"It was a pleasure to burn."
-Ray Bradbury
The golden-red tongues of the fires had reached their spiraling fingers to the sky, trying, always, trying to reach that one star, that one little flare in the heavens, but forever failing. So they would continue to reach and reach and reach, consuming everything around them to climb higher. Any flammable matter was sustenance. Any little hairs, a piece of cloth, left over's piling into trash. The fires enveloped everything, coating them in little red blankets, sparks as a pillow. In a way, they were parasites, really. Only one goal in mind, to reach higher, to spread out, to obtain that one thing, yet feeding off their host, choking it, burning it.
Dark blue eyes stared on into the chaos around him, watching those foolish enough to run from the still climbing, beautiful dance. For in a city, the music of the flame was louder than anywhere else. He reveled in it.
The eyes looked on, only one goal in mind. As he stepped forward into the flame, the beautiful dance paused, not shattering just yet, the arms still high, fingertips reaching, but they parted, the flames dancing around their master. And Ikki smiled. He was the master, and this beautiful dance was at his fingers.
Yes, it was a pleasure to burn.