Self Destructing Messenger

#31 - Pyro Saves the Day

Dripping. Sizzling. Pyro groaned, blinking. Everything before him was a dark shade of pink. He didn't know why. He also didn't know why he couldn't breath. It felt like all the oxygen was gone. His mouth parted, trying to suck in more air but instead paper thin plastic formed a vacuum seal around his lips. Chest heaving, he clawed at his face, fingers tearing into a pink cotton candy bag. Once he got it off, he tossed it to the side. It would figure the one thing that had saved him from drowning earlier would be the thing that almost suffocated him later.

He put his hand down to push into a sitting position. The sizzling increased and he jerked his hand back up. To his left a deep fryer had overturned and white hot oil was creeping ever closer. Wincing, he rolled away, moving over several of the dead. Corpses were everywhere, piled on toppled chairs, draped over clothing racks, hanging from electrical wires. Chunks of drywall and concrete made standing difficult but he managed to get upright.

Coughing. The new noise was instantly recognizable.

"Azalea?" He said, scanning the area with renewed purpose.

"Here," came a voice from behind him.

He spun around and clambered over the wreckage until he reached the source. There was Azalea, on a mini mountain chunk of flooring, covered in a fine layer of dust, the odd spot of liquid here and there. As he approached, she tried to stand but her boots slid out from under her and she skidded to the bottom of the debris pile, cushioned by the dead.

She looked more upset about falling than landing on deceased people.

"Don't get up," Pyro said, and without waiting for the proper personal space permits to go through, he lifted her in his arms.

She pushed at his chest to reject his manly favor and her hand stuck. He was covered in that idol's ooze. "I can walk, you know," she said.

Pyro swallowed hard, trying his best to not think about all the lives lost around him. Carrying her wasn't really for her benefit so much as it was his. It was a distraction, a purpose. "Just... let me do this."

Azalea thought about arguing but he seemed pretty tense so she let it go. Steadily he picked their way through the destruction.

On the first floor, things had gone from bad to banana-geddon. Horrible events happen to people all the time and the Man in Black has, in his lifetime, certainly been no exception to this rule. However one could argue that the s@#$ cards that get passed out daily impact him in a far more annoying way. This has to do with how his power works. It is not merely a 'think it' and terrible stuff happens in some mystical way, like he calls forth the invisible hand of God to thump people. Actually, he can sense in all the things around him a million different odds and can influence them selectively in a negative way. He also already knows when the luck is poor to begin with. And so when bad crap happens to him, he is fully aware that it is on its way and that there is f@#$ all that he can do about it.

He cringed, eyelids pressed together in a show of displeasure that would last less than a second.

Two floors up a tiny fly was making its way around, as flies do. It wondered where all the people had gone that it so loved to buzz around and what was the delicious aroma wafting through the air? It smelled like lunch and it was getting closer and closer. Something large filled up its vision, a mass of purple. The fly tried to steer away but collided with the dog bubble and stuck. It held briefly then burst. Bad luck.

Hunter plummeted the remaining distance into the fountain, sending water in every direction and completely drenching the Man in Black.

The cold liquid seemed to revive the dog, who sloshed over the edge of the pool and shook the excess from his coat.