that lay at foot of each bunk bed. Unlocking the footlocker, he pulled out the pistol, now knowing what he needed to do.
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Jessica was still in the cell. At this point, Chad—and Chad alone—was guarding Jessica. Jessica had tried and failed to appeal to the fact that she was classmates with Chad’s daughter, but Chad had simply stared at her in total silence for several hours, before making it abundantly clear that if she didn't stop “flapping your jaw,” as Chad had but it, then Chad would “break it”. Her jaw, that is. Considering the fact that she liked her jaw—and her facial bones in general—completely unbroken, thank you very much, she had been deathly silent since then, staring at the brick wall in the back of her cell instead of looking at Chad, all while doing her best to stay calm. And, to be honest, she was actually impressing herself with how calm she was right now. At the very least, now that the zip cuffs had been removed, she was slightly less uncomfortable. If Chad was to be believed, though, the only reason that those restraints had been removed was so that she could use her hands to eat when fed, without one of the Crimson Blades having to spoon-feed her like a toddler.
Upon hearing a pair of feet approaching, and knowing that they were, based on her estimates of their position, distance, direction, and speed, definitely not Chad—besides, she could tell that Chad was probably still standing there and staring at her without moving, based on his behavior up to that point—Jessica immediately stood up and faced the metal bars of her cell—although she was reluctant to call it hers.
Chad, seeing this, told Jessica, “Don’t get your hopes up, prisoner. He’s one of ours.”
Watching, Jessica saw someone whom she believed to be the Camera Man from earlier, based on his general build, height, and the general manner in which he carried himself. He was now approaching Chad while wearing civilian clothes, his gas mask and body armor gone, but with a pistol holstered on his right hip. Jessica hated to admit it, but he actually looked kinda handsome, with a thick head of blond hair, and deep, forest-green eyes. This man stood at a roughly average height, of about five feet, seven inches. He probably could have been an actor, had he taken a less vile path in life. As much as Jessica was loath to admit it, he had the looks. His sharp nose and jawline resembled Alex so much that Jessica wouldn't have been too surprised if this asshole was somehow related to Alex, like an uncle or something. If not for the circumstances, the similarities between them might have been kind of cute.
“I thought you were still feeling sick,” Chad told the Camera Man.
“Sir, there’s something we need to talk about,” the Camera Man said.
“Okay, then. Fire away. Verbally, I mean,” Chad replied.
Much to Jessica’s hopeful surprise, the Cameraman then stated, “Sir, keeping her here feels wrong.”
“I know. We’ll transfer her to a secondary location before we swap her for the evidence. And for my brother, assuming he’s still alive,” Chad told the Cameraman.
“All due respect, sir—and you are due a lot of respect—abducting a kid, I mean, a fucking child, and shooting that cop—not to mention the teacher—is the type of shit Daedalus would have us do,” the Cameraman replied.
“Sure is. They’re no better than us. They’re ruthless, and unrelenting, which means we gotta match their capabilities—and their willingness to sacrifice—to end them. What’s your point,” Chad demanded.
“While we do this, we’re not any better than Daedalus, either,” the Cameraman retorted, “We need to match their capability, their willingness to sacrifice, and their resolve, yes, but that certainly does not mean matching their depravity. There’s a better way to do this out there, somewhere, and we need to both find it and act on it.”
“My brother thought so too. It’s why he’s missing at best, or dead at worst. They’re fighting dirty, and we gotta break rules if we’re going to beat them,” Chad stated.
“That’s the thing, Chad—we’re breaking the wrong rules. If we abandon our morals—and we have—then we sink to the enemy’s level. I believe that if we don’t undergo a massive course correction, we’ll be stuck at the enemy's level, which is a depth we’ve already sunk to. We’ll drown in our moral decay. I was better than this, and I know that you still are. Two wrongs don’t make a right. And we need to set this right, sir,” the Cameraman respectfully stated.
