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Mystery (Flare) is entirely mine. Don't steal her. Trust me. You don't want her. She's moody and bitchy and she likes to blow shit up. You have been warned.

Henry McCoy (Beast) does not belong to me. He is the property of Marvel and I'm simply borrowing him for the time being. Not making any money off him. I'll put him back. Eventually. I promise. So don't sue me or anything. Don't got any money.
A Flare for the Dramatic
Chapter 1 of 1
Expand Author's Story Note

Why is it that men think women are either beautiful and stupid or ugly and stupid? And why does that opinion only grow when a woman has been granted certain endowments? I've come to the conclusion that men are pigs and deserve to be treated as such. Maybe this is because men were responsible for ruining my family's good name. Or maybe its because men think they can pick me up with a stupid line and a smirk on their faces.

Maybe its just because I'm a raving bitch.

Whatever the reason, my life has been shaped and etched by the machinations of men. You see, my father was a villain. Oh, not a big one. Not so big as, say, Victor Von Doom or Magneto or anyone like that. But Daddy was a villain, as was his father before him and so on until I just want to puke. You can say villainy runs in the family. Mom was bad, too. Bad enough that she wore tights and a spandex leotard and a cute little eye mask and a pair of thigh high boots that would have made a Dominatrix drool. My mother was a cross between supermodel beautiful and Dominatrix ruthless. It made her good at being a villian.

Too bad she sucked as a mother. She was gone more than she was home. Always off on some adventure. That meant I was stuck with my father and my siblings. Talk about boring. Jeff, my oldest brother and the oldest of all of us, was bossy and rotten. He teased me mercilessly over the name our parents had given me. He's been kind of cast out of the family. Apparently, being a villain is fine. But become a lawyer... Well, let's just say that Jeff doesn't get any Christmas cards from Mom.

Penny and Pansy, the twins, decided to become arm candy for some two bit crook who thought he'd one day go up against someone like Batman or Iron Man instead of the local constabulary. It ain't gonna happen. Eddie the Eel isn't going to go anywhere. Not with a name like that and certainly not unless he gets more creative with his criminal activities. Still, my sisters seem happy with Eddie the Eel, also known as Eddie Horowitz. He still goes and visits his gray haired old mother at the home on Sundays. I guess what they say about Jewish mothers is true.

Victoria landed a contract to be the next big supermodel by taking her clothes off for Playboy. Tall, thin and sporting a rack that would make a medieval torturer lust after her, she's a true beauty. And she has all the personality of a piece of cardboard. All she thinks of is her next shoot, what new designer to favor and how much food she has to vomit up to stay thin. People still look at her Playboy centerfold, some six years old, and ask if she had her boobs done.

That leaves me. The baby. The last one the folks thought would amount to anything. I was the sweet one as a child, the quiet one. The one everyone picked on and made fun of. Imagine going through life with the name Mystery. Mom always told me that she named me that because it was a mystery how I'd ever been conceived. She and dad had apparently stopped having sex somewhere right after the time they knew she was pregnant with Victoria. Momma always didn't love me best.

When she finally left Dad and split, it was the second happiest day of my life. I'll tell you about the first one in a bit.

With Mom gone, Dad was left to try and care for us. That meant picking up his mask and going back to his life of crime. Did I mention my dad was a horrible villain? But he was a good dad and he loved his kids. So he did what he could to try and make ends meet. to give us kids what we wanted and needed both. The day Daddy blew himself up was the day I realized that, if anyone was going to make a name for the family in the world of villains, it was going to have to be me. I knew I could do it because I had a secret.

Even at a young age, I knew I was different. I didn't really fit in with my family. Too independent, too sarcastic, too smart, too bitchy. Whatever it was, it set me apart. As did the fact that I had gray eyes while everyone else had brown eyes. They were all brunettes and I was a redhead. At least, I was up until I was about five. I don't quite remember what happened, but my bangs were just suddenly black. And only my bangs. The rest of my hair stayed red. No one knew quite what to make of it and the teasing started. I simply looked at people and told them that everything about me was a mystery.

And I also pounded little Jimmy Perino into a pulp, which stopped the teasing cold.

