Soleil

BREAKING: DEPOSED DUFRESNE HEIR SPOTTED IN THE WAKE OF MURDER SCENE.

He pinned the newspaper to the concrete ledge with a finely padded knee, a humid summer wind tugging at the headline with a fevered panic Alec Dufresne had not possessed in months. An eight-month-old picture grinned up at him, his clean-shaven face and golden curls greyed by the paper’s composition, bright blue eyes white on the page.

His brother stood behind him in a matching suit, beaming like he’d won the lottery. Their faces were so alike that it was a wonder this picture had not confused them like so many before.

They were not identical anymore. A burn marred the quarter of Bellamy’s face he covered with an elaborate gilded half-mask that matched the fine threads of his suit jackets and belt buckles; black and gold, Bellamy was. Sophistication and elegance.

Perched atop the Reina Medical building, Alec shone like a star, golden patterned cape billowing behind him, sunlight glinting off the fine metallic threads that connected the white stretches of his suit. Warmth seeped into his skin, and power burbled beneath the tips of his fingers.

It had been seven and a half months since Alec had been ejected from his company with the stench of charred flesh curling in his wake, tendrils of smoke marking their presence with every step. He had burnt through the lobby that day, had nearly killed five men - he’d seen that bit on the news a week later, when the search had calmed down just enough that he could traverse the city so long as he kept his head down.

Seven and a half months since he had taken the path of the comic book antihero - he was not above admitting it - and sank into his revenge. 

Bodies sprouted in his wake like weeds, each and every one in some way tied to his brother’s new empire; CEOs, construction workers, secretaries, delivery men. If they contributed to Bellamy’s stolen wealth, Alec cupped their face in the palm of his hand and let the sun boil in his veins, ruin the flesh and bone caught beneath his power.

They didn’t all perish. He was careful about that. If they were not a direct hindrance, they could live with their burns and move on with their lives. Alec may have taken a path linked to chaos, but he was not a monster.

He lifted his knee and the wind tore the newspaper from the concrete, dragging it halfway across the city before Alec could be bothered to follow it with his eyes. The yeasty scent of fresh-baked bread whipped past him, and he turned his gaze downward.

The city had always been split. For most of his life, Alec had enjoyed the fine white buildings and grandeur of the wealthy quarter, where men and women paid five-hundred dollars for a “cheap meal” and the thrum of a private helicopter miles overhead was met not with awe but with scoffs.

Of late he’d taken to the poor side of town, where a Dufresne would not be caught dead without the flash of cameras to light his way.

W’Éclair French Bakery sat somewhere in between, flanked by modest brick buildings decorated with arrays of colorful flowers. The people did not smell of rot, nor did they smell of gold-soaked roses. It was, Alec thought, quite nice. It was also the hideout of a man named Robert Calnan, bakery co-owner and one of Bellamy’s stooges. 

Alec stepped off the roof, the wind pounding his eardrums as he plummeted to earth. He landed softly on a fuzzy halo of golden light that dissipated against the pavement. What few people were near enough to notice him did little more than leap back and rub their eyes. Apathy was a symptom of life in the city of Kolnak.

He remembered Robert Calnan well. In the years before the death of their father, he had handled an alarming amount of the Dufresne business, from finances to files, things far beyond his station as an accountant.

A bell jangled over Alec’s head and Calnan lifted his gaze from a thick ledger. He was much the same as Alec recalled; mid-50s, short, a bit of a gut, hazel-green eyes and a receding blond hairline. Those eyes bulged from his head at the sight of Alec Dufresne in full super regalia, ivory suit shrouded in buttery sunlight.

“But you-”

“Those papers are not printed by the person,” Alec interrupted. “It is only Breaking when it's written, Robbie.”

A glass counter occupied the length of one wall, an assortment of brightly-colored baked goods peering up at him like grass to the sky. The air was sweet, heavy with the scent of sugar and chocolate and fruit. 

Alec dragged one finger along the display, glass reddening beneath his overheated touch. 

“Where do you find the time to make all of this?” He asked, flicking the pane over a row of pastries labelled Long John donuts. So much for French bakery. “Your ovens must be the size of coffins.”

Calnan laughed nervously, closing the ledger with a trembling hand. Excitement pulsed through Alec.