Glaring at the Cameraman with an icy gaze, Chad coldly replied, “Fine. Enlighten me, Rico. How are you going to set this right? Return my brother to me? Huh?”
The Cameraman—or Rico, assuming that Rico was his name—replied, “For starters, I’m taking Jessica home. To her home, that is.”
“Nope,” Chad retorted, “That’s not happening.”
“I’m telling you, sir. Not asking. she’s coming with me, and I’m leaving,” Rico stated.
Rico took a step forward, prompting Chad to—in one fluid motion—draw his pistol from its holster, switch the safety off, take aim, and fire two shots. The gun barely made a sound, as a result of the silencer attached to the muzzle, which muffled—but did not completely eliminate—the sound of the gunfire. Rico crumpled to the ground, blood welling from his chest.
Any semblance of calm lost, Jessica ran to the bars of her cell, and grabbed one in each hand, shouting at Chad, “Please, don't kill him. Ple—.”
She was interrupted by Chad snarling at her, “Shut up,” and shooting the gun again, this time sending a bullet crashing into the concrete between her feet.
Terrified, Jessica shut up, and Chad ran up to Rico, who was feebly trying to draw a pistol from the holster on his hip with what remained of his strength. Before he could do anything with it though, Chad proceeded to kick the weapon out of Rico’s hand. As Chad looked down at Rico, Jessica saw no anger, hatred, or contempt, in Chad’s eyes. In Chad’s eyes was only a look of the utmost regret, and what appeared to be grief—if one could call it that. Maybe it was remorse rather than grief, or some combination of the two.
Chad simply told Rico, “I’m sorry, Rico. But I’m finding my brother, or whatever’s left of him. And I can’t let you stop me. Goodbye, old friend.”
For a moment, upon hearing Chad utter the words, old friend, Jessica began to hold some hope that Chad might spare the other man, Rico.
Those hopes were quickly dashed when Chad leveled the pistol at Rico’s head, and declared, “Pursuant to Crimson Blades General Regulations, Article Six, Section One, Subsection Three, you are hereby executed for the offense of treason.”
After Chad said this, Rico looked at him, with an expression not of hate, nor anger, nor grief, but of a painful level of pity, before gasping out in a raspy voice, “I hope you see...sense, Chad, before...you do anything else...you’ll regret—like kidnapping...Jessica, or killing me…But I know you’d...have to explain my wounds...to the others, so...either you kill me, or…they kill us both…Just do yourself...and me…both a favor…don’t kill Jessica…If you do, then...you’ll regret it…Besides, I always told myself I’d rather…die…for something, as opposed to dying…of a drug…overdose, or…alcohol poisoning in some...back alley...So go on, kill me, but…do not kill her...old friend….”
“I can’t promise you that, and you know it,” Chad replied, seeming to let raw pain seep into his voice.
“Then just…finish it…already,” Rico replied, now seemingly angered, “But at…least have the…courage to look me in…my eyes as…you do it.”
“Fair enough,” Chad replied.
Looking Rico squarely in his eyes, Chad leveled his pistol at Rico’s head and fired two more shots. Bodily matter welled from Rico’s head in a shower of blood, bone, and grey matter.
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Alex Westsmith had told his mother that he was hanging out with Richard, and Richard’s Uncle Rick, for the day. That was partially true.
Pyre was going from rooftop to rooftop with pillars of solidified fire, ignoring the current downpour of rain as he searched for any places he thought the Crimson Blade terrorists might be using to hold Jessica captive. And that’s what they were—domestic terrorists. The problem with Pyre’s plan was the lack of any further evidence with which to narrow down the list of possible locations that they could be using. A ringing from the Bluetooth earpiece that Pyre wore under the ski mask, which, in turn, was under his helmet, prompted him to stop on one particular roof, and accept the call—after seeing Reforger’s caller ID on the screen of his smartwatch.
Sounding impatient, and instantly regretting the possibility of a rude tone in his voice upon speaking, Pyre demanded, “What is it Reforger?”
