Light flickers into and out of existence, dimming to a faint embers glow before flaring up again with the introduction of additional oxygen. The cycle carries on- fade and grow, fade and grow- until eventually the wick burns low enough to drown itself in wax. Amber eyes watch carefully as the small fire takes its last breath and fades from existence.
Junkrat sits, back propped against the wall with the makeshift candle cradled in a metal palm. He makes a noise of disapproval at the tin cup of wax, giving it a few choice words of irritation before tossing it into the desk next to his bunk. Still grumbling to himself, the explosives "expert" flops gracelessly onto the mattress behind him and takes to staring at the ceiling.
There wasn't much to see.
The smooth metal gave away no hints to where one piece of ceiling tile melded into another in the low light, nor could the soot patterns from past experiments be observed without the assistance of those lights which shine during the day. Even with a full moon outside, obese with reflections of the sun, most of the rooms recesses remained darkened. This wouldn't do either.
Rolling into his side, Jamison releases a stressed giggle, one hand rising to scratch the side of his head whilst the other taps a rhythm on his hip to match the lazy beating of his heart. No excuses, as far as he could tell, for his body to keep him up this late. If he were to trust the tick tock ticking of his alarm clock it was nearing three in the morning. He'd come to bed with the intention of sleeping well over four hours ago.
"Damn it all." His voice is hardly a hiss in the night, rather an angry-and loud- accent to the sound of his peg leg slamming into the wall as he rolls over. Frustration is written plainly across his face as he wriggles his still attached foot over the fabric beneath him. He'd tried slipping under the blankets earlier in the night, but had quickly grown too warm with the additional fabric. Perhaps it would be more tolerable now.
A few minutes and several shifts later would prove otherwise, as the few blankets quickly felt both too heavy and too light to deal with, the weight of them acting as a suffocating force to his slim frame. Giving up on this and tossing them aside, he was returned to square one.
Under normal circumstances, should something irritate the junker to this extent, he would blow it up along with all his other problems. Given the small nature of this room, however, that hardly seemed appropriate as what was left of Jamisons common sense and impulse control informed him. Instead, he settled for imagining the explosions.
Colorful.
He could enjoy colorful right now. Fireworks were delightful, of course, but he hardly used them in his work- too much risk of giving away positions and all that. At most colors were reserved for celebrations and holidays when the team needed a treat. At the least, as it has been for several months, they were non-existent entirely.
Yes, colors were a necessary part of this fantasy. Sound, too. Great booms that shook the core of your being, more felt than heard by ears damaged with far too many years of mistreatment. (There was, after all, reason for his constant shouting and loud habits).
He'd have to craft some fireworks, then. Set them up in a show as sporadic as his typical thought train. Flashes, crackles, sizzling pieces of drag falling down to the earth all tied together in a pattern recognizable only to the scattered mind which created it.
Twitching all the while, Junkrat manages to kill another half an hour with plans for a show of spectacular proportions, all tucked away inside of a rip tire charge before distraction overcomes him again. Frustrated and defeated, he rolls out of bed and stumbles over to his desk, assembling a handful of materials to take back to the bed. After a few seconds of muttering to himself and hands moving in motions so well practiced it was seemingly of their own accord, he holds another shoddily assembled candle, this time tinted with a few choice metals that would likely make too much smoke and stain the ceiling.
A match is struck, and the light once again flickers into existence.