She woke up with nothing on. The rough edges of rock poked uncomfortably at her skin and the smell of smoke and sulfur was inescapable. She wasn't cold, but her bare skin being exposed made her shiver. Feeling weak and disoriented, she crawled out of the stones that harbored her. Leaning against a collapsed pillar, she felt her wound. Her hand came back covered in blood. 

I have to get out of here.

She didn’t know why she hadn’t turned yet, but she knew she couldn't stay here and wait for Firebird or the city's cleanup crew to get to her. For whatever reason she wasn’t a bloodthirsty Jawal right now, she didn’t want to wait around in case it was a delayed reaction.

Through instinct, she made her way to her apartment. 

Had she been coherent, she would have noticed that she broke the doorhandle upon entering, or that the temperature of the wall’s thermostat had risen suddenly, yet she couldn’t feel it. 

She crawled into her bathtub and watched the blood run off her body. The lull of the water made it impossible to keep her eyes open and she dozed off into blissful sleep.

She woke up the next morning beside blackened ceramic. Her bathtub looked like someone took a blowtorch to it. Puzzled, she stumbled out, wrapping herself in the nearest robe. 

What is happening?!

She went for the remote to turn on the news. She could barely remember what happened that night.

The report of a collapsed parking garage, fatally injured civilians, and Frank’s deceptively devastated face made it all come back. 

That bastard is to blame for this whole fiasco.

In an unfamiliar rage, she threw the remote at the Frank’s face, impaling the TV. She hadn’t thrown it that hard.

She stood there, dazed, until it suddenly caught on fire. Snapping out of it, she grabbed a plant pot from the kitchen, quickly running to douse the mess of fire, electricity, and wires with the natural fire-killer. Water and electricity did not mix.

But upon nearing it, the flames seemed to dance out towards her, and she felt an undeniable pull to it. 

Shaking the feeling off, she dumped the pot on it, the flames diminishing to the smallest flare. In her haste to get another pot, her robe caught on the last flickers. She slapped it with her hand.

Only when she went to wipe the orange strands that had fallen into her face did she notice that her hand was on fire. 

She almost screamed, but higher brain functions told her that she wasn’t in pain. 

So, she stared at it. 

The fire, now a dancing orange sprite that encompassed her hand moved beautifully, like a temptress calling to her.

Involuntarily, she answered, and she felt her other hand come alight with something.

Eventually, she looked up at the mirror in her living room, and saw that her hair and entire body were set ablaze. 

The realization that she was on fire made her shout and the flames disappeared as soon as they had come.

Felicia slumped into a pile on the floor, her clothes burned away once again.

What is happening to me?

It was months before Felicia went out in public again. Felicia had been in self-exile since she discovered her newfound abilities. She hated fire, it having killed her firefighting father when she was fifteen.

Covert testings with a discreet doctor based in NY showed that she was an Immune. She searched everything related to the condition.

It was a PR nightmare. Headlines like NEWLY BUILT PRISONS FOR THE POWERED made her stomach drop. All of her hard work and dedication had just gone down the drain. The police force couldn't afford having an Immune as the face of their interceptor program. She was right, and didn't lose an inch of her composure when the chief of police looked at her sadly and suggested she resign. Or when she handed in her signature interceptor suit designed to be disguised as a metal handbag.

She walked out of the department for the last time with her head held high until she was approached by a cadet. Isadora, the nineteen year old prodigy Felicia had personally trained held a care package full of delighfully girly things.

Then Felicia wept.

Coming home, she shook with grief. All of her experience and work - moot in the face of her infection.

If only I hadn't tolerated Frank. Her irritation manifested in flames, and she almost burned Isadora's gift, to her horror.

After this episode, she practiced and practiced and practiced how to control her flames. In between practice, she followed the news of the invasion becoming a full on war.

She hunkered down in her apartment.

I don’t need to add to the world’s troubles.

“An unknown agent has just been identified downtown Chicago!”

The news blasted from the new holographic TV she bought. She couldn't accidentally burn light.

A panicked reporter stood on a rooftop looking down on an adjacent collapsing building. The citizens beneath were crushed.

She instinctively grabbed her undersuit, the familiar orange glaring at her. 

Then she remembered that she had been fired.

Then the crackle of a comm’ startled her.

Her undersuit sat beside an earpiece. Frank’s voice came through. 

She heard something about teleportation until the line cut off. 

On TV, she recognized the figure, Isadora, lay in a crumpled heap at the feet of a redclad figure. Blood pooled on the ground.

Her body moved before she could realize it.