“Mr. Dufresne, I-”

“They call me Soleil now,” Alec interrupted. “It’s a bit effeminate, but I like it. Soleil. Sun. I could raze the Earth if I wanted to, Rob. I could burn it all down. But I won’t.”

He turned away from the sweets, a white smile on his pretty face. Fair stubble lined his jaw, but he knew he looked unmistakably refined, he always had.

“Mr. Du- Soleil, please. What do you want? What can I give you? I have money in the bank, if that’s what you’re looking for. I could provide a safehouse for you, something hidden - a bunker!”

Alec paused at that, brows lifting high into his forehead.

“No,” he said, tapping the glass display. Cracks spiderwebbed from the tip of his finger, a hot yellow glow ensnaring an elegant hand. “I don’t want a place to hide. I’m not like my brother, if I’m allowed to call him that now.”

The distance narrowed between them, the counter Calnan’s only barricade against Alec’s impending hellstorm.

“You know that he didn’t want it like this,” Calnan said, backing against the wall. A door swung open directly to his right, tugging Alec’s attention from his prey to the woman bearing a sheet of sweet-smelling pastries. Chausson aux pommes, Alec’s brain said, and his brain lit up.

He was eight years old and his mother had not yet left. His hair was long, the yellow of tossed hay, and curled near his shoulders like a fairy tale prince. Mon petit roi, she said and smoothed his forelock behind his ear. Bellamy stood next to him, a half-inch shorter and bald as the day he was born, his mane matted with gum in the bathroom trash can. Alec’s fault, but not intentionally.

“What about me?” Bellamy said, and Mother leaned over and pressed a kiss to his bald head. 

“Mon plus petit roi,” she said, and he exclaimed hey!

Alec clambered onto the counter, sitting a bare inch from a tray of fluffy triangular pastries oozing thick, sweet-smelling golden cider. He reached for one and Mother smacked him on the back of his little hand, earning a yap of pain for her efforts.

“They’re hot, Alexis!”

He rubbed the back of his hand, blue eyes wide in an expression begetting pity, while Bellamy hauled himself up next to Alec with a series of clumsy grunts.

“What are they?” He asked. “They look like hot pockets. Are they dessert hot pockets?”

“Oh, the things your father has taught you. No, Alexis. They’re chausson aux pommes.”

“Apple… apple… slippers? They don’t smell like feet, though. They smell really good.”

Mother laughed, the sound like an expensive piano. Early-morning sunlight filtered through the window and ignited her long blonde hair. Alec knew in his heart that she was the most beautiful woman alive, that she always would be. 

“You would call them apple turnovers,” she said, running her fingers through Alec’s hair. “And you would love them.”

Alec beamed. “Well, when do I get to try them?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. 

“Let them cool or you’ll burn your little tongue.”

“Who are you?” Alec demanded of the woman. She wore a wedding band identical to Calnan’s; he knew before he had asked the question, and nodded when the woman stammered an affirmative.

“Get out,” he said. “Now. Don’t come back.”

“Wait-” Calnan began, and screeched to a halt when Alec snarled at him. Mrs. Calnan fled the building, the little bell over the door jingling through her sobs.

Alec lurched forward, hand gripping Calnan’s jaw with strength a human man could not possess; he squeezed until the bone creaked, individual cells snapping beneath the force. Heat flowed through his fingertips, dyeing a growing patch of Calnan’s face dangerous red.

“Which do you value more, Robert? This building or this life?”

Words slid against Alec’s thumb, caught beneath the digit like a rabbit in a snare. Calnan’s eyes seemed about to burst from his skull, so Alec squeezed him tighter, flames licking dark stubble and burnt skin, searing Calnan like a stuck pig.

The flames spread, overtaking hair and bone, burning through the ledger like kindling, melting the cash register, the glass, chewing through the baked goods and consuming screams within its crackling laughter.

The sickly-sweet smell of roasted meat and burnt desserts filled Alec’s nostrils, above all the faint tickle of apple. Anger stoked the flames pulsing around him like a living thing. He snapped his hand into a blood-soaked fist, and the building came down around him with a deafening boom!

BREAKING: DISGRACED ALEC DUFRESNE BURNS MAN ALIVE, ESCAPES THE WRECKAGE. REMAIN ON HIGH ALERT.