Aberdyf hates their local supervillain.

At least, that is the claim made the city. WANTED: FIREBLOOD, ALIVE. HER CAPTURE: $15,000 REWARD. The graffitis of Fireblood across the bricks, her slasher grin cut wide and true, like milk and honey in her teeth. The whispers of Fireblood's name on the streets, like a manic spectre giddy and giddier to reap.

Was there any surprise why? Fireblood is, like her name, a firebrand. She would do what she wanted, wherever and whenever she wanted.

"This is my show!" Fireblood cackled, that month before May. "An' I ain't letting y'all off easy."

Fireblood's glitter-bomb descended across Aberdyf. It resulted in many irritated businessmen, cursing at the incessant sparkles that would never get out of their suit, rounds of dry-cleaning be damned.

That was one of the many events Fireblood stole the city with. The Glitter Bomb. The Great Unleash of the Shelter Puppies. The Helping Grandmas Cross the Street in a Wicked Way Day. Her philosophy was tried and true: make chaos, and make it delightful.

The state didn't see it that way.

"We've had enough of Aberdyf's asinine villain. Bring someone in to finish her off."

That month after May, a new superhero came to town. Her name was Desolation and she was devastating. Dark, sculpted to perfection, with a nightingale necklace hanging from her throat. To call her destruction incarnate would be underselling it. The state knew her as a solitary spectre, a thing more machine than man. If there was anyone that would put a stop to Fireblood's schemes, it would be her.

Fireblood's first scheme after Desolation's arrival was that of flowers. She bought a store's worth of roses and threw them out on the streets, spelling out a "HI, DESOLATION!!!" out in the road. Upon the next street was: "CAN WE BE FRIENDS?"

There was never an answer. But the next scheme came—this time in June—and Fireblood made stars. She decorated the skyscrapers and the antennas with strands and strands of smiley stars. When night came, the glow doused the night: like fireflies.

(They tried to get Fireblood for public desecration of property. But the processing papers suddenly went missing, the next day. To this day, nobody knows who did it; but there were rumours of the flash of a dark cape, twisting out of the precinct.)

July. Firework displays. August. Turtle Day. September. Light Up The Skylight.

Each was attended by Aberdyf and Fireblood herself, her grin and gloat the same: "This is my show!" But there was something a little different about Fireblood's antics. They became extra showy.

The fireworks contorted into hearts and grins and other ridiculous shapes. The turtles carried on them crayon hearts on their shells, every single one of the hundreds. The skylight spelled out an announcement. THIS IS FIREBLOOD SPEAKING, it said. THANKS FOR BEIN' MY FRIEND!

September drew the attention of the state. They called in Aberdyf to ask about Desolation. Whether she was faring well against their most notorious villain. Why, Aberdyf replied. Desolation couldn't have done a better job.

On October, Desolation didn't show up to Fireblood's grand Free Candy To All villainy. Desolation was, in fact, sick at home: nursing a cough and a terrible case of flashbacks. (Tragic backstory-related; don't ask.)

Upon the next day, a sizeable stash of Fireblood's own gains from the event was missing. (Some say they saw Fireblood enter a house, to which a winded cough came from, with four rucksack-fulls of candy bags. Fireblood came out empty-handed with a stupid grin on her lips.)

November was the resumption of Fireblood and Desolation's usual dance. That is: Fireblood showed up to dazzle the whole of Aberdyf with her voice through an extra-sonic mic, and Desolation, as always, was conspicuously missing.

Curiously, November was when Fireblood's catchphrase changed. "This is my show!" turned into "This is our show!" Few out of the city took note. They believed it to be of little importance. Barely worth Aberdyf's headlines. But Aberdyf knew that Fireblood had fallen, and fallen deep.

In December, Fireblood made cardboard boxes of fake presents and left them under Aberdyf's many, many trees. In December, a dark hero with a nightingale necklace finally descended between Fireblood's path.

In her hands was a rose, twined with a tag.

"Happy holidays, Fireblood."

Thank you for your friendship — Desolation.

So it is fair to say: Aberdyf hates their local supervillain. They hate her so that there is a celebration every year, called Phoenix Season. There, artists take the streets like vigilantes take to patrol. Their brushes twist on the bricks. From the events 12-months past, they create. The stupid-wide grin. The sparkle in her eyes. The pretty mania of her mouth. The fireworks going off. The eureka insanities. The graffitis of Fireblood's dance.

The first time I met Sarah Coopers was when she tried to rob a bank. She entered in full Flame Witch costume, the one with her instagram and twitter handles across her back. She spent the longest time setting up a Rube Goldberg machine in the lobby that terminated by shooting fireworks at the sprinkler system. The fireworks missed, of course, and ended up surprising a kid on her fifth birthday. The crowd applauded and the Flame Witch sulked her way out of the bank after refusing a tip from the kid's mom.

The second time I met Sarah Coopers, fine, the Flame Witch, was when she tried to rob me in the middle of Times Square using only a lighter and a ball of twine. I let her tie me up, and when she messed up the knots, people from the growing crowd stepped in to help. Then, she threatened to set the rope on fire, but discovered her lighter was empty. The rain would have made it difficult anyway.

As she tried to light the lighter with its nonexistent fuel, I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. To my surprise, she laughed too.

Sarah untied me, red either from embarrassment or her Flame Witch makeup. I offered her the money in my wallet, a single twenty, but she refused. Neither of us had an umbrella, and by then we were soaked. At least let me buy you dinner for the effort, I said. She said okay.

We ate at the diner, and those eggs and hash browns warmed us up like hot coals. She told me how she first learned card tricks from her mother, who raised her alone after her father pulled a disappearing trick by stepping in front of an oncoming semi. Sarah grew up thinking her mother had superpowers, and that Sarah might also get them one day. When Sarah discovered her mother was just a stage magician, and not one of the many superheroes and villains she idolized, she was crushed. She ran away from school to find herself, and her mother died in a gas explosion before she found Sarah.

That was when the Flame Witch was born.

What about you, Sarah said. I told Sarah about my superpower. It wasn't an impressive one, I warned her. I had the ability to be at the right place and the right time. For what, I never knew, but I'd usually figure it out after the fact. One time I'd bought bubblegum at the convenience store that sold the 1.2 billion dollar lotto ticket.

That's not very useful, she said, laughing like a flickering fireplace. Her messy red hair had grown wavy as it dried.

At least I get front row seats to a performance, I replied, even though I don't realize what I'm there to see.

Do you ever get it right, she asked. Do you ever know why you're there, and what you're meant to do?

Sometimes, I replied. I was beginning to think this was one of those times.

After talking for long time, we parted.

The third time I met the Flame Witch was on our wedding day. She tried to steal something that already belonged to her.

Okay, she accidentally set fire to the table cloth too. But I don't tell people that part.

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