Chapter Text
October, 1984
“Head and shoulders. Knees and toes. Knees and toes.”
“Now now,” the doctor’s voice says. “What have I told you about singing during our visits? You wouldn’t disobey me, would you, child?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
The needle squeaks as it enters the chilled vial. Icy blue liquid fills the glass syringe. As he turns to his charge, the doctor flicks the needle twice. “You must be a good girl, or Winter will pay you a visit.”
As the doctor rounds the slab, he calls out to the everpresent recorder, “Subject X18, serum M-eight-dash-four-six-zero. One milliliter push in three…two…one.” A motion of his thumb plunges the fluid into the girl’s IV line. “Serum administered at 11:39 am.”
Folding his long legs, the doctor squats on his stool and rolls to the girl’s bedside. While he scribbles notes into her file, he says, “You’ve heard of Winter, yes? The one who comes to steal away naughty children?”
She shakes her head.
“Once upon a time, there was a soldier. Brave. Strong. A hero among heroes. Until one day, his friends failed him and let him fall from a tall mountain. He landed in the snow, crying tears that froze to his cheeks. Having fallen from so high, it was a miracle that he even survived. But the soldier did not go uninjured. His arm was shattered,” he says, letting the word crash in the air. The girl flinches, unable to back away.
“‘Maybe they’ll come,’ he thought to himself. ‘Maybe my friends will save me.’
“But no one came. He was alone as darkness began to fall. In the dark woods, he could hear the wolves beginning to cry, hungry. The wolves would have eaten him alive were it not for the kind man who found him. A doctor called Zola.”
“Like…like you?”
“Yes. A doctor like me, very good. And Zola gave Winter many gifts. He made the soldier stronger, faster, and even crafted for him a magic arm that could not be broken. Would you like a magic arm?”
She shakes her head again. Her small hands begin to tremble.
“Tremors at 11:42am,” the doctor announces. After a few more scribbles, he looks up at the girl on the slab. “You wouldn’t want a magic arm? Perhaps you think you have enough magic without one?”
“I’m cold,” she says, voice small.
“After Zola made him better, Winter helped his new friend in whatever way he was asked. Winter was obedient, just as you must be. He made Zola proud. One day, Zola found Winter’s friends who’d left him to such a horrible, cold fate, and he sent Winter to deal with them as all naughty boys and girls must be dealt with. Respiration accelerating, lips and nailbeds are cyanotic 11:45am.”
“Can I be warm, please?”
“Not just yet, child. Core temperature reading 99.8 and holding. Skin temperature 89 and dropping.
“To this day,” he continues, “the soldier does as he is told. And when someone is naughty, Winter is sent to punish them.”
Teeth chattering, the girl stares at the ceiling. Her little body strains against the cold racing through her and the need–the instinct–to be warm. Trying her best to hold back, she asks, “Is he s-s-s-scary?”
“He covers his face with a black mask. He wears darkness like a shroud, except for the silver of his magic arm, and his cold blue eyes. He doesn’t speak. When he comes for you, Winter is silent as a ghost.”
“C-cc-cccan I…? N-n-now?”
“Not yet. We wouldn’t want Winter to come and snap your pretty neck with his magic arm. Stay still like a good child.”
“‘m ssssso cold.”
“Skin temperature 81.3. Core temperature 108.2. What did I say? Not yet.”
She moans and grunts, unable to form words for the spasms and shivers wracking her small body. Though she clings to her self-control as tightly as she can, instinct tells her to let go. To be warm. The attempt to suppress those instincts only makes her pain worse.
“Core temperature climbing, now reading 120. 130 degrees Fahrenheit. Girl, I said not yet. Skin temperature falling from 78.3. Core still rising.”
Her head jerks from side to side, jaw locked around a scream that won’t come. It hurts. She is so tired.
“Stop,” the doctor says. “Core temperature 187.2 degrees and still climbing. I said stop!”
Around the room, alarms wail with the shifts in her vital readings. They tell the doctor nothing he doesn’t already know. The girl’s body goes stiff and rigid, back arching off of the slab.
“STOP!”
What begins as a wink of orange light near her navel spreads over her limbs. Her tiny fists clutch flames that flare from between her fingers. As fire flows through her hair, the girl’s eyes glow with a white hot light. Her clothing catches fire, the bed linens. The straps. The tubes that connect her to various serums and solutions.
“STOP NOW!”
As the doctor stumbles backward he trips over his stool and crashes to the floor. A ball of fire ignites on the bed with a great FWUMP!
A scream.
A sustained mechanical tone.
The panicked patter of water falling from the sprinklers.
As Doctor Maekevich stands from the slippery floor, he calls out, “11:51am. Subject X18 demonstrated pyrogenesis out of self-defense against the serum.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, voice raw and quaking. “I tried not to.”
Maekevich ignores her, droning on to his recorder. “Fireball was approximately four feet in diameter and engulfed the subject's body. As with previous events, her eyes flared white with the fire. Subject shows no signs of hypothermia. No immediately noticeable injury due to the serum, or the pyrogenesis event. .No burns. No frostbite. Not so much as a missing eyelash. Clothing and bedclothes have been rendered to ash. Blood sample drawn. Monitor subject for 72 hours before further testing. End session.”
Frustrated, the doctor sighs. He opens a nearby cabinet and retrieves a clean gown to replace the one she just incinerated, then flings it at her. Taking a fresh syringe, Maekevich draws a vial of blood.
“Naughty,” he spits. “Next time, listen to what I tell you.”
“I…I tried,” she sobs.
“Try harder. Don’t make me call Winter to snuff you out, little flame.”