My hair wasn't the only thing about me that was odd when I was a child. I knew, even then, that there was something strange about me. I used to be able to make light bulbs explode. You know the ones that get used in a night light? Those. If I was mad or scared enough, I could pop those suckers like balloons. As I got older, it became normal light bulbs. One hundred watt bulbs were nothing. When I shattered one of those mercury lights, I started to try and figure out just how I managed to do these things.

You know that thing that says mutants aren't supposed to come into their powers until puberty? Not true. At least, not with me. Of course, this is assuming that I'm really a mutant and not some other oddity in life. I am, no pun intended, a mystery. I soon graduated from light bulbs to... just about anything else. If it could explode, I could make it explode. And the more I practiced, the more I could focus my energy to do so. I graduated from light bulbs to cars in one fell swoop. Ever seen a '57 Chevy just explode for no reason?

Its not pretty. And a shame to destroy such a classic car. Too bad no one told me that I could do things like that.

To be honest, blowing things up when I was suddenly filled with rage or fear wasn't really a bad thing. Not at first, anyway. I wasn't exactly sure how it was that I could make things go boom in spectacular, blinding glory. But the truth of the matter was that I could. It came in handy when I got myself into a pinch and needed a way out. Nothing says "Get the fuck away from me!" like suddenly having something like a lamp or a dresser or a big piece of machinery spontaneously exploding into a fireball.

It became a nightmare when I found that I could make anything explode at any time. With the right push. Imagine my surprise when I had my first real orgasm and... Okay. We won't go into that. But damn. Little Jimmy Perino grew up into Big Jimmy Perino. He was damned hot and he knew how to use what he'd been gifted with. And trust me, he'd been gifted with quite a lot. So it was a shame when he and I decided that we were no longer enemies but really close, really personal friends. Close enough that we fell into bed on our first date before we'd even made it to dinner or the movie. I was having the time of my life.

Until the fat woman sang and... It was messy, let me tell you. I bet you don't have orgasms like that.

It was a theme that would follow my early years for a while.

The first few times it happened, I wasn't quite sure what was going on. When I finally figured out that I was the one making my partners blow their loads in the most literal sense possible, it prompted me to do two things. Practice safe sex, meaning not having any, and digging into the reasons why such a thing was happening. Not that I was a perfect angel. I slipped a time or two. Most of them are still listed as missing persons. But I did the best I could. Puberty and my specific powers were hell on boyfriends.

When I wasn't blowing men up, I was trying to figure out what exactly was going on. You know, it isn't like you can find this stuff in your local library. I looked everywhere. I even checked online. Nothing. The few sites I actually left questions with sent back answers that were less than helpful.

One reply, though, was helpful. It pointed me in the direction of a guest lecturer at a local college who was apparently some kind of superbrain on everything mutant. It was one of those occasions where being my mother's daughter actually came in handy.

Mother, back in her heyday, had a certain way about herself when it came to locks and things that were meant to be kept closed. Maybe that was because she was supposed to be good at spreading her legs. Not that I care about that. Remember when I said Mom leaving was the second happiest day of my life? Well, the first happiest day of my life was the day the bitch died. That was the day I blew Mom's condo in Boca to kingdom come.

Motherly issues? Who? Me? Nah.

Still, she managed to teach me a thing or two before she left. The first was not to take any shit from anyone. She'd be so proud of me. If she hadn't been blasted into a billion pieces. The second thing she taught me was how to pick locks and blend into crowds. Mother was a superb cat burglar. Oh, yeah. I stole her stash before I let her know exactly how I felt about her. Guess who doesn't need to work a day in her life if she doesn't want to?

The lecture was supposed to be only for those who went to the college it was being held at. Piece of cake for me. After slipping into something that screamed science major and letting myself in through a back door, I found a seat in the middle, where the lights weren't very bright, and settled in to listen to this expert talk about mutants.

He was an expert, alright. Big, blue and furry. But the man was smart as shit. Dr. Henry McCoy. The name was vaguely familiar, but I didn't bother trying to recall where I'd heard it. The lecture was more than stimulating and I got lost in the soothing tones of his voice as he explained primary and secondary mutations, genetics and a shitload more about what made mutants the people they were.

