Contributing Author: Haylock

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Flamagan let out an artfully uncouth chuckle as he seized control of Trey’s body.

It had been what, years? Decades? That nerd Geneva would probably have kept count, but such musings were beneath Flamagan the The Magnificent and the rest of the Flame Force.

The first order of business would be disposing of the inferior, inflammable sheets of metal Geneva had encased the host in.

“Hey, those parts are expensive and valuable materials! Do you know how long it takes to grow a Vanadium atom on even the best of enchanted soil? 3.27 microseconds! That’s an eternity! Put them away properly you barbaric minion!”

Flamagan rolled his compound eyes.

“Whatever, dweeb.”

Geneva grumbled unintelligible insults at the other space aphid. Did it have to be this one? His self-important ramblings of destruction were so… ugh. No matter, they had to work together for The Leafy One. If they were lucky, he might still make progress toward their goals.

“I will need more parts when I retake the high score. Can you go to Fred’s Bike Shop and buy a whole lot of decay-resistant metal parts? Things like gears, valves, you know?”

Flamagan grunted in annoyance, began considering the words to deny Geneva with as much psychological devastation as bugmanely possible, but paused mid thought as something even more devious occurred to him.

“Tell you what—you may be an automaton fetishist, but there’s no reason we can’t work together. I’ll keep an eye out for metal parts if you promise to sub me in should you ever need to deliver unparalleled, thoughtless violence.”

“Very well. My fine mechanisms are much more useful when not applied to violence, anyway. I agree.”

With the deal settled, Geneva hurried to pack away their metal components as efficiently as aphidly possible, leaving Trey’s body behind in the control of the brutal, brains-impaired, slave-driving, destruction-addicted, burn-damaged…

“Wh-what’s going on?” Trey asked in his idiotic voice, and Flamagan realized his error—they’d forgotten to apply the sedative.

Well, I suppose ‘sedative’ isn’t entirely correct, Flamagan thought as he instructed the rest of the Flame Force to excrete his magnum opus. ‘Neuropathological disease inducing hallucinogen’ is much more accurate—

“Yuck,” Flamagan said through Trey’s fleshy mouth bits. “I sound like Geneva. Forget it—it’s a sedative.”

Excretion is complete, sir! Effects will be live in T-minus five seconds, sir! Branagan, another member of the Flame Force, said telepathically.

Flamagan took a moment to send his sincere thanks to his cadre of pyromaniacs—he couldn’t perform the miracles he did without them.

“Uh, Trey—er, Geneva? Are… are you okay?” a feminine voice asked.

Flamagan turned Trey’s head.

There was a woman in an open doorway, blinking rapidly as she stared at them. Myriad thoughts and memories rushed from Trey’s inferior brain into Flamagan’s superior aphid nervous system, and he understood.

“Ah—it’s Jill, right? Geneva is gone—I’m Flamagan. My host thinks of your body when he’s alone in bed at night.”

“It’s true,” Trey agreed. “Your form is intoxicating.”

“Ugh,” Flamagan shook Trey’s head. “How do you make an abrasive comment sound dorky? Whatever, at least the sedative is working. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Trey said. “Bye Jill.”

Jill’s eyes drifted from the floor to look up at Trey’s departing strides.

“B-bye…?”

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As Trey strode down the final staircase and out into the lobby, he smiled.

Sunlight peeked through the doors with an ethereal wash of shifting rainbow colors. He’d never seen such a beautiful morning, and his smile grew wide as he stepped out onto the street.

“Morning, Trey!”

“Good morning, Carl! Are you seeing these colors?” Trey pointed at the dancing lights. “They’re stunning.”

The doorman, Carl, raised an eyebrow.

“I guess you could call it that…”

Ask him if he rode his motorcycle to work, Flamagan suggested internally.

“Hey, Carl—do you still ride that Harley?”

“You know it!” He pointed across the road, where his pride and joy was parked. “Are you ever gonna come around on buying one? I know you love riding your bicycle, but there’s nothing quite like riding a cruiser through the city.”

That sounded like a fantastic idea to Trey, but before he could let Carl know, Flamagan spoke up in his mind.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Go to the motorcycle.

“Bye, Carl!”

“Er—bye…?”

Trey waved goodbye, doing so extra emphatically—he was feeling fantastic.

As he approached the Harley, it began shimmering with a silver light.

“Oooooh, pretty.”

Yeah, shiny means good, Flamagan said in his mind. If you see shiny things, go to them.

“Flamagan is an odd name—is it Scottish?” Trey asked as he followed an impulse and sat on the Harley.

It’s a stage moniker—I am known to my brethren as Flamagan the Magnificent.

Trey giggled.

“That’s an even funnier name. Why do they call you that?”

Because I make magic happen, baby. Grab the handlebars.

Trey did so, then looked down. A line formed between his eyebrows as something prehensile sprouted from his leg and moved toward the Harley’s engine.

“Hey, Flamagan…”

Yes?

