The emotion that have permeated most of her life. It was fear she felt most of her childhood.
The room was pitch black. No moon, no stars, no lights even the dim light of street faroles seeping through the window seemed a foreign idea. It was also so very silent. No whispers of teamates doing late night activities, of crazed experiments, of a texan voice cursing about a failed machinery or a insuferable bostonian rambling; there was only the sound of one unneverved breathing as a pair of nevous eyes searched the room trying to see trough the darkness and at the same time afraid of doing so, of finding the very object of their search. The air was getting hevier, polluted with an unknown gas making lungs feel sickly, eyes itchy, sking crawl. A fumbling hand in the darkness, searching security, searching a shield against this onslaught of fear. Clumsy fingers tinkered with the gasmask, its shape too familiar, as they put it on. And then it was over, the feelings reeceded, keept at bay by the piece of equipment, fear gave place to calmed and calculated movements. The lighter was between two hands before the owner of said limbs knew it was there. A fumbling in the dark, an almost unperceivable movement of shadows and a muffled sound of moving feet. The little flame tore the darkness, its light a beacon in the sea of shadows that was the night. A surprised yelp suffocated by the black material of the mask, fear frezing every limb. there was someone else, something, in the room, standing at the end of the bed, its back turned to the one occuping it, a siluette that remained undefined in the dim light of the fire and the tinted lenses. It was sobbing, lamenting between wheezes and mumbling words. It seated on the bed, its occupant trying to get as far from it as possible without leaving the relative safeness of the mantresses. It did nothing, it just continued sobbing in the middle of a moonless night as the spectator of such bizzarre occuring stared at it, words caught in throat, stilled by the fear of provoking the thing at the end of the bed. And then the sobbing stopped. Oh dear lord, it was worst than the creepy and eerie lament; the silence. Shaking in fear; the thing is turning around, it would reveal itself. The though of attacking first before this unknown threat never crosses the mind of the masked one. The thought of the shade revealing its face is more frigthening that the one of it attacking. the shacky fingers cannot take more preassure, they start to tremble too much loosing their grasp of the lighter and it falls into the sheets, renderind the room black. Nervous, even desperate hands search for it, to set the flame on once more and rebuild that fragile wall that seems to keep at bay the monstrousity. The light goes on. It is still there, but the face, god, the face. There is none. A black hole stands there where eyes nose and mouth should be, even the light of the fire is shallowed by it, the flesh around it dissorted and sucked up. A scream pierce the night. A terrible scream emmanating from a mouth that is not there, drilling into the ears of the other occupant of the room.
Pyro wakes up frightened, eyes looking around in a crazed need to prove the security of the room hasnt been breached, a scream that refused to go out in fear of alerting something in the dark. but there is nothing, the pitch black room of the dream gives place to the dim lighted room of the real world. There is the white light of the moon filtering trhough the window and the one from a small lava lamp, a gift from Engie. Pyro silently thanks the texan, the trinket is fun to watch and now its light dissolves the nightmare. A clock marks the hour; 6:30 AM. The gasmask goes on, Pyro would not sleep againg, the nightmare has chasen away al drowsines. After suiting up the mercenary leaves the room and goes to the kitchen. Unsurprisingly the Soldier is up but he is not in his normal selft; the whacky, rudious sommewhat crazed normal. the knwoledge of his perturbed solitude dont seem to be registered as Pyro moves to the gabinets, a cup of cold coffee laying umperturbed on the hands of the soldier.
-Sometimes they catch up, eh?- he says, breaking the silence.
Pyro just humms a response. Neither of them elaborate an answer, there is no need. the sizziling of beacon and eggs being cooked returns in some manner the sense of normallity to the mercenaries; somewhere outside the windowless kitchen the sun is rising and chasing away the night