(Tw: self harm)
"It took you long enough," Fintan complained. "Did you burn yourself or something?"
"Sorry, was I supposed to be here? I didn't get a note . . . " Harbin replied, choosing his words carefully.
"You expect us to leave you a handwritten note explaining how to meet up?" Fintan asked, as though the very idea of explanations was foreign to him.
"You didn't even say I had to meet up," reminded Harbin. "I had to look for everything myself."
"Just like your father," muttered Fintan.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harbin inquired, a hint of annoyance in his tone.
Fintan sighed. "We've already wasted enough time."
One of the figures lifted the hood of his cloak, revealing him to be Coach Arland.
"I've heard you show skill in your ability," Arland told Harbin.
"He's not mediocre," corrected Fintan. "But he has a long way before he can do anything with it."
"Like what?" wondered Harbin. "Like making my own version of balefire?"
Fintan thought about it for a moment. "You could say that."
Harbin grinned.
"However," emphasized Arland, "we need to know that you are on our side."
"Why wouldn't I be? You saved me from what would probably be Exile, considering the Council already hates me."
Fintan considered the idea. "You're verbally willing. But words can't compete against actions."
"What do you mean?"
"You're here tonight—" Coach Arland begun.
"I'm pretty sure it's morning," Harbin blurted out.
Arland shot him a dirty look before continuing, "to begin your initiation."
"If I may ask—"
"You may not," Fintan interjected.
"What is this for?"
Fintan groaned.
"Is it a group that works to help those who have been wrongly banished?" Harbin speculated.
"Not exactly," corrected Coach Arland. "We specifically are working toward goals in favor of Pyrokinetics."
"So that's why you took me here after I manifested," realized Harbin. "Once you knew I was a Pyrokinetic, you decided it was best I came here."
"Precisely. Our one problem was your age. We had to wait until you were an adult before we could offer you a place as a new recruit."
"You noticed the fire on the floor," Fintan assumed. "That symbol is the group's family crest. In joining, you will wear it with pride and with the knowledge that your family will always be there to back you up."
"What about my actual family?"
A hooded figure to the left of Arland spoke, "They may be your blood, but once you join, we will be the sparks that kindle your fire."
"But my mom—" Harbin protested.
"No one has tried to find you. After these years, someone would look for you. But, no one did. They don't care enough to, doting on your sister. You're essentially an orphan. We can help with that. You don't have to be alone." The hooded man sounded so sincere. Did Harbin's family really forget about him?
"How do I join?" Harbin inquired.
Fintan showed a small smile. "To prove your loyalty, you must gain your crest."
"I don't have anything to pin it to. Oh, do I get one of those?" wondered Harbin, pointing to their cloaks.
"You won't be needing one," Fintan informed him, smirking at the boy's puzzled expression.
"It doesn't require clothing to be pinned on."
"But that makes no sense. Does it come with a band of cloth?"
Coach Arland shook his head.
The hooded figure to Arland's left pulled something out of his pocket, which appeared to be the fire symbol, but it looked off.
"You must show that you can withstand your ability capabilities. Both to know just what your power is, and to know that you can face pain if necessary for the aid of your brethren."
"Pain?" Harbin repeated.
The coach took the symbol from the man, tossing it lightly from one hand to the next. "Use your pyrokinesis to heat up the metal. Then, place it on the side of your shoulder. This will create the symbol of protection you have with us."
"You want me to brand myself?!" Harbin exclaimed, backing away from him.
The hooded man who had given Arland the symbol chuckled. "You know, my inspiration for that was from the humans. They use this ink and stick needles through their skin in the shapes of words and drawings, called a tattoo. They don't come off very easily. A perfect symbol of a group that won't fall apart, don't you think?" He gave Harbin a look, as if daring the teenager to protest. Harbin remained in a silent shock. "The idea was rather interesting, so, naturally, I had to copy it, adding my own twist to it, of course."
"You willingly choose to have this happen to you?" Harbin queried.
"The Council banned pyrokinesis due to fatalities from the ability. We are simply showing them that we thrive in our suffering," Coach Arland replied calmly.
Thriving in pain wasn't the particular message Harbin had in mind when it came to the revival of pyrokinesis, but these were the people who were actually doing something about it, so he supposed it wasn't that bad. Still... it was like being branded as an animal, exactly what they did in the Lost Cities to poor, helpless cattle that could do nothing except cry out in the agony they were enduring.
"This is the only way to join?" Harbin speculated.
"If you want to get pyrokinesis back, this is the first step," Arland confirmed.
Harbin bit his lip. The only way...
Fintan rolled his eyes. "Stop taking so long. Either you want to join, or you're fine living a meaningless life always below others."
