Laying an egg turns out to be significantly more comfortable than advertised. She loses hold of the fire again, this time not in fear but in pleasure; the feeling of the egg sliding out of her womb is like a long, intense orgasm, and it exhausts her enough that for a minute or two afterward she doesn't even feel up to opening her eyes and looking around to see what else is on fire.
When she does, it's actually not that bad; a few more things are scorched, but the only actual visible flames are the ones she's already seen. She sits up and looks at her new slime egg, resting on the floor in a puddle of clear sticky fluid. Its lifeforce is nearly the same as hers, marbled red-black without the trace of gold or the aura of fire. A simple mental command splits the shell and sends the blob of dark red goo slurping across her floor. Controlling it is as easy and intuitive as moving her own limbs. She rolls it in a circle, has it consume its own eggshell for sustenance, then blobs it along to the scorched and slime-soaked fragments of her desk and has it start eating those. By the time it reaches the burning papers, it's the size of a largish teddy bear and capable of rolling right over the fire without hardly having to stretch. She sends it to the laundry basket next, feeds it all the clothes with holes burned through them but has it leave the intact ones alone, then has it climb the dresser to the burning corner and put that out, and finally sends it over to her bed to smother the burning blanket.
There. Good. No more fire, and a means of controlling further fires that's significantly more workable than 'sit in a bathtub for the rest of her life'.
As for the rest of those images - she examines them again, nicknaming them in her head. Tank for the thing like a mammoth crossed with a triceratops crossed with something out of Lovecraft. Warhorse for the hoofed thing with crocodile skin and ram horns and hyena teeth. Tunneler for the worm-lizard with a face like industrial mining equipment. Leviathan for the snake with fins and a dragon's head. Imp for the long-limbed bat-winged hairless demonic monkey. And the goo... she rolls it across the floor toward her and pokes it with her finger. Its outer surface hardens at her command, lightening to a rocky reddish-pink; then the goo underneath consumes the hardened skin and rounds itself back into a uniform blob. Useful, malleable, multipurpose. She thinks she'll call it Clay.
She is definitely in no hurry to lay a Tank egg, but Tunnelers look like they could be legitimately useful, with those heavy three-part jaws full of hard rock-chewing teeth. If they're as good at digging as they look... well, she's not going to be fit for human society if she can't stop setting things on fire. She and a Tunneler and a blob of Clay could all fuck off underground and find or dig a nice little cave for her to live in, assuming she can find usable sources of food and water. Is Clay edible...? Let's not test that just yet.
There's another page in the mental booklet of egg options. She flips forward from Clay and finds herself looking at a mental image of... herself.
...if she clones herself, does she get a little baby twin, or...? Will it turn out like the Clay and be totally under her control? A little mind-controlled baby twin?
If she clones herself and gets a true duplicate, though, a second Naomi identical both physically and mentally to the first... the Clay doesn't seem to have any problems with pyrokinetic incontinence. Maybe a second Naomi could escape her fiery curse.
She decides she doesn't feel quite hopeless enough to try that yet. Maybe she can start a little smaller, make one of the other creatures whose adult size would be easily concealed inside her apartment, see how long they take to grow up and whether they have any detectable independence.
...maybe she won't try that right away. She makes an effort to clean up her room instead, sending her Clay around to eat broken things and slurp slime blood out of the carpet. It has trouble digesting the ceramic of the broken plate, but manages wood and rubber and plastic and spilled ink just fine; and it does get through the plate, just very very slowly.
Okay, now that her bedroom is more or less vaguely clean, she should protect it as best she can against further outbursts. She has enough Clay now to form it into a hard-shelled nest, its high curved walls hopefully sufficient to block any involuntary emissions; she puts it under a broad splash of slime blood on the ceiling, which although unpleasantly drippy will provide some protection against any escaping flame blasts. Then she curls up in a puddle of surprisingly comfortable goo and spends a very long time quietly crying. She doesn't seem to get hungry or thirsty, and although she's exhausted she is very reluctant to sleep given what happened the last couple of times.
The ceiling gets lighter, then darker. Intermittent flame blasts splash harmlessly against her hardened Clay walls. Eventually she is tired enough to sleep despite her well-founded worries.