#Road to Hale's Own Phlogistinator


The arms of the Pyro lifted up to cover its now vulnerable head. The beloved flamethrower it held was now gone, disappeared, absorbed into the ether.
It looked to its left and right, down the long halls of spawn, as its companions began to scamper in hopes to escape the coming storm.

It didn't take long.

A glowing rocket flew across the windows, slamming into the Heavy cowering in the corner. A split second later, the whole window was splattered with the blood and various body parts.
A horde of REDs flooded across the Pyro's field of view, wantonly slaughtering all in their path, firing their now-critted weapons with deadly efficiency, or spamming kill taunts to add salt to BLUs already gaping wounds.

The Pyro knew their euphoria too well. 'Till now, it had always been the one with the flamethrower; the one burning its enemies to crisps with the glorious flames, consuming their frail, weak bodies. Now, it was on the receiving end, mercy to these 10-second gods and whatever awaited him on the other side.
The screams of the damned and the boastful cheers passed, and the Pyro looked up. Yet salvation was still not at hand. What waited in front of its eyes was another Pyro, its skull-emblazoned mask staring right at it.
The RED Pyro raised its hand, and the BLU Pyro ducked, but looked again when realizing that there was nothing in that gloved appendage. The RED Pyro grunted. "A high five?" thought the BLU Pyro. "It can't be serious?"
Still, the BLU Pyro took it. There could be compassion, couldn't there?

The two looked at each other, raising their arms.

Two gloved hands slapped each other in unison, a sound full of life echoing down these now lifeless hallways.

The BLU Pyro thought, there is a Gaben.

...


Then a FaN scout burst in, splattered the room with the BLU Pyro's brains and taunted, then flopped away, chuckling obnoxiously.