Sighing, Harbin reached for the symbol. "How do I do this?"
Its creator smiled, one side of his mouth raising higher than the other. "Channel your fire into the center of it." He waited for Harbin to shakily obey. "Then, press it to your skin, making sure to align it correctly."
Arland walked over to Harbin, pulling up his left sleeve and keeping it from going down. "Do it now."
The color was gone from his face and his hands felt clammy. He readjusted his grip on the symbol, wiping his hand on his shirt. "O-okay," he stuttered, trying to muster up the strength not to scream.
"We haven't got all night," Fintan reminded him, rolling his eyes. His arms were crossed and his foot began a steady tap, tap, tap, on the floor.
Harbin wondered if it could be considered nighttime anymore as the process took a long time for him to get there.
"Do you want to accepted? Want to have a family that accepts you for who you are and will help others to see it as well?" Arland pressed. "Society cast you aside. Show them you're not just a castaway. You're a wildfire waiting and this is your spark."
"Why should I be a wildfire? They cause havoc, destroying homes and families," stated Harbin.
Fintan glared at Arland, though Harbin was not sure why, and then said, "The Council is a mess and has junked up the world. We simply are the fire that burns up the wrong, allowing new trees and plants to grow. Would you like to be the flame? Or would you like to be the tree, burning up without a chance to prove yourself useful."
"The fire," Harbin decided, pulling the warmth from his core down to his fingertips, which heated the metal he was holding on his arm.
Immediately, he felt a burning sensation tearing through his skin. He felt pain before; this wasn't pain; this was so much worse. He was screaming; at least, he thought he was. The smell was terrible. His burning skin singed his nose hairs and reminded him the reason he didn't eat meat; the very torture that happened to some animals was happening to him. The smell as his kind was getting destroyed was sickening. But it wasn't the same; he was burning; and it was his doing.
Coach Arland's words replayed in his head. The Council banned pyrokinesis due to fatalities from the ability. We are simply showing them that we thrive in it. If this was what it felt like to thrive in pain, he didn't want it. But if this was the only way to a good life . . .
Harbin gritted his teeth, locking his jaw to prevent the next screams. He could feel the hot tears sliding down his face and wasn't sure he could stop them, nor was he sure he should. If this was what it was like to live in agony, he needed to know that. He'd have to decide when the torment was enough.
He pressed the metal deeper into his skin and his jaw opened to scream. Harbin bit down, drawing blood from his tongue. He focused on the new wound until the burn wasn't noticeable.
"Harbin," a faint voice said. The voice toyed with the name, repeating it at different levels of volume and different tones of voice.
Harbin let himself get dragged back to the excruciating reality of the burn.
The hooded man who had not spoken before was calling his name, "Harbin! You've had it on long enough! Take it off before you damage your nerves!"
The man turned to Fintan, apparently not intimidated by the ancient. "He's had it on long enough, we need to pull his hand away from his arm."
Harbin tried to focus on their words, but the meanings were slipping away.
"He'll take it off when he feels necessary. He's done really well with it. I have a feeling he will be a vital member," Fintan replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice directed toward the man. It sounded like pride in the last sentence but Harbin could barely focus on standing much less deciphering the words.
"You're insane!" the man yelled, jogging over to Harbin and pulling the teenager's hand away from his arm.
The symbol came out well, not shifting at all. However, the skin was very raw, practically nothing there at all and blood covered it.
"You're a monster," the man spat, pulling Harbin over to a chair that he sat him in, immediately tending to the wound.
Fintan rolled his eyes at the remark. "You can't just heal it before it scars."
"Thanks to you," the man snapped, "it could never heal without a nasty scar."
"The whole point is getting the scar. Just cause you're a medic doesn't mean you are here to fix up scars," remarked Arland.
"You have the same scar. Are you implying you do not want the very thing that bonds us?" Fintan asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No. No, I'm glad I have it," he assured Fintan. "But I'm over 100. He's just 19. If he were in the Lost Cities, he would be in his seventh or eighth year."
Harbin could tell they were talking about him but his arm hurt so bad he didn't even want to focus on the conversation anymore.
"But he is not," Fintan sharply responded. "He is with us and he will do what is required of him."
Fintan walked over toward the hooded man, lowering his voice into a harsh whisper as he spoke his next words to the man, which were not audible for anyone else.
The people started to turn sideways as Harbin's head dropped, his strength severely lacking.
The hooded man walked downwards—to the left—as Fintan walked to the right, disappearing from view.
Harbin could barely feel his arm get lifted before his strength gave way and his eyelids closed, his consciousness slipping away.