False Gods | The Prime Archives #3 ✓

five

Oscar loved Los Angeles.

The weather was perfect year-round, there were tons of beaches to visit, and plenty of people spoke Spanish. He fit right into the large Latino population in the city. It was the perfect place for him to hide.

There was only one downside.

Atlas was everywhere.

He supposed he should've seen that coming when he first arrived in the city. After all, Los Angeles was one of the major metropolitan areas that were directly impacted by Kismet's Primonium-filled missiles five years ago. The cities that were hit had larger Prime reports than any other area. Thus, Atlas and their agents were crawling all over the place like pesky insects.

They walked the streets at night in their bright, white uniforms.

Oscar's stomach churned just at the thought of them.

Still, even with their presence, he felt like he had finally found a place worth staying. Moving to a new city after everything that had happened allowed him to rebrand himself. He wasn't Oscar—the broken kid who had lost everything. He wasn't Fuego—the loveable jokester who held the team together.

He was someone—something—else entirely now.

His brown eyes flickered to the shiny metal plate of the air conditioning unit he was crouched behind. A slightly warped version of his reflections stared back at him. His sooty hair was longer than ever. The thick strands, which often smelled of grease and ash, reached his chin. He kept in a ponytail most days, but for tonight, it was tied in the red bandana wrapped around his forehead.

The bandana, albeit not the best color choice to use in this part of the city, was sort of his signature. Much like his lighter, he never went anywhere without it.

The community knew him as the weird guy who slept under bridges and ate tacos at Omar's truck. He didn't talk to anyone and no one talked to him. They may not have known who he was, but they knew not to mess with him.

Much to his relief, no one had figured out his identity. Not yet, at least.

Though, there was one person who he was suspicious of. Apart from Omar at the taco truck, the only person he met with on a regular basis was Sister Maria—an old nun who occasionally let him sleep in her church. In return, he protected her from the local gangs in the area.

It was a good little setup, but he couldn't let Sister Maria find out who he was.

That would only put her in danger if Atlas ever found him.

Since he left Atlas, the media had painted him as a fugitive. They picked up on his moniker, even opting to call him the Raging Inferno at times. In their defense, his actions didn't give them much of a choice.

He kind of liked the attention.

At least now they seemed to care about him—even if they were trying to throw him into The Vault until he decayed into a pile of ash.

That wouldn't happen, though. He had no plans of getting caught. Atlas weren't a match for him. Not his old friends, not the new recruits, and certainly not those stupid Jaegers. They may have been a problem for a new Prime, but they were nothing more than a nuisance to him. One fireball to their shiny suits of armor and they were done for.

A smile tugged at Oscar's lips.

He enjoyed fighting them. He enjoyed seeing the fear in their eyes as he bathed them with his angry flames.

After all, they deserved it.

They were supposed to be his family. That's what Director Shaw said. But when things got dicey, they cut him loose like a fish in a protected pond. They didn't protect him—nor did they protect his real family.