Reforger replied, “Daedalus just scrambled a rescue team on the orders of their owner/operator, Andrew Taylor. But Daedalus hasn’t forward deployed them yet. It’s a platoon or looks like one, at least. I found a ransom video in their files, but they’ve kept it a secret from the cops.”
Confused, Alex asked, “That doesn’t make sense! Why withhold it?”
Reforger answered, “It shows a military veteran, turned Crimson Blade, named Chad Brunswick, alleging that his brother, Donnie, discovered that Jessica’s father was using POWs as test subjects in unspecified experiments while working for Daedalus and that Daedalus kidnapped or killed Donnie to stop him from blowing the whistle. Chad wants to swap Jessica for Donnie if he’s alive—or his remains, if he’s not—and evidence of the crimes that he believes Daedalus, and her father, to have committed. And according to military records, Chad Brunswick was honorably discharged.”
Stunned, Pyre demanded, “Wait! Brunswick like our school? Like Violet?”
“His great-grandfather founded the Brunswick Academy. Chad is Violet’s dad,” Reforger replied.
“Please, notify Specter of this,” Pyre said, before asking, “Does Chad have any other family?”
“Yeah. He’s got a wife. Why,” Reforger replied.
“Send me their address,” Pyre ordered Reforger, before continuing on his way, using pillars of solidified fire to hurl himself forward.
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The rain had not reached the Garden District of New Hellensburge yet. Once it did—if it did—it’s not like Violet’s mother would be able to continue gardening. Then again, Rose did use gardening as an outlet for stress at times.
Violet was hanging out with her mother, as her mother weeded their backyard garden. Her mother, Rose, had her black hair tied up in a bun, unlike Violet’s own, waist-length, free-hanging, black hair, as Rose went about the garden work in an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
This garden encompassed about half of their backyard, which was ringed by an unpainted wooden fence. The garden, a patch of fruits and vegetables, was separated from the rest of the backyard by a stretch of three-foot tall, mini wrought iron fence, which cut the backyard in half, from one side to the other. This metal fence stood in contrast to the much taller wooden planks that composed the fence which ringed the backyard’s perimeter.
Sitting in a brown, wooden deck chair, Violet told her mother, once again, “Mom, you know that I can help you with that, right? Especially if you want to get it done before that rainstorm reaches us.”
“I know,” Rose Brunswick replied, “but you’ve been through so much, I can’t have you working. You just relax sweetie.”
“Okay mom, suit yourself. But I’m right here if you change your mind,” Violet replied.
Violet wondered if it was normal for her to worry about whether her chest would stay flat—its current state—forever, as she looked at the chest of her sleeveless, ankle-length, purple dress. At times, Violet had silently bemoaned her own lack of curves to herself as well and got the feeling that she didn't have much time left to develop any, either. But that was something that Violet hoped would change soon—while her mother was no spring chicken, her mother wasn’t flat and curve-less either. Granted, Violet was seven inches taller than her mother, but it still left possibilities open. Regardless of height, given other bodily problems, Violet could have been afflicted with, but wasn’t—such as anorexia or obesity—a part of her felt lucky that her bodily woes weren’t worse. Violet’s thought’s then drifted back to Jessica, hoping desperately that she would be rescued, or otherwise escape her captors.
No, Violet thought, she’ll be back. She has to be back. There’s nothing I can do, but surely, the police and government are working their hardest to rescue Jessica from the sociopaths who took her. She will be back.
Shaking her head, Violet tried to turn her thoughts back to something less stressful, like her mother gardening in jeans and a t-shirt, or her own bodily woes, but such attempts to distract herself failed to work this time around. Standing up, Violet began stretching out.
A dull thud emanated from somewhere behind Violet, alongside the crunching of grass beneath someone’s feet.
Turning around, Violet demanded, “Who’s there?”
Then Violet’s blue eyes fell upon him—clad in all black, his head hidden by a matte black motorcycle helmet, with some sort of alteration made to the mouth area of the helmet. The intruder had that symbol, his symbol, embroidered all over his clothes, and emblazoned on his helmet. The symbol of a lone, bloodshot red eye, staring out from the center of an orange flame.
