Fire And Flames

Tango had always seen himself as a weapon.

Not in the poetic sense, not metaphorically-no, in his mind he was something built to burn, a walking catastrophe dressed up like a person. Anything beautiful or green that he touched seemed destined to wither, curl inward, burst into flame, and die. It wasn't his fault, not really. He was a blaze hybrid, after all. Fire clung to him the way breath clung to others.

His hair burned with living flame, flickering wild and hot unless he was sleeping or truly, deeply calm. Only then did it shift into something gentler: golden locks, soft and shimmering like sunlight instead of wildfire. Even the puffball at the tip of his tail-usually a small comet trailing sparks-could cool into a warm, glowing gold when his mind settled.

Most of the time, though, it burned. So he avoided anything green. Plants recoiled from him, leaves crisping if he stepped too close. He stuck to industrial spaces instead: metal catwalks, stone corridors, redstone workshops where nothing living could be harmed by his presence. He carved out his home in places where fire was expected.

His eyes were striking in a way that made people flinch before they realized they'd done it. The sclera were a deep burnt red, like embers cooling in a furnace, while the irises were bright and molten-almost too alive, too intense, like staring into a forge mouth. People didn't always know where to look when they talked to him. And so, after enough awkward pauses and nervous glances, Tango started wearing goggles. The tinted lenses hid the fire in his eyes and the freckles scattered across his cheeks-small, dark flecks like soot across pale skin.

He didn't mind hiding. It was easier that way.

Easier for him.
Easier for everyone he might accidentally burn.