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Five Years Gone
Date: Spring 2012 Characters: Joe Homberg Summary: Joe muses about… 
25th-Oct-2007 09:41 pm
smoking, oh please, bwr
Date: Spring 2012
Characters: Joe Homberg
Summary: Joe muses about the monotony of his "missions" and decides to break it.
Warnings: Language.
Status: Possible one-shot, to be followed up.
Open...ish.

This was moronic. Every day was getting to be the same. No one who was supposedly "special" was. Either Intel had something slipped into their morning coffee or they were actually trying to make a fool out of him. The only reason he'd kept at it was because he thought it was a test.

How long can Homberg last without screwing around? How long will it take for him to snap? When is he going to screw up? When can we send him back...

Bastards. They wanted to make a world for themselves, for the special ones, but they were keeping him out of everything. Wasn't he just as important as the next Johnny Special? Did they think he was too dangerous? Is that why they kept sending him on mind-numbing missions day after fucking day?

Maybe they did want him to leave. Maybe they thought he was a liability, but if that were so, wouldn't they have shoved him into trap? Was this some half-assed attempt to tame him? Him? The pyro who kept toeing the imaginary line between headstrong and hazardous? Who needed to see a flame, at least once daily, to satisfy himself?

For one wild moment, he wanted to pick up his things and blow the place. Leave them all in a fiery blaze that seared across the whole neighborhood like a scar. He rolled his eyes at the thought. So dramatic, Holmberg. He wanted to. But he couldn't. He'd promised Lance, no leaving. But that didn't mean he was sticking around for these pathetic excuses for missions. He came back to do something. If he had to go and do it himself, he would.

He knew for a fact that there was a government outpost on the other side of town. Nothing important, according to anyone he asked. Just a little place that was theirs. One step in, one push of his power--it would be ashes. People might get hurt, even late at night, but screw it, he was done playing the messenger. He wasn't a human lighter, they couldn't make him do anything with a switch or a flip unless he wanted to. And they certainly couldn't smother him out.

Footsteps fell heavy on the cement as he walked in the cool of night, fingers lighting a cigarette he hadn't even felt himself grab. He was making his mark tonight. Consequences be damned.
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