“What’s that?”

Oh, the carapace funnel? It’s just a delivery method.

“Oh, fair enough. What does it deliver?”

Trey felt joy come from within his head, but it wasn’t his.

The carapace funnel, my dear host, delivers magic.

“Hey!” Carl yelled. “Be careful, Trey!”

Trey smiled at him, then glanced back down at his leg. The thing sprouting there had connected with the Harley’s engine and was pumping something into it.

“Huh. That kind of tickles.”

You should probably hang on, kid, Flamagan said.

“Oh, alright. Why’s tha—”

The engine roared to life, wheels spun, and Trey held on for dear life. Well, Flamagan or whoever was currently controlling Trey’s arms and steering the bike held on for dear life.

Trey’s last view of Carl was of the burly man reaching out, eyes wide, as if he was trying to mentally will the Harley to stop in its tracks.

“See you later, Carl!” Trey yelled, beaming at him as the motorcycle tore around the block and out of sight.

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The wind blasting into Trey’s skin felt amazing.

Perhaps ‘amazing’ wasn’t a strong enough adjective—the wind was quite possibly the best thing he’d ever felt.

Waves of sensation rippled across his skin, causing goosebumps to rise and fall as he shivered in delight.

“Wow,” he yelled into the wind, laughing. “I need to get a motorcycle!”

Yeah, maybe temper those expectations, chief. When I’m in control, everything is gonna feel good.

“Can you stay all the time?”

Undulating waves of multi-spectrum light wavered wherever sunlight touched, and Trey’s gaze lingered on each patch as they passed by.

Would do if it were up to me, buddy, but this isn’t a dictatorship. Those other damn aphids need to have a turn.

Flamagan used Trey’s mouth to spit.

They’re a blight on my artwork.

“Aphids…? You’re an aphid?”

That’s right. You’re currently being assisted by a fleet of superior, carapaced individuals. I, along with the rest of the Fire Force, are currently operating your flesh suit.

Trey’s eyes narrowed as he considered how that should make him feel—then the rainbow light rushed into his retinas, and the wind made his skin tingle.

“Neat! So you’re the… what, leader of this ‘Fire Force’?”

Correct—I am supported by Branagan, Anna-Flynn, Tamarin, and Skulldeath. They will now introduce themselves sequentially.

Greetings, came the formal, male voice of Branagan.

Salutations, said an equally stern, decidedly female Anna-Flynn.

A pleasure, sir! Tamarin said in a lilting, almost sing-song voice.

Yo! What it do, my guy? asked Skulldeath, who sounded like he’d just hit two bucket bongs then smashed half a bag of crunchy M&M’s.

“Hey, gang!” Trey said. “It’s nice to meet you all. So, where are we going?”

Oh, right, Flamagan said. Dispense the Quest, Skulldeath!

Righto!

A green box popped up in front of his eyes, and he blinked as he focused on the words within.

[New Quest]: We’ve Got Fire, Baby!

[Description]: Locate and secure fuel from the stores of Beetlebub.

[Optional]: Locate and secure scrap metal and components for the mechanophilliac, Geneva.

[Reward]: Holy Fire.

“What does mechanophilliac mean?” Trey asked as his vision cleared.

It means she gets off to diddling cars and shit, Skulldeath responded, giggling.

Skulldeath! Flamagan roared internally, making Trey’s skull vibrate. What have I told you about inventing sexual proclivities for our fellow aphids?

B-but you said she was an ‘automaton fetishest’, boss! Why can’t I have a little—

That was during negotiations, and was merely an advanced tactic! What have I told you, Skulldeath? Repeat the words to me.

Skulldeath sighed, then responded in a monotone voice.

That it’s okay to insult, berate, and otherwise put down fellow operatives, but that I shouldn’t invent fanciful fetishes to besmirch their character when we are in the company of a host.

Flamagan nodded, an odd sensation given the aphid was inside Trey’s head.

You’re a good kid, Skulldeath, and we’ll make a fantastic soldier of you yet.

Trey smiled, enjoying the camaraderie and friendship they clearly felt for one another.

“So,” he said into the silence. “The reward was ‘Holy Fire’. What’s that?”

Flamagin grinned from within.

Power, my boy. Pure, unadulterated power.

“Any idea where we can find the fuel?”

We’re headed there as we speak—I’ve scanned your memories, and I’m taking us to the Armpit of New City.

As they traveled, Trey marveled at the colors and sensations of the world. The sun rose higher in the sky, and as it shone down between the concrete jungle that composed New City, he noted that he’d never seen it look quite so entrancing.

The sound of the Harley’s engine died, and his leg tickled as the carapace funnel or whatever retracted back beneath his skin.

He was in the industrial district of the city. Given the early hour, the street was completely empty.

Bad news, my boy, Flamagan said in Trey’s head.

“Oh? What’s that?”

We’ll be parting ways for the time being. I have an associate more suited to reconnaissance…