She was 16 when Miss Pauling found her.
Exploring the slums of New York, shoplifting lighters from stores and bunking in abandoned sheds, she had spent most of her life alone. Only her fire could warm the cold inside her.
No friends, no family left.
Mann Co. took notice of her after the fifth incident, the stadium fire. She had found a couple cans of gas in an old barn. She couldn't help it. She didn't think there was anybody inside; after all, the place looked abandoned enough.
So she stood, watching the pillars of smoke rise from the crumbling, old wooden structure, breathing in the scent of smoke from a safe distance, and she felt a curl of excitement in her gut; one that made her want to leap about and dance and sing and shout at the top of her lungs. She hadn't truly felt like that in a long time.
It was a while before the sounds of sirens filled the air, louder than the crackling flames. Then, she fled. Running as fast as her legs and smoke-stained lungs would allow, until she could no longer hear anything except her own breath, could barely see the smoke rising, reaching to the sky.
And she felt alive.
She sat next to Miss Pauling on the private Mann Co. train stocked full of crates and supplies, heading toward the RED team's base, staring out the window at the dry landscape and listening to Miss Pauling talk about the other team members.
After travelling across several states, she was exhausted, and could barely keep her mind focused on what Miss Pauling was saying.
She admired the woman, who was short and slim in stature, well-mannered and friendly, but still held a fire in her eyes and could probably kill a man with her thumb. She couldn't help but compare her own broad shoulders, thick thighs, and ungraceful form to Miss Pauling's petite and delicate frame, but that envy did nothing to stop her stomach from fluttering every time Miss Pauling's green eyes sparkled from excitement, or she adjusted her thick-framed glasses or swept a stray piece of black hair behind her ear.
A large canvas bag landed on her lap and she startled slightly before looking up, shocked out of her daydream.
"You should get changed into your uniform before we reach the base. It's not mandatory, but everybody tends to wear their uniforms around during the day." The woman told her, speaking in a matter-of-fact but still somehow polite and friendly tone. The newly-appointed Pyro stood up, smoothed down her hair and tried to hide the blush on her face before tucking the bag under her arm and heading off for the cramped restroom at the end of the carriage.
She sat the bag down on the toilet seat, unzipping it and reaching inside. She pulled out a rubbery grey gasmask and admired it for a second, letting the harsh bathroom light reflect off the dark-tinted lenses before pulling it over her head.
The rubbery material felt strange but not quite uncomfortable on her face, and she looked in the dented bathroom mirror.
Dark lenses belonging to a grey, featureless face stared back at her. This was who she was now. And it felt right.