There was a general question and answer session at the end. Most of the questions came from yuppie type kids who were there to say they'd seen the freakshow when asked by their friends. Those were the questions that really didn't seek any kind of information. It was obvious that they were asking so that they could answer questions asked by their friends. There were a handful of students who asked serious questions. Those were the ones who were mutants and knew it. I hadn't learned anything of value and had given up hope of knowing anything at all when some jackass in the back began tossing questions out that labeled mutants as anything from freaks to abominations.

Each of his questions was meant to incite the lecturer, but Dr. McCoy kept a level head the entire time. And every one of his answers was logical, lacking any kind of emotion that would offend the man he was answering. That didn't stop me from getting pissed off by his questions. And when the man finally came to his reason for attending, when he spewed a load of shit about mutants being evil and demonic, about them burning in hell when judgement came, I kind of lost my head.

Fortunately, the only thing that exploded was a chair near where the asshole was sitting. It was enough to startle the shithead out of his seat and he was soon running for the door. I think the odor of piss followed him, but I wasn't close enough to tell. But that small burst of my anger was enough to attract the good doctor's attention. I could see him scanning the crowd carefully, as if he were looking for the person who'd done it. I never actually heard the comment he made, but I knew he was the man to talk to.

So I hung around while everyone filed out of the lecture hall. Dr. McCoy busied himself with gathering his papers and other things together, his back to the room. I didn't for once think he didn't know someone was there but I think it surprised him when I was the one who approached him. He looked at me and, even through all the fur, I could see the expression on his face. He was waiting for my question, waiting expectantly for me to ask him if he could tell me what I was. And, when I did, he suggested we go someplace more private to talk.

We ended up in an empty office. Questions flew back and forth from both of us and it wasn't until the end of our conversation that Dr. McCoy told me anything I needed to know. It took half an hour to for him to say what could have been said in five minutes because of all the scientific talk he used. I guess its a good thing the man isn't a medical doctor. He'd talk his patients to death if he was. What our conversation boiled down to, though, was that I was able to absorb the energy around me and redirect it.

Well, that explained exploding boyfriends.

The good thing about my chat with Herr Doctor, all wordiness and excessive speech-making aside, is that he took the time to explain to me just what it was I was capable of doing. Apparently, some funky part of my DNA went all wonky and, where most people tend to... well, explode when hit with massive amounts of energy, I can suck it all up like a Hoover. I can also store it in my body and release it in small bursts or in one big blast. Not like I didn't know that. Nothing says I love you like a giant screaming orgasm that makes your partner burst apart.

When I told him I'd had a few small accidents - fingers crossed behind my back on that big whopper - he'd informed me that it would take some time and practice to keep the energy from leaking out of me. Then he'd gone off on some tangent about whether or not I was capable of drawing upon all different kinds of energies or if it was simply what was around me. There was a mention of tests and letting people blast me with things. I turned him down as politely as possible, telling him point blank that I wasn't a fucking guinea pig. Then I got the fuck out of Dodge.

I spent several months working on control, practicing until I was more than positive that I could hold the energy in. I spent a bunch of time in junkyards and the dump, using people's garbage as my targets. I got to the point where I could pick out a can in a pile and destroy it just as easily as I could make the whole heap explode. Of course, I couldn't be sure unless I tested it with a human being. So I went to a bar and picked up a guy. Sadly, the sex wasn't mind blowing or anything. But he survived so I took that as a positive.

I went through a string of one night stands, testing my theories and practicing my control. With each successive coupling, my opinion of men sank lower and lower. The pick up lines dated back to the dinosaurs and much of the sex was nothing to write home to mother about. If she were still alive, the blood-sucking bitch. But, I proved to myself that I could have sex and an orgasm without blowing my partner up.

Some of them deserved it, though.

I suppose it was inevitable that I was going to get tired of controlling my abilities were men and sex were concerned. Let's face it, you get bored pretending that it feels good when Tom and his hairy dick don't know what the fuck they're doing. I needed a challenge. Something a little more high pressure. Something that would really put my control to the test.