Stunned, Violet asked Pyre, “What are you doing here?”
Now also turning in the direction of the others, Rose began to ask, “Violet, who are you talking to, sw—.”
Rose stopped talking mid-sentence, her own blue eyes widening in fear as she saw him, standing there.
“You’re that vigilante from those news articles,” Rose said breathlessly, before Violet—feeling confused to the highest degree—asked Pyre, “What are you doing here? We aren’t criminals!”
“Ma’am, where’s Chad,” Pyre asked in a voice that sounded like it had been synthesized by a computer and, simultaneously, like it had come from a demon’s throat, somehow at once mechanical and hellish, digital and demonic.
Violet recognized her mother’s panic as she replied, “Chad? There are plenty of people named Chad, so you’ll have to be more specific, Pyre. You are Pyre, right?”
“Yes,” Pyre replied, seemingly both impatient and irritated, “I am Pyre, and the Chad I’m referring to is your husband, ma’am.”
Rose was confused and on the verge of panic—Violet could tell that much about her mother from her tone of voice, facial expressions, and body language—as Rose answered, “He’s on a business trip to Germany, although he never told us which part of Germany. We haven’t seen him in weeks!”
“I’ve got reason to believe that he’s involved in the kidnapping of your daughter’s classmate, Jessica Wilcox,” Pyre replied impatiently, “And if I can find him, I might be able to rescue her.”
In a knee-jerk reaction, Violet took a few steps toward the vigilante—despite knowing that he killed hardened criminals with frequency, efficiency, and brutality, on a regular basis—while furiously declaring, “My dad would never kidnap anyone! You’re either mistaken, or you’re really as crazy as your detractors say!”
Sounding impatient and highly irritated, Pyre replied, “Fine! I’ll show you!”
Pulling out and unlocking a smartphone, Pyre proceeded to go to the Photos app, and select a video, before showing Violet and her mother the video. It was a ransom video, in which Jessica was displayed like a trophy by various armed men in gas masks who stood around her. Violet watched the first part in numb terror. When her father revealed himself by pulling off his gas mask, Violet’s numb terror turned from an emotion to an all-consuming hell, as she sank to her knees in shock.
After the video finished, Pyre locked and pocketed the smartphone, before telling Rose, “She’s roughly the same age as your daughter! They go to school together! Please, help me find her!”
Rose replied, “How? He left his personal cellphone here, and I don’t have his business number!”
Sounding, honestly, a little desperate, Pyre asked, “Has he said anything that might indicate where he’s holding her?”
Rose Brunswick, shaken and scared, replied, “I’m sorry! I wish I could help, but Chad never told me about this!”
“Damn it! I have to find her,” Pyre exclaimed, sounding furious, irritated, and oddly scared. As Pyre turned to leave, Violet’s mind raced.
I might be able to help! But should I give him the information, now that I know it’s relevant? I don’t want my Dad dead, either, Violet thought.
“Wait,” Violet exclaimed, “I have information that might help!”
Turning back to face them, Pyre impatiently, desperately, demanded, “What is it?”
“Before he left, I overheard Dad arguing with someone over the phone, about somewhere he called The Old Mill. Judging by what little else I heard, it’s somewhere in New Hellensburge. Maybe he’s keeping her there,” Violet suggested.
Both desperation and determination coursed through his unnatural voice, as Pyre demanded, “Do you remember anything else? Did he mention an address?”
Terrified for both her classmate and her father, Violet replied, “Not that I heard, no.”
At this point, much to Violet’s surprise, Pyre stated, “Thank you, Violet.”
“Hey…you’re not going to kill him, are you,” Violet asked Pyre.
Suddenly sounding irritated, Pyre told her, “What do you think?”
“Please don’t!”
