Enemies everywhere. He was good at making them. He wasn’t a likable person, and he had a inane tendency to spout off whatever he’s thinking when he was drinking. Obviously that typically made things worse. But even as he was irritated here with this weirdo, he was too exhausted to pick a fight himself. If he pissed off this same-face enough to instigate a brawl, so be it. If it came down to that, it might not be all that hard to envision punching himself instead. It might be therapeutic, after all the shit he had been internalizing as he drifted through his recent days.
But then the stranger seized him by the wrist. A harsh shrieking pierced through his drunken haze, and the skin contact felt positively electrifying. He hissed, noting the man gazing upon the tattoo adorning the back of his now clenched fist. The muscles in his hand had stiffened as a reflex and he could damn near see every vein in his hand, pulsing with lava hot throbs as if ready to wriggle out of his paper-thin skin. It was the same feeling he had greeted with fear and anger only an hour or two ago. Intensity, torment. As the man finally loosened his grip, Pyre snatched his hand away with a flinch, his head suddenly pounding with a newly settled migraine of the likes which he had never encountered before.
Something about this man wasn’t right. Something told him they shouldn’t be talking. The universe had mistakenly created a fluke meeting and whatever gods there were must have fucked up. This was a dimension-tearing cataclysm waiting to implode. He was sobering up faster than he could comprehend, but this headache was splitting his head open as if it could put his own brain on exhibit -- to put his thoughts and memories on display, like a sacred tome on a lectern. He didn’t know what was happening to him, but in that instant some part of him knew he should have left; alas, he didn’t.
“Who the hell... Do you think you are?” He snarled as he recoiled, turning his entire body to face him with some ballsy attempt to puff out his feathers. “Even if I were to reduce this garbage city to ashes, it wouldn’t be enough to start again. I’ve had enough ‘fresh starts’ to make Jesus fuckin’ Christ envy me.” Despite his shaken fight or flight reflexes, he wanted to believe he was still himself - but his blood was starting to boil. “You... You and your ‘mother nature’ can kiss my ass.“
By the time the words coming out of the man’s mouth had even begun to register in Pyre’s mind, he was too busy writhing in his own seat to respond. ‘He did this’, ‘blondes’... ‘ Would you burn this entire city down just to see his charred body?’ He clutched his head in one hand, the other digging nails into the steel table hard enough to drag away paint. His breathing had become labored, heavy, and he huffed through clenched teeth. It was like all his dreams of hellfire and ruin were raging inside him, manifesting into something disastrous, dangerous. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to slam his inked fist up into this man’s jaw because he was still speaking, as if he were narrating the travesties of his past. He must have slipped him something. How does he know it’s “him”?
This Is The End, My Only Friend...
The End, Of Our Elabor̀a͝t҉e͘ ͟Pl͝ans.͡.͟.҉
T̮͔͇̬̭͙̩͜h̯̼͖̻͙̙e̘͍̣̞̮͇ ̸̮̦̲̣̬En̝̰̜͠d͍̞,̫̳̬̙̰͉̕ ̛̠̱͉̟̺O̱͇̝͙͠f͔̘̤ ̥̖̥͝Ev̛̱̜̺̳̰͔̰e͎̳̜̼͍͔̫r̢̖̦̮̰͍̮ý̳͖̮͚̫ț̬͕h̴͈̤i̟̥̗̫͖̻͝n̫͚̱g̬̜̭̙͡ ̷̳T̮͈̠̜͓̝̠͉͘͟h͏̪̻͇à̖͓̬͍͚̻t̤̀͠ ͙͓̭̟̫͜S҉͎̞̝̞͙ṭ͟͜a͎̭͓̙̰̗̕͡ņ̛̝̩̩̺͈̺͢ḑ̨̪̣̳̥̳͙̭̺͢s͏̷̬̺̩̘̜̣̭.͞҉̰.̭̯.̳͍ͅ
The preacher took hold of his vest, pulling him closer. Pyre straightened his back enough to scowl menacingly into the other’s fixed ebony stare. As much as he wanted to rip this man apart, his own senses brought on an epiphany that managed to betray him in one devastating blow; he felt some sort of grimy affinity with this man. He spoke some sort of awful truth that he felt somehow. It trembled, slithered around in the marrow of his bones, though he didn’t understand it at all. Maybe he really did put something in his drink. Maybe he was just that wasted. But his eyes were pitch black, and he could have sworn he was looking the devil in the eyes for the first time in his life. The man with the leather jacket took him by the shoulders and, with some sort of forceless push, sank him down, down, into a tendril-filled, pitch black darkness filled with apoptotic anguish.
Like a match to a lake of gasoline, a paroxysm of fire and brimstone took hold of him, of every sense he had ever known. He was tumbling through a void and couldn’t tell which was was up. All around him was acrid ringing, like nails to a chalkboard, static resounding in his ears hundreds of decibels more than he could mortally handle. As if all the alcohol he had ingested had ignited and an unstoppable inferno cascaded through his bloodstream. His heart was pounding like a snare drum, rattling against his ribcage as if it would rip out of his chest. He was sweltering, so fucking hot, and the world was spinning around him so fast he might vomit. Had he been able to think coherently, he might have accepted that, maybe, this is what it felt like to die.