I gave it thought. I really did. When I'd spoken to Dr. McCoy, he'd told me that my talents could be put to use helping people. He'd said that the world needed people like me. People who could protect and make a difference. He'd suggested I put my talents to work and had suggested the name of a few people I could go see. He'd told me that they'd be willing to help me set my feet on the right path. For about five minutes, I really considered it.

Then I laughed so hard, I had to change my panties. Me? A superhero? There wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell that I'd ever go to the Dork side. I'd killed people, blown them up like firecrackers. Willfully. Maliciously. Gleefully. I enjoyed doing shit like that. Okay. So I admit that I still on occasion missed Jimmy Perino. The man had seriously known how to use his tongue. And his hands. And his... Well, you get the picture. But my mother and the others. Good riddance to them, I say. I've never regretted their deaths. Some of them, I enjoyed so much that I like to dance naked under the full moon to thank any Gods watching for the chance to rid the world of them.

Okay. I don't dance naked. But I do drink alot of beer and liquor and say "Fuck yeah!" frequently when I consider those deaths. What can I say? I'm practical. No use crying over spilt milk or exploded body parts.

I finally decided that I'd been born into a villainous family for a reason. I was going to do what no one else had done. I was going to make a name for myself, do the bad side proud. So I started looking for work. Under the table, mind you. In back alleys and scummy bars. No one takes a young woman named Mystery seriously. I blew up more criminals than the good guys. Never got a god damn thank you for it. But I couldn't let them know who I was, couldn't let them wander around and blab and laugh and all that shit. And I couldn't prove to them that I could do what I said I could without proving it. Granted, I should have stuck with furniture. But nothing says you're serious like watching someone's head explode.

I lost more damn jobs that way.

I needed to make some plans. I needed to find some way to instill fear into people, get them to take me seriously. I needed a kick ass villainess name and a costume to match.

I'd discovered, mostly by accident, that a couple of things happen when I really soak up the energy. First thing is, my hair changes color. It goes from red with black bangs to purple with pink bangs. No shit. I can't figure it out, either. The other thing that happens is my hair flares out around my head just before I let go a huge blast of energy. Kind of like a halo. But I'm no angel.

Somehow, Flare seemed to be a good name for me. It kind of fit. And it was a damn sight better than Mystery. Who would ever buy a villain named Mystery? Name settled on, I went after my costume.

I'm a simple girl, with simple tastes. I don't need anything fancy like the suit that Iron Man wears. I don't need toys like Batman. Nothing as gaudy as any of the pathetic heroes who tried to keep order in the city. No. Nothing like that. I went for the basics, a girl's best friend. Leather and chain maille. I stole the leather and had the maille made just for me. Like all the heroes and villains, the leather is skin tight. A simple, cleavage-enhancing, gravity-defying bra of black leather and a pair of pants that looked panted on. Also black leather. I stole a couple other pairs, too. One has laces down the sides of the legs. The other pair has rings. Just so I can mix it up when I feel like it.

The maille is done in bright silver rings. The top is a bra that fits snugly over the leather one. The bottom edge has a series of short chains hanging from it, mostly for decoration. The bottom is a skirt made up of four triangles. There's one on each leg and one in front and back. Added to that is a pair of leather boots that look like they should be on a biker's feet and I'm ready to kick ass.

The last thing I added was a little black mask. Hey. It works for other villains, right?

I'm ready to kick Good's ass and work to make Evil something to remember and fear. I've taken out my share of heroes. But none of them were big time. Dinky little no-name bastards trying to pop a few bad guys so they could go to someone and look for a job. Its fun to make them explode. My therapist, if I had one, would probably tell me I have issues that need resolution. No shit, Sherlock! I'm bad. I'm evil. And I like it that way.

I'm going to take out some heroes and do my daddy proud. I miss him, you know.

The article I found in the paper today will help me do just that. Someone is looking for bad guys. They want to take the good guys on. Give them more than they can handle. I think I fit that description. So I'm applying for the job.

Cos, baby, I'm bad. All the way to the bone. And I'll make your head explode!

Chapter 1 of 1
The Story TraeSE 0.19.0 created by Echtrae Cuinn ©2007-2022

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