Back in the old days, It was a simpler, colder existence. A child grows like a raggedy wild weed in the scratchy, bitter air. The factory smoke rose above the clouds, it's billowy black smoke reaching the nose of the sky, only to be swatted away by the breeze.
The child couldn't play with the other children. He wasn't very strong, but he threw rocks everyday to practice. His legs became faster, his arms bigger, and one day, He opened the factory garage with a mighty heave of his dead father's fire ax. The lock was cracked in two, sitting on the gravel below his worn boots. He made his way to the gas room. He turned the rusty old valves, the tangy smell of invisible poison filling the air. He coughed, and climbed to the roof. He broke the glass skylight to the gas-filled factory floor.
He lit the match, and it flew down, igniting the air. The factory held no casualties, but one life was ruined. The young man was taken to a colder, darker place. He missed the warmth. He missed his creation, the blazing ball of fire that sat in the middle of the industrial district. He was driven away to where he couldn't see it, the white smoke disappearing over the barred horizon.
His hands were unshackled, and he was thrown into a cell, the floor was cold. All of it cold. Food was cold, the light was cold, the people made of ice. Ready to stab with whatever they could sharpen on the colder stone.
No one came to see him.
Then, there was the purple lady. Such a sweet smile, warm hands, no shackles, no cold about her. She had short, bobby hair, and she was fast, without effort.
There were colors of red on the walls, the blue uniforms and gold badges soaked with bright maroon. How warm it looked. The lady took his hand.
She led him out of that cold, concrete cell, the walls covered with cold, artificial colors of crayon. Rainbows and unicorns, flowers and cotton candy trees, with pink grass.
She led him out to the warm sun, to the car. And soon, they arrived to a place with more sun. He was the first one there.
Given a black mask, and a large suit, he set out to make the world warmer everyday. That warm sun heating those bright shades of red that spilled over the walls.
He dreamed of those memories, dreams of colder days. He woke with a "Pyro! wake on up, we gotta get goin'!" The friendly voice lifted him out into the warmer days. He hugged that voice, it spoke kindly to him. He wanted to make the world warmer for that voice. For that yellow hat. For that white smile, for the colors. He would make it right. Never another cold day.
Never.