Chapter Text
Fight.
For what?
Fight.
But why?
We said fight.
Get up and fight.
The child of flames woke, shakily breathing from the nightmare he had. The nightmares he had been having. For years on end at this point. He continued to live with them. Not knowing the same serenity others probably did, not aware of a life other than the one he lived now. He had only existed for one purpose - to continue fighting for some fragile "peace".
He didn't know what truly peace was; he had never experienced it before after all. But he had been taught about it. They explained that it was good, and that they needed him to help keep "peace". He didn't care for this "peace" - whatever it really was - but he liked being needed. It was what they told him to do. He liked training to fight because it was what appeased them. Following orders would keep him safe from their punishments.
He saw the same scenes he saw every time he slept. His flames roaring, burning down anyone who dared to get close. Burning down every tree and building surrounding him. Burning down everyone except the one it respected - him. Burning and hurting people he didn't intend to hurt. People he didn't want to hurt. Destroying the "peace" he had been ordered to protect and fight for. Then he was punished, over and over and over again until he woke up the next morning. It was the same nightmare he was shown every night, repeatedly, without fail. No matter what he tried to do it would always be the same.
He had learned - no, been forced - to tame his power. He didn't want to remember the days that he spent crying and screaming in pure agony. The days he cried for help that never came. The foreign flames he didn't know how to control yet would scorch him ruthlessly, over and over again. Not even his tears wouldn't even remain - they would be burnt up in an instant.
He tried to repress his memories so that he was never able to remember the feelings of anguish and helplessness again, but to no avail.
He remembered being trapped in that metal room for weeks at a time, until he learnt to overcome his fire. They forced him to train and train relentlessly through the heat until he dropped. He burnt away any food or water delivered to him, not being able to control it. The only way they could deliver nutrients to his body and keep him alive was to sedate him, injecting both unknown chemicals and essential ones that kept him alive. He didn't even know if he was born with this power, or if they forced it upon him through their sick experiments.
It was probably the latter.
But even so, he could never defy their orders. At first, he might've wanted to. Though now he didn't remember. He quelled those wants and desires, learning that they would only do him harm if he allowed them to roam free.
He never dared to think if there were others like him. Thinking about possibilities like that would cause distractions. Thinking about anything other than completing and following the orders he was given would get him hurt. Possibly even to the point that he'd end up dead.
Dying was not something he wanted.
Dying would not let him continue living. Wouldn't let him continue fighting.
What are you even living for?
None of your damn business.
Today was the same routine. Wake up from the nightmare, eat, drink, train, fight, return and repeat until he dropped. Time was irrelevant to him. It didn't matter so long as he listened to orders. It didn't matter so long as he grew more and more powerful for them. It didn't matter so long as he was needed.
He didn't have the capacity to question why he was forced to do any of this. Why he of all people was in this position. Or rather, he wasn't allowed to question things. He wasn't allowed to have a will of his own. He didn't have the privilege to even want or not want to do or not do something. They never allowed him to ask questions or think about anything other than following orders and fighting. He grew used to it. Maybe even numb to it.
They raised him to become something akin to a machine.
A "fighting machine" they praised. A "weapon to be proud of" they exclaimed through their twisted grins.
One of their most successful experiments they occasionally whispered.
The voices that kept him going whispered other things - truths, he found - calling him other names.
Lonely.
They gave him a name one day. A sort of "reward" is how they explained it to him. Not just numbers this time nor "that boy" or "you". He knew what rewards were - they were things that made him feel a good kind of warmth. A feeling he enjoyed chasing, a feeling that remained some kind of motivation alongside his need to be needed. They were opposite to punishments, which would hurt him and cause indescribable pain one way or another.
"Flamefrags will be your name. Got it?"
He caught himself wanting to question it, wanting to know the reason behind it. What does it mean? he almost asked. He was curious. Despite years of trying to kill his curiosity, it never worked. Like a cockroach, it held on.
But he knew better than to do or say anything but a grateful nod.
Lately, he found that he was thinking too much to himself. As the years went on, he became more and more aware of things. Aware of the facility he resided in, aware of the lies they told him. It would lead to almost accidentally asking others things - something he was never allowed to do. If he wanted to survive and continue to live without them harming him further, he was to extinguish the burning questions. The ones that could never leave his heart. Not forever. He had to chase them out and never think of them again. He was asking too many to himself now and needed them gone. Dead. He needed the questions to die. He needed them to stop trying to distract him.
Yet the name - his name - had circled around in his brain like a vulture since the day he received it. He practised saying it to himself over and over alone. It was something he had been given. But it didn't feel the same as these cursed powers that plagued him. This felt… better. Like he could control it. He could control his name better than his fire. He could deal with a word that became his. It was his.
His name.
Flamefrags.
It was the only other thing he was allowed to think of. The only other thing he allowed himself to think of. The only other thing that didn't seem to distract him during training.
The same nightmare played again, forcing him awake. The voices he heard echoed over and over. His nightmare forced its way through his mind, no matter what he tried. At first he had been scared to go to sleep. But he learnt to deal with the nightmares, the screams, the pain of losing people he didn't even know. He had to learn to so that it didn't hinder his training.
Fight.
For what? For honour that they would never allow you to keep?
He squashed that voice down again. He knew its name. He knew it well.
"Defiance".
It was something they didn't want him to have. They told him it was dangerous.
More dangerous than your flames? it challenged, pushing back on the boy's hold on it.
So he let it go for now. He let it join the burning pile of questions he was not aware he was keeping locked away. The questions he believed had died.
He had come to learn that it would come back.
He learned that it always did, no matter what.
He never grew to like it, but he didn't dislike it giving him a better name. One that wasn't owned by them.
Flame.
Similar enough for him not to slip up, yet different enough for him to start being his own person.
He didn't fully trust the ones who ordered him around, but he knew he had to listen. He didn't believe anymore that he was fighting for peace. He suspected they were lying to gain control of his power. The older he had grown to be, the more things that just started not making sense to him. Lies that started to unravel before him. Ones that should've been obvious. Ones he had ignored for years.
Why else had they experimented on you, with no concern for your well-being?
He didn't dare press further than what he was told. Something told him that he had to listen if he wanted to survive, to live. Perhaps it was his gut instincts that had learned to be wary of the ones using him, perhaps it was something else. Perhaps it was - ironically - Defiance.
What are you living for?
No. Stop asking things. You're dangerous. Talking to it was dangerous.
How about escape?
Escape? What was that?
Freedom.
No. That's dangerous.
He didn't even know what "freedom" really was, but they just told him it was dangerous. And he didn't want to do things that were dangerous. He wasn't meant to. They always put him back in that metal box if he even tried. He could never control his fire in it - it always grew too hot and out of control, even if he didn't let it out on purpose. He wasn't able to maintain it in there.
His fire tended to come out on its own in extremely hot spaces, no matter how hard he attempted to suppress it. The higher his body temperature rose the more powerful his fire would be. Maybe it was due to his own shortcomings that he couldn't control it properly. It would grow and roar uncontrollably, scorching him like it always did. Like is always used to. Every wrongdoing against those in charge left another mark to be made on him from his own imperfections. His uncontrollable fire always left burn marks that to this day still had never disappeared. He didn't want the addition of new ones since he believed it would hinder him. New burns meant he would be more focused on dealing the pain instead of training, leading to them getting angry and forcing him back into that metal room. A constant cycle, that could've easily never have been started in the first place if he wasn't so weak-
He couldn't afford to dwell on that. No matter how true he believed it to be.
He couldn't afford to be distracted.
Not if he wanted to survive.
He didn't know what for.
But he needed to survive.