❝ Come on, Pyre. Don’t be a b͏i͏t͏c͏h. Get fucking angry. Get fucking angry! You need it! You need to use that! ❞
Even as he felt dizzier than he had before, the affliction slowly morphed into something different. Limbo sizzled away. His eyes snapped open, and he could feel the ground quaking beneath him with the vibrations of scrambling feet, his ears washed over with screams. He could still feel the magma in his veins, but it no longer seemed to hurt him. In fact, it was invigorating. He moved without thinking, and as if he were in the midst of a blackout, he couldn’t remember standing. But there he was, on his feet. He was examining his own hands, but wasn’t quite in control of himself. His fingertips sparked, a tendril of smoke twining itself into the air that smelled of smoke and terror. There was no fear, no loss of spirit within him anymore. There was only wretched exhilaration; a desire to hurt.
His gaze rose to the man, head tucked to his right shoulder as he attempted to catch the breath that seemed to endlessly evade him. It really was almost like looking into a mirror. Though the man’s smile seemed sinister, his hand engulfed in a livid red flame, Pyre had noted there was something familiar about it. He had seen it before, hadn’t he? It was as if all his unadulterated hatred and resentment was a torch in his chest, and it fed on the man’s words like kerosene. He didn’t realize that he was once again out of breath. He could only picture Knight’s face. He wanted everything to burn. Pyre swelled as his mind raced with thoughts of his festering resentment, and before he could even perceive it, it had begun.
The flickering flames started at his fingertips, as if an extension of himself. It slowly snaked its way up his arms and to his shoulders, licking at Pyre’s cheeks with unnatural affection, and climbed until he was fully blinded with a veil of red and orange before his eyes. He grit his teeth, finding he couldn’t even look at the man without trembling with indignation.
“Who the fuck... Are you?”
As he swallowed his own gasping furor, his hungry gaze finally settled upon the scrambling mass of people. People were screaming, clawing at the doors, fighting each other in order to escape, their eyes wide with terror with each turn to check if the two monsters were still in the room. The storm inside him was begging to be released now.
K͈̓ͨͭ̇̓̾͑̚͞iͯ͒ͥ̂̌̑̋̅͏̨̯͖l̴̟̰̩̪͎̪͔̎̿̇̋̒ͬͅl̬̳̜ͬ̽ͥ́ͥ̅ͪ̕,̷̲̯̿͂̋̅̿͌͌̀̀ ̨̻̖̔ͯͨ͋̅ͫͦ͛̕Ki̢̺̫̤̭̫͓̲̭̟͂̀ͬ̎ͥ̾̇͟l̴̢̤̟̭̭̮̭̲͔̀͊̾̋̋̎́l̶̻͓̦̾ͯ̑ͬͯ͑́̚͜,̷̢̞͇͈̞̳̩̝͍̓ͯ̆̇͘ ̶͎̓ͮ̿̒Ki̢̭̩̩̜ͭͮ̓͛ļ̠̩̅͆̂ͬ̊ͫ̐l͛̋ͯͨ̽͆̽̚͝͏̣̥̻͓̀,͍ͯͦ́ ̩̪͚̦͉̃̂͘Ki̼̞̱̦̋ͭͭͯ̊͘͘l̨͚̖͓̜̙̈ͭ̾̑͗͗ͩ̚l̵̲̫̰̣̤͂͐ͮͤ̓,̵͓͈̰̰͊͐̚͝ ̧̨̣ͨ̄̌̎ͅKi̝̲͆l̰͚̯͐̔̓͐͌ͣ̍ͩ͑̀͞l̸̠̂ͦ͒ͩͩ,̷̯̙̟̞̰̩̲̿ͩͤ̔͑̑͜ ̠̥̪̥̤̠̳̤ͬ̑͜Ki̜̱̲͍̹̞̣̖ͯ̈͗ͫ̚͝ĺ̥̑̋ͬ̅ͬl̝̭̣͊ͩ͒͆ͩ͒̎̓͐͟
He couldn’t remember the smirk that found and took control of his mouth, nor could he remember the woman coming his way. His fist tangled itself into the back of a blonde woman’s shirt and dragged her away from the hysterical mob of only a dozen people -- the woman who had only five minutes before been dancing to an unheard rhythm, intoxicated and carefree and stupid -- and held her shrieking jaw with one hand, watching the flames lap against her neck and face. Her feet left the ground and began kicking empty air, and she thrashed around desperately in Axel’s grip. Her blonde locks started burning, sizzling and smoking -
He dropped the woman. Shaking hands pressed to his head. She collapsed into a heap onto the ground and now stood out above the rest of the pack - screaming, crying, wailing louder than all the others. She was clawing at her poor, once beautiful face now covered in second and third degree burns. Pyre took a step back, panting as he watched the girl try her very best to crawl away, but blindly approaching the man with the leather jacket.
No. Knight was his. Before he could stop himself, or even know what he was doing, she burst into flames.
His hands were left trembling.
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