Work Text:
You remembered the first bomb you ever threw that was worth anyone's attention; A mildly overcharged, barely comprehensible burning fire bomb whose purpose was still present in your then eight year old mind. You were told off by some old half-drunk country bumpkin who thought threatening to beat the shit out of you would scare you into no longer wandering around as a bored child on a lonesome summer afternoon. Even ten feet away as the old codger tried his best "Why I Oughta" at you for the crime of curiosity, you could smell the cheap bathtub gin grade swill from him. You remembered the stories about him being an unlovable old man from how your grandmother gossiped with her friends here and there.
Two hours later when you knew he was passed out at home while the smug confidence in his voice was still fresh in your mind, you gave into the same urge a grown man felt when alone on the side of an abandoned road with the man who shagged his spouse; specifically when he thought you didn't know while you prepared your move. The primordial tapestry of ancient instinct that always gave way to sentient life's greatest follies. You raised your hand like you did all other times. Somehow, despite the failures of previous attempts when conjuring a bomb, it formed. Slightly bulging, mildly unstable, and full of the same childlike enthusiasm being left alone with matches and flammables imbued a boy. You threw it as hard as you could at his property before you ran away, not bothering to look back upon hearing an all-time high-score of an immolation erupt from behind.
The sight of Shirobon struggling as a ten year old boy to form even the simplest of bombs only reaffirmed your understanding of the average bomberman. Most people were idiots and when idiots were the average, someone like you was destined to be a god in their eyes. Practice, understanding, and the odd Hail Mary elevated you above and beyond. When it came time to start consistently wielding the power of bombs during training, your grandmother commented on how you were performing far better than expected and began to wonder to herself how you managed such a great breakthrough in such little time. You never gave her an answer beyond a small shrug.
In the back of your mind at that juncture, some part of you wondered about what eventually happened after the bomb exploded. You didn't hear any gossip about the drunk from your grandmother as she gossiped with her friends. Your overactive imagination was quick to assume anything from your bomb being a useless tantrum at most to having resulted in things no so-called 'decent people' would dare discuss casually. The thought of it being a subject they didn't want to bring up around you went back to the idea of revealed versus stated preferences; A monstrous gargantuan people eater of an idea that had always haunted some part of you, considering what they liked to tell you versus what the black widows of the id imagined what was being said behind closed doors.
This was always what the quiet parts of a boring trip back to Planet Jetters did to you every single time, without fail. Some part of you wanted to believe them when they smiled and greeted you like a brother. A different, more awake and horrifying part of you was quick to remind you like all other times: You're only here because you're not just a bomberman, but the strongest one they've met that would work with these people in doing whatever the professor asked. A conversation between Birdy and Bongo was in progress while you were content to stare ahead into the cold darkness of space. The thought of throwing a fully charged bomb into the glass canopy of the Cosmo Jetter's cockpit returned to you for a brief moment before you decided it would be too much effort.
Besides, you still promised to see Shirobon in a month or so. Your baby brother didn't deserve to know how much of a piece of festering shit you were this soon. Even as incapable as he was, he still deserved having someone to look up to.