A/N: I hate Amanda. She's such a little Mary Sue. But I was distressed that, if they were going to introduce Lydia's daughter, that they wouldn't even give her some time on-air to grieve her mother's death. Therefore... this.

When the shooting began, she dove under a trailer for cover, cowering as the bullets off the metal hide of her shelter. The shots have fallen silent now, but she continues to lay there, shaking in terror. With difficulty, she suppresses the heat that rises throughout her as a reaction to the fear.

For some time- she doesn't know how long- she stays beneath the trailer. As long as she stays out of sight, she'll be safe. But then Doyle, the puppet master, trundles past her hiding place, wheezing slightly as he runs. Poking her head out from beneath the trailer, she sees that Doyle is following that blonde girl, the one her mother called Claire. As she extracts herself from her shelter, more people run past, and she catches snatches of conversation that make her heart accelerate and her temperature to rise in distress.

"...will we do if she doesn't pull through?"

"You can't mean..."

"...Eli brought him in..."

"...firing from the hilltop, wasn't he?"

"...first aid for The Painted Lady..."

"Damn agents!"

"...Lydia's been hit!"

At that, her feet seem to suddenly be far ahead of her body, hair flying behind her and the beating of her heart grows so loud behind her ears that the crying and the noise of the Carnival fade into the muted silence beyond her. Each pulse through her veins seems to raise her panic and she is struggling now to control the fire building in her... but she has to. They could be wrong. They have to be wrong.

But as she launches into the open area that is the focal point of the carnival, she sees that they aren't wrong. The first thing she sees is the white dress.

"Mom!" she screams. "Mom!"

Blood. There's lots of blood, running sluggishly from the perfect circular wound in her mother's chest. That's good, right? If the blood's still flowing, it means her heart is still beating... right? She throws herself down next to her mother, pressing her hands against the hole, trying to hold the life in...

"Amanda, darling. It's too late," says Samuel's comforting voice.

Hands on her shoulders, pulling her away.

Enfolded in Samuel's arms.

Tears spilling over.

Heat building in her.

Samuel jerks away, burned by her broiling skin.

"Who did this?" she demands, heedless of the streaks of mascara that are surely smeared across her face.

He looks at her thoughtfully. "Would you like to face your mother's murderer?"

There is nothing she would like more. He takes her shoulders again, leading her away from where Doyle is gently laying a blanket over her mother's cooling body. She stumbles numbly across the trampled, yellowing field, vaguely aware that she is being led to Samuel's trailer. She doesn't question it. All her energy is directed inwards, trying to channel ice into the heart of her fire; her mother wouldn't want her to lose all the control she's gained over the past couple of weeks in one second.

And then Samuel is pushing her into the trailer and slamming the door shut behind her.

Rather than allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness within, she lights a ball of flame on the portable stove. The flickering light glints off long blonde hair... and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. She knows these two. Claire. And her father, the agent whose presence Samuel feared so much.

She remembers having lunch with Claire while she stayed here. The pretty blonde smiled at her, passed her the salt. How could she do that, knowing all the while that she was going to come back with the intent of killing... of killing her mother? How could she look her in the eyes and smile. How could she even show her face? What kind of person would do that?

"Murderer!" she hisses.

The tears on her cheeks explode in a burst of steam as her skin superheats.

The trailer bursts into flames all around them.

The unconscious agent groans as his suit catches fire.

Claire beats at the flames. It doesn't help.

And then the fire turns inward as her anguish does.

Burning.

She is on fire. Burning up from the inside.

She reels toward a glint of metal, something sleek and industrial and cool-looking on the wall of the trailer.

"No, Amanda, the gas--!" Claire yells.

And suddenly it's too much.

Claire collides with her, slamming her to the ground.

The pain of the impact is distant.

The fire explodes outward, but Claire isn't affected.

And then...

Dark.

Flames extinguished.

Claire stands up as her charred skin repairs itself, staring down at the hollowed-out body beneath her. As the glowing light within the teenage girl fades away, the flames around the trailer also fade to mere coals and occasional matchstick fires. She bends down to check Amanda's pulse, but there is none. Her fire turned on her at last.

The trailer door bursts open.

Samuel's voice.

"They've killed Amanda!" he cries. "Murderers!" But his eyes are fixed on Claire as he says it, and she knows. He wanted this to happen. There were some people in the Carnival- maybe Doyle, even- who were sympathetic to her. But not now. Not ever again.

Claire feels the ground vibrate beneath her feet.