From the prompt: "Pyrotorch..."
"Burn, Baby, Burn!"
"Hey boy, hey doggie," Keith said, leaning down and scratching the pup's ears. It yelped joyfully, wagging its tail. Keith reached into his pocket and handed it the last of his ham-and-cheese sandwich. One last fond pat for the dog and he turned to go. It was a cool October night, forcing him to put his hands in his pockets. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze that raked its fingers through his hair. Ah, the beauty of autumn.
He glanced both ways before he crossed the empty street, hands still in his pockets, and began to sing softly, his gentle baritone voice curling up towards the sky laced with the lilting of the English-tempered Gaelic. The storage warehouse was just up ahead. Keith paused and twisted out of the light, stopping in the shadows to pull on the uniform black beanie hat. The he continued on to his job site, transforming from happy-go-lucky teenager strolling down the sidewalk to a stealthy operative slinking in the shadows, invisible and silent.
Twenty seconds to pick the lock on the door; cheers to Jade for the trick with bobby pins. He slipped into the back of the building and let the door click shut, usually-laughing eyes scanning the high rows of stacked wooden crates. He stoood forwards, running fingertips along the dusty, grainy edges of a cubical crate. An amused smile twisted his lips. Ah, firewood.
Reaching into his jacket, he drew out his main ingredient.
"Dude, gnarly," he said to himself, and snickered. Surfboard wax was the next best thing to pyrotorch and much more readily available. Keith's satchel was full of liquid board wax pre-prepared just for this job. Asia had handed him a dossier twenty-four hours before with simple instructions written under MO: make it go up in flames. Burn, baby, burn! No accident, pure intent of malice. So he was going to do this his way - no false electrical shortages or dropped cigarettes, but cartharsis for a true-blood pyromaniac.
He jogged up and down the aisles, squirting the liquid wax liberally all over the crates. Surf wax was a self-oxidant, feeding the fire the more it burned. Once the entire warehouse was covered, Keith strode towards the door. The temptation was dancing in his mind, the power crackling in the air around him, waiting for him to take it and magnify it. He paused, hand on the doorknob, the cherry scent of the wax permeating his brain. His knuckles turned white, grip on thye doorknob bone-crushing. He pushed away the heat that was rising in his blood. He had to get out of the building first. But the power swirled around him, tugging and begging.
He yanked the door open roughly and stumbled out, forcing his feet. His veins were flooded full of fire, soul struggling to claw free of his body. He sank to his knees, the power exploding out of him, and suddenly light was everywhere.
He lay on the gravel, dazed and drained, gazing at the blazing warehouse. It was on fire? Where was the explosion? But the flames were leaping high, dancing and twisting into the sky. He had to go. People would come soon. BUt his gaze was transfixed on the flickering glow. He was a fire elemental, the heat in him tempered by this human body. Sometimes he wielded the power, but tonight the power wielded him.
The flames were calling, calling...
With a cry he shut his eyyes as the power ripped through him, and he exploded into flames.
"Where were you this morning?" Chief Danicker demanded when Niall stumbled into the station, red hair tousled from sleep and shirt buttoned wrong. "You're half an hour late for your shift, pal."
"Late night," Niall mumbled.
(Next time dehumanize yourself before you spontaneously combust,) Asia snapped.
(I'm human,) he protested.
(No you're not, although you were when you blew up,) Christian retorted sharply. (If you do that again, don't expect me an Asia to heal your charred remains. You can just stay as a lump of coal.)
(I was fascinated by the process,) Tobias piped up.
Two people replied, (Shut up!)
Niall groaned and clutched his head in his hands when the bell began clanging boisterously.
"C'mon, Niall," Danicker yelled. "You're on truck thirteen. Let's go."
Niall groaned and grabbed his red helmet and jumpsuit off his peg, tugging on his gloves.
He squinted and got into the truck, wincing at the sunlight.
What a day to be a fireman.
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© Agent Duo 2004