With those words, Violet got off her knees, and ran to Pyre, then—before her mind even recognized what she was doing—she wrapped her arms around him in a hug, her mind not registering how utterly soaked he was—even though no rain had fallen near their house, as it had fallen elsewhere in the city—as she desperately clung to him, or how she felt his muscles tense as she did so, before they relaxed again. Tears flowed like waterfalls down Violet’s cheeks, and she shook so violently that she slumped back down to her knees as she leaned against him, her arms now wrapped around Pyre’s waist, desperately clinging to him.
Violet opened her mouth to speak again, but all she could manage to sob were the words, “Please don’t kill my dad….” Then she broke down into an incoherent mix of sobbing and whimpering, still clinging to Pyre—up until the moment Pyre pulled away, at which point she fell onto her hands and knees.
Kneeling, Pyre brought the visor of his helmet—which appeared to be a modified motorcycle helmet—level with her face, before Pyre stunned Violet by saying, “Violet, he has a hostage. Alive might not be possible…but I promise you, I’ll still try my best to get them both out alive, and will only kill him if, and only if, I have no other reasonable way to rescue Jessica.”
Abruptly, as Pyre’s words registered in Violet’s mind, she began to feel hopeful, telling him, “Thank you, Pyre. Thank you.”
Standing up, Pyre seemed to nod in reply at Violet—or, at least, Violet thought he did, although she wasn’t sure—before saying, “You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Turning away from them and taking a few steps back towards the fence, Pyre seemed to be suddenly hurled away by a pillar of flame-orange crystal that abruptly protruded from the ground beneath his feet, only for the crystal to melt into ash a moment after Pyre was gone.
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The hallway was abnormally cold—like the rest of his father’s house, which Jacob Junior Senior kept that way through excessive use of Air Conditioning, in both the summer and winter months. As for why the old man did this, Alex had no clue.
Alex walked towards the room, feeling both the cold temperature of the house and an uncomfortable knot forming in the pit of his stomach, as always happened when he had to deal with Jake Junior. His brother was furious at their father, and Jake Junior regarded his older sibling as something of a massive coward. Alex regretted running off that night, running and hiding. Soon they were due to start Junior High School. Alex had always known that there was a type of school called a High School and that he would eventually end up there, but Alex hadn’t known before the previous day that there was such a thing as a Junior High School.
Alex sighed, wondering why he was letting himself hesitate at the door. His father had assigned them these chores. As unreasonably large as the list was—and it was unreasonably large—it wasn’t going to do itself, and Alex knew what was in store if they didn’t get the chores done. As much as he loathed his father, Alex knew that being beaten over it wouldn’t do him or his brother any good. Their father beat them enough without being handed an excuse to use violence against them. Besides, the sooner they finished the work, the sooner their father would let them eat. Considering that where they were living, and whom they were living with, was out of their control, he just hoped that his brother wasn’t high again. Staying up until midnight doing chores was not something Alex liked doing, even without having to stay up much later—sometimes all night—to do Jake Junior’s chores, in addition to his own, so that his brother wasn’t beaten. The older boy would do it, even though he shouldn’t have had to do so, simply because he feared that, one of those days, their father would go too far and kill his younger brother—either deliberately, or through the negligence with which their father meted out such violent abuse.
Fear and violence. Alex knew all too well that such things were powerful, especially when used against the vulnerable, and he knew that powerful things were not inherently good or evil either—like knives. A knife is an object. How its owner—or whoever is using it—chooses to utilize the object, is what makes it good or evil. It could maim and kill, or it could heal, like in surgeries. Alex had heard that surgeons’ scalpels were really just special knives. Knives could also prepare food. Alex liked food. It was ultimately the gnawing hunger in his stomach that made Alex open the door into the bedroom that Alex and Jake Junior shared.
