Hello, people, and thanks for checking this out. Having a few things I'm working on already, plus having a bit of author's block plaguing me, I doubt that I'll actually be able to finish this... but oh well, I'll give it a try.
Underlined words, other than chapter names, are muffled.
'He' and related pronouns relate to Pyro only.
On Fireworks and Rainbows
The crayon scrabbled with the elegance of a bumbling moth over the half-crumbled page, leaving behind a crooked arc of red.
He paused, cocking his head to one side, before grabbing up a different crayon and dragging out an equally crooked line of orange underneath.
Yellow and green soon followed, but, finding no stick of blue, he reluctantly skipped it over and bashed out a trail of purple, then stepped back to admire his own work.
The rainbow was done. Aching with the absence of blue, but done.
He proceeded to sign it before taping it on his wall, where a quilt of equally childish drawings resided.
Pyro
It was a nickname of sorts, really. He never really understood what the word really meant, but as his old name was lost among the labyrinth of chaotic rooms in his brain –and would probably bring back unwanted memories- he accepted.
The nickname brought out a comforting, familial vibe when said amongst his friends, even though he had seen some of them cringe at the mention. He didn't really mind. After all, he was the less bizarre out of all of them.
There was a gentle rapping at the chocolate door, followed by a familiar innocent voice of a child.
"Pyro? Ya still awake? 'S eleven, and it's gonna be a long day ahead. Sleep well, buddy."
"Goodnight!" he called past the door to Engie, voice slightly muffled from the combination of the gas mask plastering his face and the plastic tube filling his mouth.
Filled his mouth.
He snapped the light shut, edged into the candyfloss of a bed, took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
Rule one: Never open eyes while the mask is off or being taken off, even partially.
He fumbled behind his back, sliding off and screwing shut the pink-and-white gas cylinder that provided him with energy, gasping as the sickening sweet smell and taste of almonds slipped into a tight nothingness.
Rule two: Conserve the chemical mixture while sleeping, or it would only cause hallucinations.
Rule three: The mask connects to the gas cylinder. Do not disconnect.
The rest was easy, but had to be done fast.
He screwed open the mouth of the gas mask, coughing as the plastic tube slid out of his mouth. Oxygen was bitter, and the transition between the airs he breathed was something he would never get used to.
He pocketed the plastic opening and embraced sleep.
Fireworks were just like rainbows in a way; they soared through the sky, shone in a spectrum of colours before fizzling into nothing.
On the other hand, fireworks dominate a clear night while rainbows dominate a drizzling day.
And fireworks were destructive; their dynamic entrances real and hazardous, while rainbows were optical illusions, tricks of the light.
Despite that, he loved them both.
He grinned hopefully as his new invention flew into the dome of the night sky, blooming into a colourful chrysanthemum before drifting slowly back as nothing but gunpowder and dust around him.
For a moment, there was blissful silence; he was going to succeed, he knew it; he had to.
Then dust suddenly ignited, spiralling in a fiery blaze, forming into a recognisable figure, a burn-scarred face screwed into a dark expression. Nonononono…
"Asesino," the flames spat, pouncing onto him before he could react, the arms strangling his neck, corroding the unmarred skin, his face burning, smothered.
He was dying, and there was no respawn, no cupcakes, no Medic.
The differences between fireworks and rainbows were huge… how was he ever so blind?
He did not like fireworks, not at all.
"MAGGOTS! UP!"
He was jolted awake by a bolt of a bellow, instinctively screwing his eyes against the temptation to be opened. It was easy to forget just how loud Soldier was when the gas was off.
He screwed on the mouth of the gas mask and activated the gas cylinder, waiting until the sickening sweetness in his mouth and nose became almost unbearable before opening his eyes and reuniting with his pink-tinged wonderland.
His team of warped looking figures were already chatting away in their helium voices at the sorry excuse of a 'dining table' as he slumped in.
When he first joint RED, the gas was absolutely intoxicating. And from his porridge-like memory, he vaguely remembered that everyone were more-or-less cherubs. He had no idea what was achieved playing with the opposing team, BLU, who were just as harmless. Or so he assumed.
A few weeks, months, maybe even years later –time did not appeal to his memory- he probably had accidently disconnected the gas mask from the cylinder and released a chunk of whatever chemicals there were into the air, because since then, everyone became full-sized like him, but twisted caricatures of what they must have been.
He must have took some time getting used to the new appearance of his chipmunk-voiced comrades, and he must have took even more time to realise that the opposition were all imps who would kill him (learnt that the hard way) if he did not play with them.
Luckily nobody ever was bored of his toys.
They were such idiotas to call rainbows 'fire'.
He would never play with such a dangerous element again.
He mumbled a greeting as he found a spare seat, grabbing a platter of thankfully edible food. As soon as his teammates resumed their conversation, he closed his eyes, shut off the gas cylinder and quickly screwed open the mouth of his mask without tasting the air, savouring the flavour of sizzling Texan steak- one of Engie's best recipes.
Today's little friendship/injury contest would be due a little past 10am at 2Fort, Teufort, a capture-the-Intel competition where two opposing castles in team colours would be the fort bases of RED and BLU respectively. He would have little time to prepare himself before the whole team walks to the
As soon as he finished screwing the mask back together, he hurried away into the lobby to grab his favourite instrument, the Rainblower, brass trumpets wound past a little vial of pink liquid. He chuckled, fingering the familiar triggers and handholds as he trod off to the training room.
He was glad he could create and admire rainbows in this dreamscape.
He was glad that he had the ability to befriend even the BLUs.
Most of all, he was glad that he did not need to encounter fire everyday anymore.
... And let the irony roll!