In the middle of a desert, a cylander of black smoke rose from a once pristine, 1968 Chevy Impala. Now, a burned-out shell of a car smoldered next to a tree still engulfed in flames. Sirens could be heard coming up the abandoned road, their lights broke through the fading sunlight like an emergency rave surrounded by dust kicked up by their speed. Behind the wheel of one of the police cruisers, a young woman prayed that either they would find someone dead or unharmed, but nothing in between. She had seen the results of accidents liks this, and knew that there were things no-one would want to or should live through.

She parked her Impala a distance from the wreckage and waited for the fire truck to pass before she stepped out. Her small hands tightened her blond ponytail and she pulled on a black uniform coat with a nametag that read S. Turner. Officer Turner took a deep breath and braced herself for the worse.

What she wasn't expecting was what she found near the car.

A young man lay unconscious two meters from the smoking vehicle, still breathing, but covered in black.

"Hey!" She called out to one of the firefighters. "I think we have someone for the burn ward!"

Two of the unformed firefighters broke from the four preparing to put out the flames and ran to the young man. One bent over him then paused and looked over to Officer Turner with wide eyes.

"He dosen't have any burns!"

Officer Turner blinked at him. "What?"<