Opening the door, Alex found Jake Junior sitting on the floor slumped against the bedpost of their bunkbed, while his head leaned forward. Alex immediately noticed an empty syringe on the ground, and a red strip of cloth tied around one of his brother’s arms. Alex had no medical training, but didn’t need any to tell that there was no rise and fall of his brother’s chest—Jake Junior was NOT breathing. Alarmed—and very aware of the fact that neither himself nor his brother, had ever possessed any sort of cellphone or smartphone—Alex immediately ran off, one thought burning through his mind.
That thought was simple: I have to get help!
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Pyre was using pillars of solidified fire to hurl himself from rooftop to rooftop, only to stop on one rooftop as he heard a ringing in his ear—specifically his left ear, where he currently wore that Bluetooth earpiece beneath the ski mask, and under his spare, modified, motorcycle helmet—which he would use until the other one’s visor could be repaired or replaced. Rolling up the left sleeve of his BDU-style jacket, Pyre looked at his burner smartwatch, which was paired to both Pyre’s Bluetooth earpiece and his burner smartphone, to see Reforger’s alias on the caller ID. Pressing a button that appeared on the smartwatch’s screen, Pyre stopped on top of a given roof and accepted the call.
“Hey Pyre. You learn anything useful,” Reforger’s disguised voice asked in his left ear, at once curious and concerned.
“Chad told his family that he was on a business trip to Germany, so they were clueless. And I don’t think that they were acting,” Pyre answered as he paced around on the particular rooftop in question, “I believe they were telling the truth. I could be wrong, but they appeared genuinely shocked when I showed them the ransom video Chad made. Also, his daughter overheard Chad arguing with someone about a location somewhere in New Hellensburge, which he referred to as The Old Mill over the phone. She seems to think it a possibility that Chad’s holding Jessica there.”
“You mean Violet, right,” Reforger’s disguised voice inquired, clearly concerned, prompting Pyre to say, “Yes. Look, I need you to compile a list of all buildings in and around New Hellensburge that could be described as an Old Mill, and send that to me. Also, contact Specter for help.”
“I’ve been trying, but she’s not responding,” Reforger replied.
Pyre swore profusely upon hearing that.
“I’ll keep trying. Anything else,” Reforger asked after Pyre had finished swearing.
Pyre answered, “Get me all the data you can on Daedalus Contracting Incorporated, as well as any possible data on Chad Brunswick, with an emphasis on his childhood, military career, and family life.”
Sounding what Pyre thought to be confused, Reforger replied, “Sure thing. Quick question though—how’s his childhood and home life relevant?”
Speaking sincerely, Pyre replied, “I need to know if he’s mentally ill, or just a piece of shit, and if the former, how. Also…I promised Violet I’d try to take him alive, if possible.”
Sounding shocked, Reforger replied, “What? He’s taken a hostage! Alive’s probably not a viable option!”
Getting irritated at Reforger, despite knowing—or maybe because Pyre knew—that Reforger was very likely right, Pyre snapped, “Fine! You tell Violet—who gave us this lead—that we’ll kill her father!” Pyre took a deep breath, before saying, “I’ll make one attempt to talk him down, per my promise to Violet. If he’s not willing to let her go and be taken alive, then I don’t take him alive.”
Now sounding superbly irritated himself, Reforger replied, “You’re kidding, right? Jessica could die if we fuck this up!”
“NO,” Pyre snarled, “Jessica will not die! I will not let her die!”
“Then disregard that fucking promise,” Reforger told Pyre.
“I gave her my word, and I intend to keep it,” Pyre retorted.
“You’re seeing things too much in black and white! Just another symptom of your condition, m—.”
Reforger was cut off by Pyre snarling, “Don’t bring up my diagnosis, damn it! The fact that I’m defective does not mean I need to be reminded of it every other second!”
“Between that and your emotions, your judgment is compromised,” Reforger stated, before asking, “What happens when you have to choose between Chad and Jessica?”
Determined—and very furious—Pyre answered, “Then I won’t hesitate to use every full measure. Pyre out.”
Hanging up, Pyre generated another pillar of solidified fire beneath his own feet, and catapulted himself to another rooftop, before repeating the process, going from rooftop to rooftop.
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