Wow, it's been some time since I last wrote something... Anyways, since I'm currently addicted to Team Fortress, I ended coming up with this lil' headcanon for the BLU Pyro. I know there are a lot of headcanons for his/her past out there, but I wanted to put up mine as well XD So anyways, hope you guys enjoy! imighttranslatethistoportugu eselateridunno
Also, Team Fortress belongs to Valve u.u
I was never normal. Ever since I was a kid, I was never normal. Other kids wouldn't approach me. They were afraid of me. My own parents were afraid of me. I didn't understand why, but they avoided me all they could. Daddy and mommy would cry when they thought I wasn't listening. The thing is, I didn't understand why they were so afraid of me.
We lived in a really small town in England, so small that I don't even remember its name. It was so small that everyone that lived in it knew eachother's names. In my younger days, it felt nice when mommy, daddy and I went walking around the streets, and people would greet us. "Hello, little Gabriel," they'd say cheerfully to me. I was happy. Happy that people liked me, happy that people noticed me and appreciated my presence. Until things happened, that is. I was happy...
I always liked fire. The way it cackled, the way it shone brightly, the way it engulfed everything in its path in consuming flames. It always dazzled me. I could spend all day long sitting in front of a fireplace, watching intently the way the fire crepitated, licking at the wood logs under its mighty fiery presence. I would watch the sparkling, minimal presence of the embers arising, as the light of the fireplace contrasted against the night sky. It was really pretty. No, I'd say it was beautiful!
I got burned a lot too. I'd steal my daddy's lighter when he wasn't looking. I'd flick it open and giggle as I played with the pretty little fire that materialized from it. My fingers were always burnt, always black and sore, and daddy would always find me playing with his lighter and scold me for what seemed like hours. He would tell me that stealing was bad. "But it's not stealing 'cuz I was going to give it back!" I said. He never listened to me, though, and sometimes I got spanked too. But then I'd always go and steal his lighter again when he wasn't looking.
Soon it wasn't just lighters. I would lit a homemade torch that I'd made myself in my room and go around the streets waving it. I burned a few people too. It was all an accident, but it never prevented me from getting a spanking from daddy. Then I'd steal daddy's lighter again and burn things up for fun. Papers, cardboard, everything. Then I found out about how gasoline and fire worked great together, so I started burning bigger things. I burned furniture, bicycles, even cars. People were approaching me less and less. I was always covered in burned patches of skin, always with scraped shoulders and elbows, always with a smile on my face. They told me it was a scary smile, like a 'psycho' one. But it wasn't! It was a genuine smile at watching the beauty and sheer power of the natural element I loved so much doing its job at incinerating things.
I was always so proud of myself when I worked with fire. But daddy and mommy never were proud of me. I started craving their love, their approval, so I started doing bigger projects, burning bigger things, trying to astonish them with the beauty of bigger flames. But they never understood the beauty of fire. They'd just scold me, spank me, tell me that fire was from a place called 'Hell'. And that I was a ' demon' or something for liking it so much. They didn't want to look me in the eye. So much that they put a paper bag on my face, with nothing on it but two little holes so I could see through it. Even if it burned, they'd put a new one on me and would tell me; no, demand from me, that I never took it off, ever. They didn't want to see my face, they didn't want other people to see my face. They were ashamed of me. They were afraid of me.
They'd tell me 'Hell' was a place full of bad people and that it was where sinful people would go after they died. I never understood why a place full of fire would be considered a curse, though. It had fire everywhere from what they told me. It should be a beautiful place. Then they told me that the place where good people went was called 'Heaven', and that there were lots of winged people there called 'angels'. It didn't sound as fun as 'Hell' though, from what they told me. No fire; only clouds and more clouds. It was a place where good people went though, so maybe it wasn't as bad as it sounded.
But they called me a 'demon' everyday, told me I'd go to 'Hell' because I was a bad boy. Told me I'd never get presents from Santa because I was a naughty boy. I was a bad boy. I was a 'demon' boy. There was one point where they stopped calling me Gabriel and just started calling me 'demon'. I was so afraid. I'd hear them cry at night. I didn't want to be a bad person! I wanted to be good, to make mommy and daddy proud, to prove to everyone I wasn't mean, that I wasn't someone to be afraid of!
That… never happened, though.
There was one day where I was playing in the backyard with some gasoline and daddy's lighter, when a really, really tall, thin, ugly woman came up to me. Daddy and mommy were behind her, crying. She told me she was a 'social assistant' and that she was gonna take me away from daddy and mommy. But I didn't want to be taken away! I loved my parents. That bad woman wouldn't take me away from them. I wouldn't let her.
So I protected myself from the ugly woman's grasp in the only way I could at the time. The gasoline and the lighter were what I used as weapons. I watched as the woman burst into flames, in a way more beautiful than any other flaming thing I'd ever seen. The smell of the burning flesh was different from the smell of burning steel, of burning paper. It was… pretty bad, actually. But the way that silhouette, blackened in contrast to the bright crimson light, twitched and twisted and turned in harsh, sudden, spastic movements… It was wonderful. It was different from burning paper. It reacted, it agonized. It was beautiful.
I thought I'd done a good thing. I'd sent a bad person to 'Hell'. She was trying to take me away from my family. She was a bad woman and deserved to be punished. But then I noticed my parents were shocked, more than I'd ever seen them be before. Then I noticed the charred form of the woman, splayed on the floor, unmoving.
Then it clicked.
Daddy and mommy would tell me that some things were unforgivable and were a guaranteed passage to 'Hell'. And killing was one of them.
I was a killer. I was a 'demon'.
When they yelled at me, insulted me, I ran. And the tears that flowed through my face stained the ochre surface of the burnt paperbag. I was ashamed of myself. I didn't want to take that paperbag off ever, ever again. I didn't want anyone to see me. I didn't want daddy and mommy to see me.
I never went home again after that day. People were completely afraid of me then. They would run away from me. They would look at me with disgust. They would call me 'demon', 'monster', 'murderer'. Some people even called me 'pyromaniac', or 'pyro' for short.
But that wasn't right. I was Gabriel. It's the name of an angel. I had to be an angel. I couldn't be a demon.
It took me several years to embrace my pyromania, to start using it to my advantage, to get a job as a mercenary on Builders League United where I could benefit from it. Where I could watch the flames engulf my opponents and watch their violent reaction to it, in a spastic, yet graceful dance of death. In the BLU team, people didn't judge me for what I was. None of them were 'normal'. They were all 'demons'. Like me. Most people outside of that place would call each and every one of us insane, mentally unstable at best.
But then again. I was never normal. Ever since I was a kid, I was never normal.